by Tracey Ward
“Did you see it?”
Kailani suddenly assumes a blank expression, innocent and ignorant. Her hand stays on my shoulder. “See what?”
“Don’t hold out on me. You saw it didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I have so many bets out on this, but I’ve never talked to anyone who was actually there. I will give you so much money if you tell me what really happened.”
“That is not a legally binding statement,” Hollis calls from behind me.
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Larkin asks, sounding impatient.
Kailani and I stare at each other for a long moment. I wait her out, and eventually her lips curl into a cunning smile. I smile back, dying for her reply.
Finally she puts me out of my misery. “It wasn’t true.”
“No!” I cry, punching the air angrily. “Fuck!”
“It was an electrical fire,” she laughs. “The AC unit in the room blew up. There was no goat. He didn’t kick Mr. Hahn and give him that limp. He didn’t knock over a Benson burner and set the flag on fire.”
“Fuck,” I repeat, defeated.
“That rumor got so huge. I still can’t believe it.”
“It was too good to be true.”
“Hahn got that limp playing football in college.”
“It’s a tough sport,” Larkin reminds her. “Some guys aren’t built to take it.”
Kailani nods, smiling darkly down at me. “And some men are made for it.”
I smirk. “Let’s hope so. I don’t have any fall back talents.”
“I doubt that.” She turns to me, her back to Larkin for the first time since the start of our conversation. She steps in close, brushing her thigh against my shoulder. “Is this going to be your first time in Chicago?”
“Yeah.”
“If you want a tour, let me know.” She covertly drops a napkin into my lap. There’s a number scribbled on it in blue pen. “I could show you around.”
I palm the napkin. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
She smiles one last time before turning on her heel to walk away. I watch her go, feeling something inside me start to rise. My blood, my ego, my libido. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s eager to follow her. To pull that hibiscus from her hair and feel her thick, dark tresses cold between my fingers. I haven’t gotten laid since the day in Sloane’s office and the constant push and pull between us is starting to wear on me. I was true to my word the other night. After I kissed her I went home and jerked off to the memory of her and I hope like hell she did the same to me. But it’s not enough. Nothing between us ever feels like enough. I always want more. More of her body. More of her laughter. Her attitude. Her voice. Her presence.
I settle into my seat, resting my head on the high back. I try to doze but I can’t. I’m too turned out. Amped about getting to the Draft, about finally finding my future. I’m nervous and jittery, my legs starting to shake. I need to calm down. I should listen to music. I should pace the aisle. I should talk to Sloane.
Instead I pocket Kailani’s number.
***
“Trey, can you hang back with me for a second?” Sloane asks. “I need to talk to you.”
She’s stopped walking toward the terminal exit, her small black rolling bag at her side. The rest of our group continues on without us. They don’t question what we’re doing or how long we’ll be, and suddenly I feel worried. I’m afraid Sloane’s going to say something about the stewardess, tell me it hurt her that I flirted. That she doesn’t want me to call her. I’m worried she’s going to lay some claim on me that I’m not ready for her to have because she can’t do shit with it.
I hitch my duffel bag up on my shoulder impatiently. “Yeah, what’s up?”
Sloane watches our party disappear through the security check point, leaving us alone in the terminal. When they’re gone she gives me a nervous grin. “Will you walk with me?”
“Where to?”
“Just walk with me, Trey. Please?”
I hang my head, tucking my hands in my pockets as I fall in step next to her.
Kailani’s napkin rubs coarsely against my palm. My other is wrapped snuggly in Sloane’s bandage.
Sloane leads me silently through the terminal to a busier section of the airport. Planes are arriving and departing, swarms of people walking across our paths, separating us from one another so we have to work to stay together. Every now and then she glances down at her phone, checking her messages.
I feel a tingling in my spine. A nervous energy building and branching out through my veins. My palms start to sweat, probably bleeding the ink spelling out the phone number in my pocket.
Sloane is asking me to play passenger right now. She knows I hate being a passenger.
Finally she stops in front of a gate, a huge smile on her face. She’s almost bouncing on her toes with excitement.
All I see is a crowded gate full of strangers.
“Sloane, what are we doing here? Don’t we have to get to the car—“
“Trey!”
I jerk in the direction of the voice, picking it out of the crowd. Out of any crowd anywhere in the world.
It’s my mom.
She waves excitedly over the throng of people between us. My dad is behind her, bags strapped over both of his massive shoulders, a huge grin on his face. He has a beard now. I didn’t know that. I haven’t seen them in almost a year. It’s graying at the edges the way my mom’s brown hair has started graying around her temples. She looks beautiful. They both do.
I drop my duffle next to Sloane and break through the crowd toward them. People part for me as I run to my parents, swooping them both into a crushing embrace.
They smell like our laundry detergent. My mom’s hair against my cheek is every memory of my childhood. Every joy and every sorrow, and today I feel it all at once. All together.
They’re laughing, I’m laughing.
They’re crying. I’m crying.
“This is a good surprise, then?” Mom asks shakily.
I stand up straight, tears streaming down my cheeks. My parents are blurry in my vision, underwater and indistinct. I swipe at my eyes, desperate to make them whole. Make them real.
“Good surprise,” I choke. A new rush of tears falls unstoppable from my eyes. “It’s a good surprise.”
Dad wraps his large hand around the back of my neck, pulling my forehead against his. “We’re so proud of you, Trey. We’re so proud to be here with you.”
I put my hand on his arm, squeezing tightly. “Dad,” is all I can manage.
It takes a long time for me to get my shit together. By the time we’re aware of our surroundings again we’re alone. Everyone has cleared out of the gate.
Everyone but Sloane.
I wipe my cheeks clear for the third time as I approach her slowly.
“You did this,” I accuse roughly.
She smiles softly, her eyes full of water and wonder. “I did,” she breathes. “And it was beautiful.”
My mom comes around from behind me, reaching for Sloane. “Thank you, honey.”
The hug they share is brief but fierce. My mom squeezes Sloane so hard she forces a grunt from her throat, but Sloane is laughing. She’s smiling and blushing in a way I’ve never seen before. I didn’t even know Sloane Ashford could blush.
My dad is gentler with his embrace but he plants a kiss on her forehead as he backs away.
Sloane blushes harder.
“Mahalo,” he rumbles in his deep tenor.
“You’re welcome. This is a big moment not only for Trey but for the family that supported him. It would be a shame for you to miss it.” Her smile falls suddenly. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and grimaces. “I’m so sorry to rush you, but they’re waiting for us out front. We have to hurry.”
I take up one of their bags before Sloane and I walk side by side, leading the way out of the terminal. My parents follow a few pac
es behind.
“How did you get them to take plane tickets from you?” I whisper.
She grins mischievously. “I told them the agency was paying for them, along with a suite at the Radisson.”
I look down at her, at the pleasure she’s taking in her surprise. At the pride in her eyes. “The agency didn’t pay for any of it, did they?”
“No,” she answers quietly. “I did. And it was worth it to see the look on your face when you saw them. I would have paid anything to see that.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
She touches my hand lightly where it dangles between us, her fingertips teasing the skin on the edge of the bandage. “You already did.”
I want to kiss her. I want to stop her, turn her, kiss her. Not because of the sexual tension always roiling between us, but because of a roaring rush of affection I feel for her at this moment. She’s a true friend, a part of my family as real to me as my parents following behind us, and I feel so much emotion when I look at her, I can barely stomach it.
“Thank you,” I tell her, fighting a new wave of tears that sting my eyes.
Sloane’s smile widens, her warm eyes dancing. I can’t stand it. I drape my arm around her, pulling her into my side in an embrace that feels more raw than any of the kisses we’ve shared or the sex we’ve had. When she hugs me back, her arm around my waist and her head on my shoulder, I feel so calm I’m floating. I’m flying, and I may not totally understand what’s happening between us or why I ball up the napkin in my pocket and toss it in the garbage as we pass, but I do know one thing:
This is getting right the right way.
April 28th
Auditorium Theater
Chicago, IL
This is it.
This is everything we’ve been waiting for.
Everything we’ve worked for.
This is Draft day.
I chose my clothing carefully, downplaying the fact that I’m a woman. I don a dark pantsuit with a brilliant blue cami underneath. No pinks. No purples. Minimal make up, minimal jewelry. Only a simple silver necklace Hollis gave me for Christmas last year and a small pair of diamond earrings. My heels are black and short. My hair is twisted into a loose chignon at the base of my skull. I do not carry a purse.
“You look nice,” Hollis tells me quietly. “Very lesbian chic.”
“Eat shit,” I whisper, heavily conscious of Trey’s parents standing only a few feet away.
“And the mouth to match.”
I look him over from head to toe. His black suit is perfection. Calvin Klein, I think. His tie matches his shirt. His shoes are perfectly shined. His hair perfectly mussed. “You look like a mortician.”
“Yeah, I know.” He thrusts out his right hand, adjusting his cuff with his left. “A hot mortician.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Oh, what’s that, Mrs. Mansfield? Your husband left you a young, nubile, wealthy woman with a crippling sex addiction? I know a cure for that.”
“Another guy? ‘Cause you’re gay?”
“I’m giving that up. Can’t make it work, remember?”
“You’re giving it up?”
“Yep.”
“Giving up being gay?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re going after pussy now?”
He swallows. “Yup. Love me some trim. Mmm-hmm.”
“And boobs. You’re all into boobs now?”
“I love ‘em.”
I turn to face him, thrusting my shoulders back. “Touch mine.”
“What?” he laughs.
“Touch them. You have my permission to do whatever you want to them. Motorboat them right here in front of the entire NFL for all I care. Go ahead. Go wild.”
He glares at me for two long seconds before lifting his hand.
I slap it down, shaking my head in disgust. “No straight man would have hesitated. Not for one second. Go back to being gay. It’s what you’re good at.”
“Lame,” he grumbles.
“Tell it to God. He made you this way.”
“Hopefully he made somebody else this way that doesn’t wear tank tops to dinner.”
“Or cut his toenails in the living room.”
“Or cry after sex.”
“Or during.”
“Or before.” Hollis sighs as he puts his hands in his pockets, surveying the room. “Maybe I’m being too picky.”
“You’re not.”
“Then why am I alone?”
I flinch at his somber tone. At the stark loneliness in his voice. “You’re not,” I promise him. “And he’s out there. You just haven’t met him yet, but you never will if you give up. Or move to New York. I know for a fact he’s not in New York, so don’t bother going there.”
“Then where is he?”
“He’s on his way, Hollis. I can feel it. And until he shows up, you’ve got me.”
He smiles at me sadly. “Thanks, Sloane.”
“Anytime.”
A murmur rises from the far side of the Green Room where all of the Draftees are huddled together listening to a rundown of the way the night is going to go. Their families and friends are scattered around a series of circular tables covered with deep blue cloths. Each table holds a grass centerpiece with a football perched in the middle of it, the name of a Draftee on every one. Trey’s parents stand next to his table while I hover between it and Brylan Reed’s. Brad stands by Andre Larkin’s table farther into the room. He’s chuckling with his agent buddies, studiously ignoring Andre’s parents sitting awkwardly at the table.
Tonight is the first round only. Invited to be here are the most highly sought after players in the Draft, the ones the NFL is all but positive will be chosen immediately, though not everyone accepts the invite. Some guys choose to stay home with their families for the announcement. Media crews go to them to film their reactions, one of the most famous and scandalized reactions being the openly gay kiss between a defensive end and his boyfriend when he went to the Rams in the seventh. That was a media shit storm the world endured for weeks, and at the end of it no one was particularly happy. Especially not the player. He’s in the Canadian league now. Demarcus played against him last October.
“Here they come,” Hollis mumbles.
The prospects are filing back into the Green Room. They give each other high fives, half hugs, and fist bumps as they split apart, each of them drifting slowly to their tables. They’re a sea of suits, brilliantly colored ties, and impossibly tall, broad bodies.
And in the middle of them all is Trey. His dark gray suit and deep red tie burst against his golden brown skin. His jet black hair. He walks with confidence, moving through the madness like he doesn’t see it. Like he can’t feel it. He’s on the field right now. He’s in the zone, pure swagger, and the fact that I haven’t seen a hint of his tension is a testament to the influence his parents’ presence has over him. He was spiraling at the airport until he saw them. Since then he’s been easy breezy.
He smiles at me when he spots me, expertly unbuttoning his suit jacket and sliding his hands into his pockets like a model on a runway. He comes to a stop in front of me, presenting himself for inspection.
“Well?” he asks deeply, a cocky grin on his lips. “What do you think of the suit? It’s hot, right?”
It is. I knew it would be when I picked it, but I haven’t seen him in it until this moment. I didn’t imagine the affect the finished product would have on me, but as I look him up and down I feel my blood rising. My heart thrumming.
“It’s, umm…” I assess my surroundings. Every agent under the sun. Every Draft prospect from across the nation. My dad. Hollis. Trey’s parents. I clear my throat. “It fits well. I’m glad we had it tailored.”
He eyes me knowingly before leaning forward to touch my arm. His lips brush my cheek briefly and I breathe him in. Soap and cologne, and the subtle smell of his skin, the memory of which keeps me up at night.
Trey hugs his mom, then
his dad. He shakes hands with Hollis. We all wait until he takes his seat before sitting down ourselves.
“Good luck tonight,” Hollis tells the table.
We wish the same to his.
When I sit down Trey is sandwiched between me and his mom. Cameramen wander the room. Photographers. There’s a steady buzz to the room that will die down soon when the clock strikes seven and the Draft begins.
It’s five minutes till. We’re almost there.
“Have we had any calls?” Trey asks me quietly.
I keep my face composed as I light up my phone on the table between us. “Nothing yet.”
“It’s getting late.”
“This is how it goes. You don’t always get a call before it happens. Sometimes it just happens and everyone is surprised.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
Trey’s mom leans across the table to look at us. “Is everything okay?”
I smile brightly. “Everything is fine.”
“We don’t know for sure the Kodiaks are going to pick me up,” Trey explains plainly. “Sometimes they call to tell you they plan to draft you.”
“Sometimes,” I repeat emphatically. “Not always.”
Trey nods to the other side of the room. “Looks like Andre is getting a call.”
I look to find Brad on the phone. He’s smiling ear to ear, nodding his head. He hands the phone off to Andre who smiles as well.
“It could be anybody,” I remind Trey.
“And it could be the Kodiaks.”
“Yeah, it could, because it could be anybody. It could be the Patriots with the third pick just like everyone has been saying for months.”
Trey nods, his eyes going distant.
“Be it to the Kodiaks or the Patriots or the fucking Lions, I promised you a first round draft and I will deliver,” I whisper adamantly. “Stay calm, stay cool, and trust me.”
He looks at me for a long time, wordless. Breathing. Finally his hand lands on mine, large and hot, enveloping my skin. He squeezes hard just as the music flares out on the stage.
It’s starting.
“Booo!”
Lono frowns. “Are they booing?”