Crossing the Touchline

by Jay Hogan

  Right now, he was still blissfully unaware of my scrutiny, allowing me to indulge my stalker curiosity a little further. The relaxed body language and occasional touches Georgie and he shared had me wondering about their relationship. There was no other male she was attentive to, so chances were they were together, but how? The touches were friendly more than sensual, so friend or beard at most. No surprise there. Reuben Taylor was so far in the closet, he had dust from the fucking extinction of the dinosaurs thick on his shoulders.

  I snorted, catching a few curious glances from my table mates, so I pretended to pay attention to their conversation regarding some English television drama they were all hooked on, before daring to shift my gaze back across the reception room. It took a moment to zero back in on the fullback’s face since I had to wait for the button-nose server to move his tight little arse, but when I did… fuck. I was pinned by a pair of silver-grey eyes, and nowhere to run.

  Goddammit.

  I did my best to maintain my composure and held his gaze, determined to wither his cowardly arse into submission by sinking into that one glare every ounce of pissedoffness I’d left unsaid in the car park that night. The fifteen metres or so of empty space between us shrank to zip, and I swear if I’d leaned in just a fraction, I could have licked into that sweet mouth for another taste. Not that I wanted to, or anything else for that matter… much. Shit.

  I kept my expression neutral other than indulging a slight sneer, just because I could. And because it seemed the better alternative to racing over and nailing his sweet arse against the far wall. I raised my glass, allowing my middle finger to lift in salute. I had no doubt he caught it, evidenced by the blush that seared his cheeks, though really, I could give less than a fuck.

  I returned my glass to the table, then pointedly turned my back and fell into some inane conversation with one of the radiographers from the hospital. Dessert arrived, and I risked another glance, but although Georgie was engaged in some animated discussion with another guest, Reuben was nowhere to be seen. Whatever. The less I saw of the man the better.

  It’s not like I didn’t get it. He was gunning for an All Black spot—he was just that good. But rugby was a bastion of testosterone, and it was gonna take a huge pair of balls to stand up as the first out-and-proud All Black. The words were almost mutually exclusive.

  He wouldn’t be the first gay All Black, believe me—I’d had firsthand experience of more than one proposition from that quarter over the past few years, and knew of rumours surrounding at least a half-dozen others, past and present. But none had taken the plunge into outhood.

  I understood what it meant to face derision, and bullying, and flat out, bigoted disgust. But when someone from your own community, out or not, allows that to happen to you, it stings just that little bit more. Some of us had little choice in the matter of being out, but if Reuben Taylor wanted to hide his fucking rainbow under a bushel until the whole damn thing spontaneously combusted into an inferno of self-hatred, that was his choice. Just don’t drag me into it.

  Should I take some responsibility for playing with his obvious lust and inexperience? Probably. Did I understand his terror of being outed? Absolutely. Did I condone his throwing me under a bus and acknowledging me as a faggot to make his pretty arse look better in front of his teammate? Fuck, no. That was beyond the pale and all on him.

  My own little brother, straight as a fucking die, would’ve torn a teammate’s throat out by the tonsils for calling me a faggot. Not every member on his team liked who I was, but they mostly kept that to themselves and none would have dared diss me like that. I hadn’t been called a faggot to my face in a long, long time. So, the fact I let that bastard Kevin get away with it that night{MISSING SYMBOL}yeah, it bothered me. I kept a truckload of snark in my arsenal for moments like those, and verbally cutting the balls off that idiot would’ve been an absolute pleasure.

  But there’d been something more than just fear in Reuben’s eyes that night. Something too damned close to self-disgust. Not about being gay, but about what he was doing to me, and recognising that had calmed my fury a smidgeon. And so I’d saved his damn bacon and walked away, end of story. Didn’t mean I wanted to reminisce with the guy.

  Seeing him here added a sour note to an otherwise first-rate wedding, so when the band started up, I shared the floor with Scott Bradford for a few tracks just to lift my spirits. Scott worked in paediatrics and had always fancied me. Pretty as he was, I didn’t feel it with him, and he’d long accepted that. He was a nice guy, though, and a great dancer, so we had a bit of fun singing and grinding it up alongside the groom and groom, adding a little gay spice to the dance floor while lifting a few eyebrows in the process.

  A few songs later, I begged off and went in search of some quiet, leaving Scott in the capable—and, I might add, surprisingly eager—hands of Auckland Med’s resident gay cardiologist. The two were a good fit; don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before.

  If there was ever a time for a pirated cigarette, this was it. I bummed one from one of my senior nurses and headed for the exit, cursing the needle-sharp rain as I sprinted to a small gazebo currently sheltering two other guests all guiltily sucking on their drug of choice. Fifteen minutes later, I had it all to myself, and although I’d stubbed the butt long ago, I was still chewing nails over the damn fullback.

  Why I let him get to me so much I had no idea. He pushed all my buttons, no question, but I didn’t want him taking up space in my head. In my bed? Sure. But that was an entirely different ball of wool. One I had no intention of knitting if it meant I had to do it while sitting in the fucking closet.

  “Hey.”

  Ugh. I knew the rich timbre of that voice. Goosebumps flared up the back of my neck and my dick flicked an eye open. The man was clearly linked to my autonomic nervous system.

  Rolling my eyes to no one in particular and keeping my back to Reuben, I demanded, “What are you doing here?” I stared out through the sheeting rain and waved my hand at it. “A little too déjà vu, don’t you think?” It took everything I had not to turn and drink in those silver eyes.

  Behind me, Reuben sighed. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He slipped alongside and leaned over the railing, leaving a polite distance between us. I would’ve preferred a couple of kilometres, considering the man’s cologne already had my ridiculous dick’s attention.

  “I’m not gonna finish you off from last time if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  He flinched, and I checked myself. Whoa. I didn’t normally do petty… or rude.

  I blew out a sigh. “Sorry. That was… uncalled for. But I really don’t want to do this with you, Reuben, so just… well, have a nice life.” I was halfway to the stairs when his hand caught my arm. I froze, staring at his fingers burning a sizzling hole through my jacket.

  “Let. Go.” My tone brooked no argument. “Now.”

  He dropped his hand instantly. “Shit. Sorry. But….”

  I kept moving.

  “Hey, look, I said I’m sorry.” He spoke to my back. “I didn’t mean anything, I just… please, will you just wait a minute… just… please?”

  I paused on the first step. Keep walking, idiot. There’s nothing he can say that you could possibly be interested in. He’s trouble. Big, fucking, balls-to-wall, gorgeous trouble. So naturally I paid zero attention to the voice of reason and turned to face him, my irritation instantly wavering at the misery in the man’s eyes. Oh for crying out loud. I knew this would come back to bite my pretty arse.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know what more you think we could possibly have to say to each other. Last year kind of spoke for itself. You’re still in the closet, right?”

  He looked around guiltily and nodded. Question fucking answered.

  “Right.” I sighed, ignoring the stab of disappointment. “Well, I’m not going to reveal your little secret if that’s what you’re worried about. We need to look after each other.” I left the statement hanging, leaving no doubt
what I was referring to. To the man’s credit, he flushed with embarrassment. Damn right. But when those silver eyes lifted to mine again, I might have wobbled in my determination… a little.

  He shook his head. “I never thought you would. Not that I wouldn’t deserve it if you did.” He held my gaze steadily. “I really am sorry, Cam. I shouldn’t have kissed you, but you were—are—just so damn beautiful. And I don’t regret it, not really. It was kind of… amazing, actually.”

  Yeah, about that. My throat tightened.

  “But when Kevin….” He sighed. “Well, let’s just say it wasn’t my finest hour, right? I’m pretty ashamed of how I acted. And I should’ve said something when he called you—”

  “Damn right you should have.”

  “—but, yeah, did I mention coward? It wasn’t fair to you, none of it. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that, and say I’m sorry.”

  Oh Christ. A fucking, damn-near-perfect apology. I wanted to hate him. It would be so much easier that way. I wanted to keep him in my fantasy jerk box, something to pull out on special occasions when the usual shit wasn’t working. I needed to just tell him thanks and get the hell out of there.

  So of course, I said, “Yeah, well, I probably shouldn’t have kissed you back.” Ugh.

  His eyes widened. “No. None of it was your fault. I’m a grown man, you know.”

  I cocked my brows. “Oh, believe me, I know.”

  He blushed and his gaze slid away. And… shit… dimples. How had those little suckers escaped my attention until now? I fought the urge to lean forward and kiss their cute little patootsies.

  An awkward silence ensued, and Reuben looked so damn humiliated I felt sorry for him. I tipped my head in the direction of the reception room. “That your girlfriend? You bi, then?”

  He looked genuinely confused. “Georgie? Nah, she’s just a friend. She needed a plus-one, that’s all.” He looked down and shuffled his feet. “So, no, I’m not bi.”

  I was reluctant to acknowledge why that answer sat so well with me. “Well, I’d better head back inside. Be seeing you around, Reuben.”

  “Um, was that your boyfriend?” he shot back.

  Touché. I frowned as his cheeks pinked up.

  He shrugged. “I saw you two dancing.” He glanced away. “You looked… good together.”

  I didn’t immediately reply. It would be so easy to let him think Scott and I were together. Let him think I was taken. It would simplify everything. Game over. “He’s a colleague. That was just a bit of fun.” Yeah, I was all over that simplifying shit, right?

  His expression brightened. “So, you’re single, then?”

  God, he was adorable, like a huge mastiff puppy. All muscle and eager intent. A seriously fucking potent mix. I swallowed hard and narrowed my gaze. “And staying that way.” I sighed. “Look, Reuben, you seem like a nice guy, screwing over your gay mates notwithstanding. And you’re fucking gorgeous, I won’t deny that, but….”

  “You… you think I’m gorgeous?”

  He gave a huge grin, and for a second, I was spellbound. I wasn’t sure I’d ever actually seen him smile like that before. Ugh. My chest swelled with something that too closely resembled delight. I was in so much trouble.

  I held up a hand. “Yes, I think you’re gorgeous, but… I don’t do closet boys, ever. Let’s just say I’ve been burned, and you, Reuben Taylor, are seriously in the closet. So, I’m not interested, sorry. And I really do need to go. Good luck with the rugby career. I’m sure we’ll run into each other.” Not if I had anything to do with it.

  “Ah, about that,” he said. “Might be sooner than you think… running into each other, I mean.”

  I scowled. “Explain.”

  Those dimples popped with a smile, and a flush of warmth ran up my spine. This was getting seriously ridiculous.

  “I’ve… ah… moved….”

  My stomach tightened. “Moved?”

  “Moved franchises. I’ve just signed with the Blues for the season. Your brother and I are teammates.”

  Fuck a bloody duck.

  Chapter Two

  Reuben

  THAT WENT about as well as expected, I thought, watching Cam’s back disappear into the reception hall, taking any stupid hope I might have had along with him. To say he’d been less than thrilled by the news of my transfer was putting it mildly. That he’d left without giving any response whatsoever was a big fat line underscoring just how much the guy really didn’t want to have anything more to do with me.

  So much for starting afresh. Can’t say I blamed him. In his place I’d have decked me. Mind you, I might’ve preferred that. At least then he would have actually touched me. The scowl on his face when I grabbed his arm to stop him leaving had damn near incinerated me on the spot, and I had no idea how to fix things. Telling him how the kiss we’d shared in the car park that night was the best damn thing to have ever happened to me would’ve bypassed creepy and gone straight on to irretrievably pathetic.

  I had a strict-as list of stuff I did and did not do. I avoided getting with guys in New Zealand. There were one or two I’d known for a long time who I trusted, but no random hookups. With only four million people and rugby centre stage as the ticking heart of the NZ nation, my face was way too familiar. I took one holiday a year with a gay mate—a national cyclist, equally closeted. Together we let loose somewhere, but even so we’d had some close calls. Fiji was now out of bounds—fucking rugby fanatics. Should’ve known that was a bad idea. And having a drunken idiot of an older brother and a dickhead homophobic dad only offered additional reasons to be cautious.

  When I was seventeen, my father had arrived to pick me up on the last day of a preseason training camp for the Baby Blacks—our under-twenty squad—and almost caught me making out with the cute-as-hell halfback from Wellington Boys’ High. Holy shit, that boy had a mouth to write songs about. Dad yelling out my name around the camp gave us enough warning to zip and wipe our mouths, but not enough to remove suspicion entirely, the sizeable wet patch on the front of the halfback’s practice shorts not helping matters.

  My father never directly accused me—I figured he didn’t want it confirmed. But the slapping I received for not being ready on time, and then the freeze-out and endless gay taunts I endured over the next few months left me in no doubt. If I’d ever wondered about the possibility of coming out, I didn’t after that. The roughing up came to an end once I grew strong enough to fight back, but the homophobic bullshit didn’t. Whenever he thought I’d fucked up, I was called pussy, fag, fairy, queen, and anything else he could think of. So I kept my mouth shut and waited for the day I could get out.

  My plan was to get into a Super Rugby team and out of Whakamaru. Then into the All Blacks, and hopefully come out of the closet if everything looked good for it. If the All Blacks didn’t happen, I’d come out sooner. But life fucked with those plans big time. My fullback position in the ABs was bottlenecked, and I was having to wait longer than I’d hoped. And then there was the whole crapfest happening with my brother.

  Hence my set of rules. And I’d done my best to keep them until one look at Cameron fucking Wano had me melting like a hot marshmallow. He was my kryptonite and I wanted anything—anything—I could get from him. Tonight I really hadn’t gone looking for him in order to apologise, I’d followed him because I wanted him. I wanted in his orbit any way that I could. One look and I was back there again. If he’d asked me to leave with him, I’d have gone in a heartbeat. Rules be damned. What the fuck was wrong with me?

  I headed back into the party, determined to avoid Cam, and especially the happy couple. I couldn’t imagine ever having what they shared. At twenty-three, I’d never had anyone to come home to, never dated, never had anyone look at me the way those two men looked at each other. God. It was so damn depressing.

  I hunted Georgie down and told her I was heading home. She was cozied up on the dance floor with some hottie doctor and waved me off with little more than a small crease to her
brow.

  That done, I beat a path the hell out of that place as fast as I could.

  THE RAIN had eased by the time I got home, well before midnight, and I was looking forward to hitting the sack and erasing the whole damn evening from my head. I needed to bury any and all thoughts of Cameron Wano, get my focus back on my rugby. The guy had made it plain as hell he wasn’t interested in a closeted freak like me. He could have any guy he wanted. I needed to grow the fuck up and move on.

  After dragging my sorry arse up the stairs that hugged the side of my brother’s classic-bike restoration shop that I lived above, I reached my apartment door and paused. The landing was black as ink. For that reason alone, I usually left the outside light on, which I was sure I’d done tonight. Shit. I listened for any noise, then peered through the small glass panel in the top of the door. A dim light shone from my tiny lounge, and I caught the sound of some kind of sports commentary on the TV. Son of a bitch. I almost wished it was a burglar.

  The door was unlocked, surprise, surprise, so I remedied that before taking my shoes off and throwing my coat on the hook next to my hobbit-sized kitchen. I shivered. Jesus. The place was a freaking icebox. I flicked on the heat pump, noting the mound of greasy, uneaten fish and chips on the kitchen bench, and the pool of sauce congealing on the linoleum. My tiny bedroom opposite the kitchen was empty, that was a bonus, so I continued into the cramped lounge with its secondhand furniture and exploding toy box. Luxury it wasn’t.

  Playing professional rugby wasn’t the lucrative money earner the public thought—not for the likes of me at any rate. Maybe for senior players and the All Blacks, to keep them happy and keep them in NZ. But in just my third season, I wasn’t anywhere near deserving of that kind of financial incentive or sponsorship, which was the real money earner. I wasn’t on the breadline, but I had responsibilities and a plan that left little in the bank for anything frivolous. To that end, the apartment was cheap, although that wasn’t why I lived here.