Crossing the Touchline

by Jay Hogan

  Lips peppered kisses down my neck and teeth nipped their way down my spine as he lavished soft attention on my vibrating skin. But it didn’t last. An excruciatingly painful, unavoidable, silent awkwardness eventually settled between us like a sour fog.

  “I need to go, Rube,” he whispered against my ear. “I’m sorry.”

  I tensed, not needing to ask what he was sorry for. I’d known it was coming from the second he’d kissed me back. And he was right. The whole we-shouldn’t-have-done-this speech, the this-was-a-mistake-and-you-can’t-risk-your-career speech, and the I-can’t-date-someone-who-isn’t-out speech hadn’t disappeared.

  He held me tight. “We shouldn’t have….”

  “Don’t say it.” I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face the apology on his face or the determined set in his gaze. “Can we just take it all as said? We screwed up, I screwed up. I’m sorry. And I know it’s my choice I’m not out. It’s always been my choice.”

  He sighed against the back of my neck, soft breath blowing painful loss over my skin. “I screwed up as well, Rube,” he offered. “I could have stopped, but… shit, I just wanted you so badly.”

  Whether the admission made it better or worse I didn’t know, but God, I could’ve kissed his feet for saying it. It meant so much, knowing he at least wanted me, maybe even as much as I did him. But ultimately it made no difference to the big fat nothing that could be between us. I turned my head and kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”

  He stayed quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing soft circles over my ribs, the puff of his breath sliding over my neck, sending shivers through my body. I wanted him in my bed, in my life, and in my heart. One taste and I had to give up pretending I wanted anything less or felt anything less. Maybe not love, not yet, but it had a chance, so yeah, I was in big trouble, the biggest.

  Not that it changed anything. I couldn’t have Cam and do what I needed to for Cory. And I couldn’t be close to Cam without wanting all of him. I might survive any professional fallout from coming out, but I could still lose Cory. And having that innocent kid pay a lifetime’s price for me being a selfish prick? No. Staying in the closet sucked, but it wouldn’t be forever. It would, however, without doubt be too long for Cam—not that I’d ever ask him. He was worth far more than taking second place.

  I needed to just be grateful for getting this one time, grateful Cam respected my choices, grateful he had the strength to pull away. But I wasn’t fucking grateful. Because no matter how I ran it through my idiot brain, I couldn’t escape the panicked feeling that I was making the worst decision of my life.

  He placed a kiss on the back of my neck and held me close. “Okay,” he whispered. “We’ll take it as said. And, ah, maybe we should put some space between us… for a while.” His hands left my skin and the bed dipped as he stood to dress. It was all I could do not to leap up and promise him anything if only he’d stay. Tears pricked at my eyes, but being the coward that I was, I couldn’t face him. I settled for watching in the mirror. Watch him cover the body I’d just worshipped with my own. Watch him study me with sadness and regret. And finally, watch him leave.

  His footsteps paused in the hall and I imagined him checking on Cory, my sleeping nephew blissfully unaware of his uncle’s undeniable stupidity. The front door opened, the snip of the deadbolt like a whip crack in my ears. But the thud of Cam’s feet on the stairs was drowned by the pounding regret in my heart and the strangled sounds erupting from my throat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cam

  “…JUST WHEN we thought we had the Bledisloe All Black squad locked and loaded for the first test in Sydney in a week’s time, the coaches have suffered a major blow with yesterday’s devastating injury to fullback Wiremu Ngata. Competing with Jaden Onslow for a high ball in the Crusaders’ game against the Stormers, he fell awkwardly, sustaining a shoulder injury, and was stretchered off, putting into question his fitness for the game in six days’ time. All Black management has refused to comment on a replacement at this stage, and Wiremu Ngata himself is saying nothing. But if I were Reuben Taylor, I might just be polishing my boots and packing a bag….”

  Lee Thomas, New Zealand News

  I LET the sports section fall from my hands and sank deeper into the chair as I debated my options. Did I text him or not? As a friend I could text—should text, in fact. That would be the right thing to do. Just a “checking in, hoping you get your chance” kind of text. But were we even still friends in that way? Hell if I knew anymore. As always, I was caught between excitement at the possibility of Reuben’s longed for call-up to the ABs, and the nauseating churn of emotion that arose whenever my thoughts drifted to the talented young man who continued to haunt my fucking dreams and take up altogether too much headspace in my waking life. I had no idea what we were or what to do.

  Nearly three weeks on from our little tryst…. Jesus, Cam. Tryst? Really? I sounded like a fucking Jane Austen novel. But the word was furtive, and sexy, and rolled over my tongue in a delicious tease, perfect to describe everything about that damned night. The night I couldn’t get out of my head. The one that threatened to derail every promise I’d made to myself after the debacle that had been Dom.

  Dominic Stratton. The bastard. I’d met him at a Flying Oysters concert in Auckland when I was twenty-two. We’d been close to the stage, dancing next to each other like crazy people. In his midthirties, he was attractive in a deliberately scruffy way. Roughly shaved, tousled blond hair, dark jeans ripped in all the right places, and a trendy white Huffer tee, and man, could he dance. What’s more, he seemed totally unperturbed by my gender-fluid outfit of liquid black leather trousers plus Doc Martins, topped off by a silver glitter-and-chain singlet and more sparkly makeup than a Cher concert.

  He made no effort to hide his attraction, blatantly checking me out until we were grinding away in a display X-rated enough to earn us a warning from security. At the end of the concert, he asked me to a bar. I was young and flattered by the attention, so I accepted the invitation. My first mistake.

  The second mistake was inviting him back to my apartment and letting him have his wicked way with me. He topped exclusively. That should’ve been a warning in itself, but he said he was kind of new to the whole gay thing and was taking it slow. I hoped in time that would change. It didn’t.

  My third mistake was buying his story, hook, line, and sinker, about his recent job relocation to Auckland from down south. He was a dentist and had bought into a practice here, but wasn’t yet fully out, wanting to settle in with the new business first.

  Six months later I was in love, or so I thought, but with little sign of that promised coming out happening any time soon. Dom repeatedly said he was terrified of what it might mean to his practice and his business partnership. The other dentist was apparently less than open about the whole gay thing, and I never challenged why, in that case, Dom had ever signed up with the guy to start with.

  I wanted to believe him, wanted it to work, was desperate for that happy-ever-after with a guy who accepted me as I was. He wanted to wait longer, another six months, and idiot that I was, I agreed.

  Looking back, it was so fucking crystal clear that I’m shocked at my own stupidity. We always met at my place, never went out together—in fact were never even seen together after that first night. I was okay with the whole keeping-it-quiet thing at first, thinking it was temporary. I was stupid-in-love with the guy.

  But the deception ate at my self-confidence, and I began to wonder if the whole secrecy thing was less about him being gay and more about not wanting to be seen with my kind of gay. I stopped going out with my friends, lost weight, and spent a lot of time in my room or working extra shifts. Jake worried. He had no idea about Dom—no one did. Jake got my mum on board and the two of them tried to find out what was going on, but I wouldn’t talk.

  Then one Sunday afternoon, Jake dragged me out to the matinée performance of Oklahoma! and at intermission I volunteered for the ice cream run. On my way
back, I saw Dom, his arm around an attractive blonde, guiding her and two children through the crowd, less than five metres away.

  My knees caved, and I dropped one of the ice creams, my hands were shaking so badly. I knew the woman wasn’t just a friend—there was something about the way he looked at her, like he looked at me. He laughed at something she said, then brushed his lips across hers, and bile surged up my throat. I had to cup my hand over my mouth and force myself to swallow as I kept watching.

  The woman lifted the younger child into his arms, and Dom nuzzled the little boy’s neck, twisting him around to perch him on his hip. It was then that he saw me. I felt like I’d been sucker-punched, and I suppose I had. He blinked slowly, the colour draining from his face, and his gaze flew sideways to the woman, who remained oblivious, chatting merrily to the other child.

  He turned back and stared, fear rolling off him in foetid waves, and I can’t say I wasn’t tempted. Tempted to walk across and destroy that whole happy-family thing he clearly had going on. But one look at those children, and I knew I’d never do it. They didn’t deserve to have their world crushed by me just because their father was an arsehole. No doubt he’d do that on his own at some point without any help.

  I lifted my chin and summoned every remaining scrap of dignity I could in order to clearly mouth two words—fuck you—and walk away. Scrambling out the main doors, I managed to stay upright until I got to the coffee bar next door, where I launched myself into a chair and texted Jake to come get me. The next few weeks disappeared in a blur of grief and humiliation as I spilled my guts to my family about the whole sorry affair. Without Jake and my brother, I’m not sure how I would’ve pulled through.

  So, yeah. Never. Hiding. Again. Those words had been seared into my brain, and yet here I was, three weeks on from our whatever-the-fuck-it-was, and I was as frustrated, unhinged, and totally fucked as I’d ever been about Dom—more so.

  Goddammit, Reuben. I wanted to slap him for crossing that line we’d been so careful to draw. Slap him, shove him up against the wall, and beat the crap out of him. Either that or kiss him senseless and swallow his dick. It was a close call, because it wasn’t like I didn’t go sailing right across that line to join him at barely a swipe of his tongue over mine. Not exactly the staunchest display of willpower. How he managed to rifle my common sense and throw it to the wind with a single kiss still confounded me.

  The two of us were tinder to flame, the chemistry a rare find for me. A big guy like Reuben being eager to embrace a bit of submission? Hell, that was the gay equivalent of winning the damn lottery for a guy like me. Add my predilection for silk, a dealbreaker for some, just plain weird for others—but Reuben? Fuck if it didn’t seem to rev his jets even more, and that was pure, unadulterated kryptonite.

  But sizzling attraction only got you so far. When the focus on between-the-sheets eased and romantic attachment kicked in, we’d be left with the fact that he wasn’t coming out of the closet and I wasn’t going in. This thing between us was way past physical, and I’d bet my life Reuben felt that too. Which was why I was so damn mad at him. The hurt heading both our ways if we launched into this was something I could well do without. The only thing that made any sense was to finish it nice and clean.

  And so I had. Yay me.

  We’d barely known each other a couple of months, so that should’ve been the end of it, right? Yeah, about that. Instead, my idiot self had spent the last two and a half weeks mooning and pissy and downright certifiable about the whole thing. I was a nightmare at work, lucky that half my nurses were still even talking to me. In their shoes, I wouldn’t.

  Even my supervisor was well over me, reading me the riot act when I complained about a staffing cock-up. Embarrassing given the fact it had turned out to be my cock-up, not hers. And that particular woman thought I walked on water ever since I saved her daughter’s wedding, stepping in to do the bridal party’s makeup after their contracted beautician went into labour. Now, not so much. So, yeah, moving on? Easier said than done, apparently.

  I stared at the sports section strewn across the rug, its pages rumpled and creased from where I’d worried them as I’d read and reread the article. For the millionth time, I wondered if Reuben was struggling too. If he felt the same way. I wondered how Cory was doing, what Craig had said the morning after I’d left, and whether Reuben had been to any more support meetings. Ugh. I needed to exorcise the man from my brain. I’d left ridiculous in the dust and moved straight on to pathetic.

  The heady aroma of sinfully strong coffee—that of the paint-stripper variety—put a slight dent in my pity party, if only because I needed caffeine to fuel any further self-indulgent wallowing. And more self-indulgent wallowing there would be if I had anything to say about it. Getting a grip on myself was a concept I apparently wasn’t ready to embrace.

  Jake handed me a cup of something that had an uncanny resemblance to black treacle, and I damn near drooled on his jandals. Sweet Jesus, I loved that man.

  “Oh. My. God.” I closed my eyes and inhaled the steam the way an addict would snort a line. “Keep up with these and I’ll be your slave forever.”

  Jake snorted. “That would be a big ew, followed by an even bigger fuck no. You are way too invested in my life as it is. I’d prefer more distance between us, not less.”

  “Ha! Tell me what you really think.” I risked a tentative sip of the tar-like substance, damn near searing the skin off my lips in the process. Dropping my head back to allow the thick nectar to slide down my throat, I let loose a lusty groan. Jake stared at me like I’d lost my mind, and I had, of course, but that shitstorm had nothing whatsoever to do with the coffee.

  “Right. Enough of this mopey crap,” he said, sending me his best take-no-prisoners glare.

  It wasn’t a bad attempt, but he’d have to do a lot better if he wanted anything like the truth from me. I glossed my lips innocently. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  He rolled his eyes and snatched the gloss from my hand.

  “Hey….”

  “Zip it, sugarplum. You can’t pull that crap on me. I know you too well.”

  And he did. Dammit.

  “Now what the fuck happened between you and Taylor? You’ve been worse than a cat with a wasp up its butt the last few weeks.”

  Yeah, he knew me. I sent him a warning scowl, which he replied to by snuggling deeper in his chair and folding his legs under his shapely butt. Yeah, that thought was a bit weird even for me.

  “There is no me and Taylor and never was. I’m fine,” I answered. “And even if I wasn’t, I have one word for you…. Trent, of the red briefs… okay so that was five.” I smiled smugly. Jake had taken the role of clam to Academy Award level in response to any probing on my part regarding his delicious man. “People who live in glass houses and all that.”

  He looked unperturbed, taking a long pull on his coffee before answering. “That’s a name, not a word. Now spill. You’ve been a fucking nightmare to live with. Even your mother’s too scared to ring you. She’s been blowing up my damn phone instead.”

  Shit. I really was in trouble. But I wasn’t going down without a fight. “Trent?” I repeated.

  He sighed, his gaze sliding to his coffee cup. “Right, Trent.”

  Oops. That didn’t sound promising. I circled the base of my own mug around my open palm and studied my cousin. “You guys break up or something?”

  He flushed bright pink.

  “Aha!”

  He scowled. “No, arsehole, we did not break up.”

  “Oooooh, so you are together, then? As in boyfriends together, right?” Up until now Jake had pointedly refused to put any label on the two of them.

  He rolled his eyes as if I were the most annoying person ever. Like that was even possible. “Cam, stop. This is about you, not me.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “You want some, you give some.”

  He grumbled something unintelligible and sighed. “Okay, okay. Then, yes. I suppose we are… som
ething… a thing, I guess. We haven’t exactly named it.”

  I watched him carefully, paying attention to the way he wouldn’t quite meet my gaze and the slight hesitation in his breathing. He looked nervous, uneasy. Damn. If that bastard was fucking Jake around, I’d pull his balls up through his throat and wrap them round a pit bull’s collar.

  “So, maybe you should name it,” I said.

  The furrow between his brows deepened.

  I sighed. “Look, a little gay advice from your younger but oh-so-much-more-experienced cousin.”

  A further eye roll flew my way, but the fact he didn’t say anything I took as an invite to continue.

  “Most guys suck at relationship shit, right? Especially the talking bit. No surprises there. But from the half of the bi adventure you’ve already travelled, which I thankfully know nothing about, I gather women drag that crap out of you regardless.”

  He nodded. “Mostly.”

  My dramatic shudder amused him. “But in the guy-on-guy world, believe me it can be way worse. Whole universes can form and disappear without meaningful conversation being had. It’s your heart, hun. No one’s going to look after it if you don’t. I know the whole dick thing is new to you….” I grinned at yet another eye roll. “But you’re worth more than being dicked around, for want of a better word. You’re worth someone who’ll look after you and who’ll be honest with you. So don’t let him be a jerk.”

  He said nothing for a moment, just sat looking more than a little spooked. Finally, he nodded. “Ah, thanks, I think? But… well, the truth is… it’s me who’s doing the stalling, not him. He’s actually raised it a few times.”