“Please, sit.” Coach motioned to the chairs across from his desk and both of us sat. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
“Griffin, sir,” I responded.
Coach stood, leaning over the desk to shake my hand. “It’s good to officially meet you, Griffin. I’m Teddy Rodgers and this is Nixon, our strength and training coordinator.” He turned his attention to Nix. “Nix, this is Griffin. He’s the cameraman who’s been assigned to follow Zach around for the next six weeks. I’m fairly certain some are going to say he doesn’t know how to do his job, but once you hear what we’ve been talking about, I’m pretty sure you’ll agree with me that he’s doing his job perfectly.”
I opened my mouth to interrupt, but Teddy held up a hand to stop me. For the next ten minutes, he relayed the conversation we’d just had about Zach and his situation. Damn, Zach would kill me if he heard me refer to it that way, but there really was no other way to describe it. This had the potential to blow up in his face, but apparently Nixon and Teddy were putting their faith in me to keep that from happening. They wanted me to stick close to him and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. They were going to talk to the production company and suggest that Zach spend his off days doing some good in the community, acting like this was a normal part of his life. I didn’t bother telling them that, if he was still the same guy I’d fallen in love with before, it wasn’t bullshit. He spent as much of his time as possible helping a local homeless outreach, the LGBT center downtown, soup kitchens, you name it. And he didn’t do it because it’d look good on a resume, he did it because he really wanted to make a difference. Well, now was his chance to do just that.
“Are you up for the task?” Teddy asked me when he finished.
I sighed heavily, wondering how I’d gotten myself into such a mess. If I said I’d do it, Zach was going to have even more shit on his plate, which was bound to piss him off. If I said I wouldn’t, there was a chance these guys wouldn’t go to bat for me. “Are you sure you can swing all of this? Zach’s been pretty adamant the past week that he doesn’t want to do anything that’ll draw his attention away from securing his spot on the line.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Nixon responded, “I’ll be there to make sure he’s in top form. While it’s great to hear that he’s truly dedicated to proving himself on the line, we need to help him find a balance. If he pushes as hard every day as he did today, he’ll wind up hurting himself. I’ll take care of his football career, we just need you to help show the world what a well-rounded, levelheaded guy he is.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said casually. Both of them eyed me cautiously. “What? He is both of those things, so it shouldn’t be hard to figure out how to get everyone else to see it. But you are forgetting one big thing; before we can do any of this, you have to get him on board.”
“I’ll go grab him and bring him in,” Nixon said, already standing from his seat.
Without thinking, I reached up to stop him. “You’re not going to find him in the training room. I’m not sure what all you said to him when he was in here earlier, but he took off. He’ll probably run until he’s about ready to fall over before he even realizes where he’s at. He’ll be tired, but too damn proud to call for a ride. Your best bet at this point is to either drive around trying to find him, or you’ll have to wait until he gets back.”
Nixon narrowed his eyes, lips pursed. “What did you say your name is?”
I swallowed hard, knowing I’d showed my hand. “Griffin.”
Nixon nodded before turning to Teddy. “Don’t you think he knows more about Zach than he should after two weeks?” Coach shrugged. “Think about that audio you were sent. Hell, pull it up if you need a refresher. Griffin. Grif.”
Fuck. So much for not doing anything to betray Zach’s confidence. Now, not only did I have to apologize for agreeing to keep him out of the spotlight, I had to explain to him how and why I’d just outed us to his coaches.
Seventeen
(Zach)
“Life is stressful, there’s no way around that. You can’t eliminate the stress, so it’s up to every one of you to figure out how you’re going to handle the stress in your life.” Most of the players had tuned out today’s workshop speaker within the first two minutes, but I was giving it my best, trying to pay attention what he had to say. Lincoln Sims had been where we were; he’d played professionally for twelve years before one too many concussions knocked him out of the game for good. “The question I have for you today is, how do you handle the stress of your marriage? How do you keep the stress of trying to make the team from putting even more of a burden on your home life?”
He paused, waiting for anyone to answer, but was met with silence. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, praying that if I didn’t make eye contact with him, he’d skip past me. Stress was something I knew all too well, but I doubted anyone in this room wanted to hear about my stress or how I could overcome that, block it out the moment I set foot in the locker room. Every morning, I woke up expecting my phone to start chiming like a casino, signaling the start of my life as a publicly out, gay football player. It weighed heavy on me, not knowing when everything was going to blow up in my face. After three weeks of camp, I wished they’d just get it over with because I was starting to lose my mind.
“Kendricks, you look like you have something to say,” Lincoln called out when no one else volunteered an answer. Fuck, was I really that obvious? If he saw it, did my teammates see it too, and they were just trying to figure out how to ask me what in the hell was going on?
“No, sir,” I lied. “Just checking to see how much longer we’re all stuck here. I don’t know about anyone else, but I came here to play ball, not do group therapy sessions.”
Coach was going to have my ass for that little remark, but it was too late to take it back. It was either act like I was as pissed off about these little character-building workshops as the rest of the guys, or stand up and launch into a monologue about real stress.
The only way I could see to handle this stress was to take matters into my own hands. Stop waiting for someone from the show to leak a sound byte that’d show the whole world who I really was. I glared at the cameraman in the corner, pissed off because as long as they were lingering around, there was no way for me to actually come out on my own terms. There would always be someone in an editing booth somewhere, cutting and pasting anything I said to make sure it was as scandalous as possible for the viewers at home.
“I get it,” Lincoln responded, sauntering over to lean back against the edge of the table where I was sitting. “I’ve been where you’re at. When you’re young and just starting out, you think there’s nothing more important than who has the most completions or what the scoreboard says at the end of the game. And that, my friends, is why they called me in here to talk to you today. Because one day, maybe a decade down the road, you’re going to wake up and realize that there’s more to life than playing a game. It won’t matter how fast you can run or how many hits you can take and get back up, because you’ll be knocked down by the hits that come off the field.
“I’d be willing to bet every man in this room has been told, at some point in his life, that football is life. That you have to work hard if you want to get to the pros. That you have to rid your life of the unnecessary distractions if you want the scouts to notice you.” He started wandering around the room. I glanced over my shoulder, noticing that he finally seemed to have the attention of at least a few more of us. He was right. We’d all been told that we needed to keep our heads in the game, and I couldn’t imagine what Coach would say if he knew Lincoln was basically telling us what a load of shit that advice was. “The reality is that football is a very small facet of your lives. Some of you are already husbands and fathers. When you get done with dinner tonight, you’ll go hide out in your rooms so you can call home. Some of you aren’t waiting until you retire to start the next phase of your life and you’re businessmen. Back
home, you are involved in your communities. And that, my friends, is the part of life that truly matters. So, how can you find a balance between your job and everything else?”
For the next hour, Lincoln rambled more about the stress of being a professional athlete. I stretched in my seat as I felt my back and shoulders begin to tense. My knee began to bounce with restless energy as I tried to pay attention to his suggestions about finding time to let those who were waiting for us know how much we loved them and appreciated their sacrifices. I needed to get out of that conference room and run, because no matter how much sense he made, I still couldn’t figure out how in the hell I could apply his words to my life.
Before he even finished thanking us for suffering through the workshop, most of my teammates were gathering their shit and filing out the door at the back of the room. We still had our afternoon practice to get through, and with just a few days before the first round of cuts, everyone was trying to be the first on the field to prove they were committed to the team. So much for finding a balance between life and work.
“Zach, do you have a minute?” Lincoln called out as I turned to follow the rest of the guys outside and across campus. I wanted to say no, tell him that I had shit to do, but the truth was, I was tired. Nixon had been true to his word, pushing me harder, forcing me to be the best. I’d gladly take a justifiable reason to miss out on even a few minutes of our afternoon practice.
“Sure, what’s up?” I tried to play it cool, pretend my inner child wasn’t freaking out about having a one-on-one conversation with a man I’d looked up to my entire life. He motioned for me to take a seat and pulled a chair over to sit across from me.
“How’re things going this year? I know it’s early, but everything good?”
I shrugged, because I wasn’t sure how he wanted me to answer. It was hell, getting up at five thirty every morning so I could check in for breakfast before heading down to the training room to get taped up. Morning practices were brutal, not only physically, but mentally as well.
Our only downtime was early in the afternoon, but between the guys who weren’t taking Coach’s advice to kick back and take a nap and the fear of being late to a meeting, it was almost impossible to unwind. And when I did manage to relax a bit, my mind wandered to how much better it’d be to curl up around Griffin’s body. Having him so close sucked, because we’d both been so busy it’d been impossible to steal time away from everyone else.
Lincoln leaned closer, resting his forearms on his knees. “Look, I might be overstepping here, but Nixon and I were talking about you the other day. He’s worried.”
“Yeah, well he sure as hell doesn’t show it,” I scoffed, hating how much I sounded like a whiny-ass punk. “Every time I walk into the training room, I swear he’s watching me. If I put more plates on the bar than he thinks I should, he’s right there to take them off. If he’s so worried about my strength, he should trust me to know what my body can handle.”
“I’m not talking about your strength, Zach.” I squared my shoulders, glaring at one of my idols the moment I realized he meant that he and Nixon had talked about me. About my little situation. That was so fucking out of line I was tempted to sprint across campus and tell Nixon to stay the fuck out of my personal life. This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to come out. Lincoln reached out and placed a hand on my knee. “Relax. This little chat isn’t what you’re thinking. In fact, I think you’d be surprised to know just how wrong you are.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ground my teeth, trying to keep from lashing out at Lincoln. “Was this whole thing orchestrated as a way for you to tell me it’s all going to be okay? Because I’ve gotta tell you, you don’t know shit about what it’s like for me out there. You have no fucking clue what it’s like to dread waking up every morning, because you never know if today’s going to be the day everything goes south and you’re the laughingstock of the fucking league.
“You want to know how I deal with the stress of my life?” I lunged out of my chair and started pacing the room. Fuck him. Fuck anyone who thought they knew me. “I don’t, okay. I ignore the fact that there’s anything out there other than football, because if I admit that, I have to admit that there’s no way my work and personal lives can coexist. It’d be wonderful if that wasn’t the case, but it is. So as long as I’m here, I have to figure out how to ignore the part of me that wishes I could go home to the man I love. That I wasn’t fucking miserable when I’m not on the field, because I’ve thrown away my chance at being happy. That I’m fucking fooling myself to think the only person I want to be with will stick around this time, waiting for me to decide he’s worth more than being my dirty little secret.”
Fuck. I hadn’t meant to say all that. I sure as hell hadn’t meant to blow up at someone who was just trying to help. It was no secret that this was Lincoln’s job now. He’d carved out a good life for himself, flying around the country, speaking on a variety of topics. When I spun around to apologize, Lincoln was watching me, a smirk on his face. He waved a hand for me to continue, but now that I realized I’d just proven to him why his job was even more important than mine, I’d lost my fire. I slumped back into my seat, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.
“That was a good speech. And I know you’re probably replaying everything you just said, trying to figure out how to take it back, but believe me, you’ll be better off for having finally blown up about everything.” I gaped at Lincoln, trying to figure out how he could be so damn calm. If our roles were reversed and some snot-nosed punk went off on me that way, I’d have told him to sit down and shut the fuck up. “This is what the coaches are all worried about. For the most part, you’re acting like it’s business as usual—”
“Because it is,” I interrupted. I was the one insisting that people knowing I was gay didn’t matter when we were on the field, so why in the hell would I be blubbering about how hard my life is? Thousands of kids out there would kill to switch spots with me. They’d give anything to have parents who accepted them for who they were, a warm bed to sleep in every night, a job that paid them an ungodly amount of money, even after everyone else took their cut. Who was I to bitch about my life?
Lincoln held up a hand to silence me. “You’re right, but you also have to admit that this is a huge change for you. You’re used to going out there and pretending who you are doesn’t matter, but now it does. And there are guys on your line who know, too. That’s scary shit.”
“Yeah, and dwelling on it won’t do me, or anyone else, a damn bit of good,” I argued. I didn’t talk about this shit because it was pointless. And the more attention I drew to no longer being in the closet, the more likely I was to hear what my teammates really thought of me. That was what kept me back from taking Griffin out to dinner without worrying who might see us and snap a picture to post on social media. As much as I was dying to have the news out there, it felt safer if I wasn’t actively trying to flaunt the gay wide receiver in love.
“I get it.” Lincoln once again reached out and placed a hand on me, this time on my arm. “Hell, I’ve been out of uniform for six years and it’s still hard for me to admit to most people who I am. I spent over two decades trying to play it straight, and I’m just now working up the balls to be who I am, regardless of what anyone thinks.”
“You mean…?” My question fell away unasked. I knew I looked like an idiot with my mouth opening and closing like a fish trying to breathe on land, but damn. Never in a million years would I have pegged him as anything less than the stereotypical straight athlete. Hell, I’d seen pictures of him back when he was playing. Every awards ceremony that rolled around, the cameras ate up him and his beautiful wife. There was already chatter about his son following in his footsteps.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to tell you here. You’re not the first guy to go down this road.” That was reassuring, even if it sucked ass to know he was still hiding out in the closet to keep from tarnishing his reputation. As if he could almost hear w
hat I was thinking, he continued, “The good news for you is you don’t have to keep the person you are locked away. The world’s changing, and while it’s a ton of pressure, you have an opportunity I never had. You can be honest about who you are and help other guys like us see that it’s not all or nothing.”
As selfish as it sounded, I wasn’t sure I wanted that. I’d never set out to be a role model or an example. I didn’t want to be the name people brought up when a gay athlete got upset about the hate and bullshit they faced. But Lincoln had a valid point. If we couldn’t be honest with ourselves and the rest of the world, how would anyone know it wasn’t the way it used to be? The world could only change if people forced that change. With that thought bouncing around in my brain, I sat up a bit straighter.
“So what do I do?”
Lincoln stood as the door opened and Nixon walked in. I wondered if he’d been sitting out in the hall, waiting for this moment. He crossed the room and I shook his proffered hand. “Right now, I think it’s time to get away from all this for a bit.”
“As great as that sounds, we have practice this afternoon,” I reminded Nix.
“If anyone asks, just tell them you were in the training room,” he suggested. It was a good excuse, since it wasn’t uncommon for some players to be held off the field for afternoon practices. Still, cuts were coming, and I wasn’t sure this was the best time for me to sit out. “Zach, you have nothing to worry about. You’re solid out there. No one’s pen is hovering over your name.”
It wasn’t my place to question a coach, so I followed Lincoln to his rental car. Griffin and I were supposed to meet up later, so I fired off a quick text letting him know I might not be around. I hated canceling on him, but it’d become pretty common in the past week. If I had downtime, he was in production meetings. If he had time off, it was because I was on the field and other camera operators were on duty. It was like forces were conspiring against us having any time together. I tried to convince myself this wasn’t an ominous sign that building a new relationship with him would be impossible.
Down By Contact (Wilmington Breakers Book 1) Page 13