by Jay Hogan
Oh. “Oh.” Well, shit. Insert foot in mouth.
He cleared his throat, looking sheepish and focussed somewhere over my left shoulder. “I really like him, Cam, I do. But it’s all so… new, I guess… and scary, maybe. But, yeah. Point taken. I’ll talk to him.”
God, bury me now. “Um, okay. Well… good, then. But, you know… ah, take whatever time you need.” I winced apologetically. “Sorry.”
He grinned and shrugged. “Nah, you’re right. I’m not being fair to him. He’s been pretty upfront and really patient with me. I guess I’ve been sitting on the fence, too scared to jump, wondering if I’ve got the balls to do it—long-term, I mean.”
I snorted. “You’re bisexual, man. You don’t have to jump or choose which side forever—you get to have a foot in each. You just have to decide if you want to walk this side of the fence for a while. A lot of bi people say that there is in fact no fence cause you don’t turn on and off like a damn light switch, am I right? You see people rather than gender?”
He nodded.
“So, I’ll let you in on a secret. It can be damn scary for us gays dating bisexual guys. A lot still see the fence thing and stupidly feel like they can’t compete with women, even though it’s not a competition. But it can make us pretty insecure dickheads, let’s be honest. So, whatever you do, don’t play with Trent’s feelings. Step up and talk.”
He nodded.
“Is it about the sex?” I ventured tentatively. Please say no.
He flushed adorably. “Oh God no. Don’t, just don’t. It’s not about the sex, okay… ugh.”
Thank God. “Okay, well… good. But you know, you can ask me anything….”
He put up a hand, blushing furiously. “I know, and, ah… thanks. I think.”
In what could have been a choreographed move, we simultaneously picked up our coffee cups and took a few long draughts while busily avoiding each other’s eyes.
“So, now that I’m thoroughly scolded and mortified,” he finally said with an amused glint in his eye, “it’s your turn, hotshot. Last I knew you were off meeting our sexy young—let me repeat, young—fullback for coffee a couple of times a week, not that you exactly admitted it, but it was kinda easy to read between the lines, and then suddenly… zip, nada, not a bean. No secretive texting with that ridiculous false name shit….”
My mouth opened in surprise and he snorted.
“What, you think I’m stupid? And no disappearing out without saying where…. Added to that, you’ve been stomping around like a mean-arsed son of a bitch, snapping that sassy tongue at anything in your way, including me. As of now, I’m done with it. We all are. So give it up.”
It was true but it wasn’t my place to out Reuben. “Nothing to tell.”
He huffed, irritated. “You know that new Christian Dior silver guyliner you’ve been wearing, the really cool one, makes your eyes pop, cost you your firstborn child?”
My gaze narrowed. “Yeeesss….”
He brushed some nonexistent fluff off his trousers. “Nothing. Just that it’d be a shame to accidentally… lose it.” He eyeballed me defiantly.
Bastard. “You know, if you weren’t my cousin, I’d hate you right now.”
He batted those impossibly long Wano lashes at me, lashes that everyone in my family seemed to have struck genetic gold with except yours truly.
“Still waiting,” he prompted.
I threw up my hands. “Jesus, Jake. Give it up, will you? It’s nothing, all right? We were just friends and then… we did something stupid and now… we’re not. Friends, that is.”
“Something stupid? As in…?”
I really needed to rethink my friendship list and remove cousins. “Ugh. We might have kissed… and shit.”
“Kissed? But I thought you said he wasn’t….”
I sent him a warning glare.
He raised his palms. “Okay, I get it. But…. Jesus, Cam. The guy’s heading for the All Blacks. Holy fuck, you sure know how to pick ’em.” He frowned. “And define shit for me.”
The eye roll I gave him should’ve knocked him sideways as it passed. “Shit, as in middle-sized shit. You know—hands, mouths, mutual blowjobs….” I grinned hopefully.
His head shook in disbelief. “Holy hell. Well, I hope it was worth it. Tell me it was at least worth it.”
The shrug I gave was likely less than convincing. “It was… fine.”
He arched his brows but said nothing, and I was catapulted fifteen years earlier to my mother’s kitchen, and a weak attempt to explain having been caught by Richard Anderson’s mother with her (theoretically straight) son’s hands buried in my shorts. I’d never been able to lie to my mother, and to be fair I’d been somewhat taken aback myself, never pinging the school’s star rugby prop for gay. But it sure explained the invitation to show me his Star Trek collection. And I wasn’t exactly gonna head him off at the pass when he flattened me against the bedroom wall because… hello, rugby prop. Fit muscle, bulky in all the right places, pressing up against my fifteen-year-old hormone-ridden gay flesh with an eager hand down the front of my running shorts… fuck, it was awesome. Till his mother walked in.
My mum couldn’t have cared less and my dad actually high-fived me, but Trevor’s mum banned me from any contact with her absolutely-not-gay son, and Trevor wasn’t exactly warm to me after that either. I never outed him, of course, but… well, yeah, story of my life. Facing Jake was uncannily like looking into my mother’s eyes that day, and in less than a few seconds, I felt the inexplicable urge to tell him everything. How the hell did they do that shit?
I sighed. “Oh for fuck’s sake. It was more than good, okay? It was stratospheric, hot as hell, best I’ve ever had, and we didn’t even get to the main course. Satisfied?” I swirled the remaining coffee in my cup and lifted it to my lips. It was cold. Fuck.
Jake’s lips pursed. “Not even close. If it was so good, then why the pounce-and-bounce routine?”
I choked and spluttered coffee down the front of my shirt. “The what? Are we twelve now?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
“Fuck off.” I scowled. “You know exactly why I didn’t stick around.”
“I knew it.” He grinned like the cat with the cream. “You really like him, like really.”
I huffed. “Of course I like him. We’re friends, or whatever—he’s not some hookup from a bar. But it’s not much more than that either.” I suspected the heat creeping up my neck put paid to that lie.
Jake shook his head. “You keep on telling yourself that, but I know you, Cam. If it was just good sex, you’d be in for seconds, thirds, however many it took, and there’d be no worry about him not being out, and no drama when it was time to walk away. I’m not saying you use guys, because you don’t.” He headed off my protest. “You’re always upfront. But you’re also not shy about getting your dick what it needs, no strings attached. You like this guy, and that’s why you can’t risk more, ’cause this time you could get hurt… again.”
Fuck. Hammer meet nail. “Pfff. You’re so full of shit, Sigmund.” I fixed him with what I hoped was a suitably mocking expression at the sheer ridiculousness of his suggestion, but that I suspect came out looking more like a constipated wince. It earned me a pair of hairline-grazing brows, yet again. Sigh. “Okay, you’re right.” I caved. “I do like him—a lot, as it happens. But he’s in the closet, Jake, deep in, like the Mariana Trench. And I… well, I can’t—I won’t—do that shit again. Ever. You of all people understand that.”
Jake nodded. “Dominic.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Dominic. But even without that arsehole’s stain on my life, I’m too old for all that sneaking around crap. It’s taken me a lot of years to believe I’m as okay about myself as my snarky front says I am, and I won’t have any guy try to hide me away. Also, I don’t want any of this getting back to Mathew—got it?”
“He won’t hear a thing from me.” Jake added my empty cup to his, walking both to the
kitchen. “I get it, I do,” he said, returning to stand at the end of the couch, arms folded. “But I’ve also never seen you so hooked on a guy, and you sure don’t seem to be having much luck just walking away. So what are you gonna do?”
The six-million-dollar question. “Nothing,” I answered flatly. “I’m gonna do my shift at the drop-in centre today, gonna go to work this week and scare them all by being nice for a change, gonna watch my brother play rugby, and I’m gonna let time do its thing. Reuben Taylor is a hot guy, with a cute nephew, who caught my attention for a bit. Enough time apart, and he’ll eventually fade. They all do.”
Jake stared at me long enough for me to know exactly what he was thinking, but thankfully he didn’t call me on the bullshit I’d just spewed, and let me off with just a pointed sigh.
I ignored his lack of faith. I had no choice. And by Monday night I was even beginning to believe I could do it—I could forget about Reuben Taylor. My time at the drop-in centre worked its usual magic, affording me some much-needed perspective. Mourning the loss of a cute guy faded dramatically alongside listening to kids who had to deal with being called a fucking useless faggot by both parents multiple times a day.
However, by Wednesday night it was clear I’d been an idiot to believe it was gonna be that easy. I’d never sent that text on the Sunday, so when the news hit the paper about Reuben Wednesday morning, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Wiremu Ngata was officially out of contention for a minimum of three months with a shoulder rotator cuff injury, likely requiring surgery. That meant Reuben had got the coveted call-up to the ABs, and I spent the remainder of the day working up the courage to call and congratulate him.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. Hell, I was over the moon for him, so it shouldn’t have been that difficult, right? We’d been friends, but were we now? Who the hell knew? And that right there was the problem.
We were giving each other space, but from what? And with what end point in mind? I’d been the one to draw the line in the sand and walk away, but I’d been too chickenshit to follow up. So the ball was still in my court. And why did this feel as awkward as contacting an ex? Reuben and I hadn’t even been a couple.
Ugh. I was being ridiculous. I needed to just call the guy. His phone rang enough times for relief to begin to roll through me. I could just leave a message and be done with it, right?
He picked up. Dammit.
“Cam?” Surprised. Wary.
Yeah, me too. “Hey, Reuben.” I tried to keep it light. “I, ah… I just wanted to congratulate you on your selection. I know how much it means to you, and you deserve it, you really do… I guess I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.” I waited. Silence, except for his breathing. Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t have rung. “Well, I just wanted to let you know so—”
“Don’t go,” Reuben said softly. “Please.”
My throat grew tight. “Um, okay.” More silence. “Reuben?”
He cleared his throat, and I tried to picture his expression, imagine what he was thinking. Was he pleased I’d called? Awkward? Angry? No, not angry. He sounded more… relieved.
“Sorry,” he answered. “I’ve, um… well, I’ve been fielding calls all day—people congratulating me, you know. So many people and it’s been nice, but then you called and I….” He trailed off.
Shit. “Look, Reuben. I didn’t mean to put a downer on your day. I’ll just—”
“No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. The opposite, really. It’s… well, it’s like all those other calls were great—even my dad pulled his head out of his arse to sound almost happy for once. But it wasn’t until your voice that I realised something was missing, that I’d been waiting….”
Oh God, don’t say it. My heart thumped against the wall of my chest.
“Shit, Cam. I’m sorry. I know we’re meant to be done that way, but… fuck, I’ve missed you. And hearing your voice, hearing you say you’re proud of me… well, shit… it fucking means everything, you know?”
My stomach dropped, and I couldn’t summon any reply. He’d blindsided me… again. I did know—I knew exactly what he meant—but everything I was desperate to say, I couldn’t. How his success had my heart soaring. How I wanted to haul him into my arms and kiss the bejesus out of him for being so goddamned talented. How I wanted to drag him into bed that night and edge him till he begged me to let him come.
Saying anything less seemed pointless, the words jamming up in my throat like the crap they were.
“I, um… I don’t know what to say, Reuben.”
He sighed into the phone. “It’s okay. I wasn’t asking for anything. Just… thanks. For calling, you know? It means a lot.”
I was not going to fucking cry, goddammit. “Yeah… well… yeah. I guess I’ll see you on the television Saturday. Good luck, Reuben.”
“Thanks, but I’m only second string. I’ll likely not get off the bench for more than a quick run, so don’t expect too much.”
My throat tightened further at the man’s typical humility. “I expect to be dazzled by you, Rube, as always. Five minutes or eighty makes no matter.” Hearing his breath catch at the sound of my nickname for him did funny things to my heart. Stupid, Cam, stupid. “So, anyway… I’ll see you around.”
I actually wanted nothing more than to haul him through the phone and wrap my arms around him but, well… yeah… that.
He said nothing for a bit, then answered in almost a whisper. “Sure, Cam. Take care.”
Goddammit. I hung up and threw my pen at the office wall, inviting raised eyebrows and concerned looks from two of my nurses in the hall. It was getting to be a habit.
Chapter Fourteen
Reuben
THANK GOD the table had a solid front to hide the nervous jiggling of my leg, which I seemed powerless to still. The small room heaved with people, cameras, and microphones, the journalists all juggling for position, seeking that perfect shot or sound bite, whilst simultaneously managing to engage in twenty different conversations at once. It was a goddamn zoo, with… guess who as the star attraction—or freak show, depending on how you looked at it.
Matt Brown, the AB media guy, pounded the table somewhere to my left, calling the room to attention. The gaggle of voices died down as all eyes turned to the front. I slid down in my seat and blew out a nervous sigh, hoping the more senior players would garner most of the attention.
Andrew Simons, the current AB captain, Tipene Akurangi, our stormtrooper flanker, and myself, the newbie, had been chosen to front the press conference immediately following the game, along with two of the All Black coaches. My first All Black cap, and I’d been thrown in front of the cameras. Just freaking dandy. I might have dreamed about this day since I’d caught my first oval ball, but nothing had prepared me for the hype and the media attention that went along with it.
We’d won the test match 25–18, and I’d been given a good fifteen-minute run at the end of the second half. I managed to be in the right place at the right time to catch a back pass from our winger, Loni Faiatu, and scrambled in for a try. Nothing elegant and little more than luck, really. I almost fumbled the ball and screwed the whole thing up before finally locking it down against my chest. But yeah, I got over the line with my first All Black try, to thunderous applause from the Kiwi contingent in the crowd, and plenty of back slaps from my teammates.
An All Black cap and a damn try. Fuck a flying duck. It hadn’t sunk in, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it to. And goddamn if performing the haka for my country for the first time hadn’t brought a tear to my eye as well.
I was now officially part of history. Over a hundred years since that first haka in 1888, and I was part of international sporting legend. As a powerful psychological tool, it mattered little what the opposing team did in response. The haka is really performed for us, the team, and the emotion that came from being a part of that today damn near blew me away.
Taking a seat on the bench afterwards, I didn’t think anything could top that feeling. I’d
been happy enough to be an also-ran in the back of the reserves, never dreaming I’d actually get to score as well. And to a rugby-loving nation, it didn’t matter how scrappy the try was—I was one of the heroes of the day.
I was so fucking stoked, but to be thrown in front of the press as well, not so much. Team management liked to parade its popular rank and file, however, including newcomers, and it didn’t hurt if they were pretty as well, my teammates had ribbed me. At least none seemed pissed off that I’d been pushed front and centre in only my first game. Most seemed relieved to avoid it.
But the public were fickle, and I wasn’t fooled by the attention. If I’d bombed, it would have been a different story—death by reporter, my skills ruthlessly eviscerated in tomorrow’s headlines, and quite possibly I’d never be seen in the black jersey again. I’d lucked out today, but my time of testing would come—next game, next year, nothing surer. I’d fuck up, on or off the field, and the NZ media would let me know about it in no uncertain terms.
But not today. Today I was golden, and damn if my heart wasn’t threatening to jump out of my chest with the thrill of it. I doubted I had enough functioning neurones to make a menu decision, let alone answer reporter’s questions, so I really, really hoped no one asked me anything. My gaze swept the room, my pulse hammering in my ears, and if it weren’t for Tipene Akurangi pinning me in place with his chair jammed alongside mine, I might have made a run for it. I glanced up as the sea of heads dipped my way and realised I’d missed something important. Fuck.
“Reuben? I said you might wanna take that one?” The ABs’ backline coach smirked. He knew I’d been away with it. Bastard.
I cleared my throat as every reporter in the room laser focussed on me. Shit, shit, shit.
Tipene chuckled, murmuring under his breath. “Welcome to the big leagues, kid.”
Andrew stepped in to save my bacon. “I think our young fullback is still flying high, folks. Can’t blame him for that—it was an awesome debut.” He turned my way with a sly wink. “So, Reuben, welcome back to earth.”