The Penalty for Holding

by Georgette Gouveia

  "Temporary situations, though, have a way of turning into forever. But what about you? Will you follow your own advice?"

  "Football is a lot more dangerous than the magazine world."

  "Wanna bet? OK, then. Will you be my first cover? Freddy’s decided to rip up the April cover and start fresh—deadlines be damned. So how ’bout it?"

  Quinn laughed as he nodded yes. “You're not even editor and already you're acting like one, driving a hard bargain.” He raised a glass. "To editors past and present."

  She clinked his glass with hers. "To editors and their nephews."

  Twenty-six

  "Mal huh?"

  Quinn was bringing Tam up to speed, the story having not reached the evening news plateau necessary for Tam, who did not generally indulge in gossip. "Not surprised. I mean, we could people Wikipedia with the wrecks Mal has left in his wake."

  "To be fair," Quinn countered, "it often takes two to twerk. Had Vienne not been interested or had she treated her household staff better, she might not have fallen from grace. But then, who am I to talk?"

  Silence of a Grand Canyon-size chasm.

  "Tell me," Tam said softly, "what sexual experience did you have before you took up with Mal?"

  "None," Quinn said. "But I wanted him."

  Tam took Quinn's face in his hands. "You were a virgin and innocent, just as he took advantage of my drunkenness that night under the pier."

  There was no point in arguing how defenseless—or not—he himself had been, Quinn thought. He understood that Tam was constructing a narrative and was eager to help him do it, just as he offered up his face hungrily to be kissed and guided Tam's hands to his swelling pecs, not to mention his burgeoning cock.

  "Not yet," Tam murmured as frustrated as Quinn.

  "Why ever not?" Quinn said. "Look, if you're here out of guilt rather than love, then please, go. I don't need the baggage."

  "It's because I love you that I want to wait till you're stronger, healed. I don't want to take advantage."

  Quinn could see in Tam's face that he loved him, that what he said was true. Why Tam should feel that way was another matter. Quinn had to content himself with their forays into the public as a couple, although the public wasn't aware of their coupling. As far as the public was concerned, they were just two of the sports celebs who'd been invited to World Tennis Day at Madison Square Garden. Why the reigning NFL MVP and the rival reigning Super Bowl MVP should happen to be taking in the match together from the JPMorgan Chase box seemed to intrigue the spectators not at all. They were content to worship two sports luminaries—captured on the Jumbotron—paying homage to other sports luminaries. The ovation for Quinn was particularly loud and long, about as long as it was for Tam.

  "See, they love you and want you back," Tam said, smiling and clapping. Quinn, who was embarrassed and somewhat startled by the outpouring, wasn't so sure. He was more interested in the match between Australia's Evan Conor Fallon, the number one-ranked player in the world, and the number two-ranked, America's Ryan Kovacs.

  In a way, Quinn thought, tennis was as brutal a game as football. It just went about its brutality in a more elegant manner. Evan and Ryan were like prizefighters playing chess. The power with which they hit the ball during long rallies; the intense concentration, as if they were the only two people in the house, was, well, thrilling, Quinn thought. He, like the rest of the Garden, held his breath.

  Evan and Ryan had grown up a lot, Quinn thought. Gone were the eye-rolling, sighing, crying, looking-up-to-Heaven (or, at least, to-the-coach's-box) days for both—although they were still capable of racket abuse, albeit with a smile, particularly in this, an exhibition match. At one point, Evan even went over to Ryan's side of the net as if to coach him and Ryan moved over as if to play doubles. Only there was no one on the other side of the net. They both shrugged, and Evan walked back to his side of the net, hitting a moon ball of a lob to the rafters that Ryan returned with a sharp slice. Evan went to return it only to whiff at it as it veered off course for a winner. The crowd went wild.

  "The Magnus effect," Tam shouted to Quinn amid the applause. "Like in football. You think the ball's spiraling one way but it heads in another direction."

  Quinn nodded. How many moments in life were Magnus effects? For him, the most moving one of the evening came right before the match when the International Tennis Hall of Fame introduced the inductees who'd be honored later that summer in Newport, Rhode Island. Among them—and the only one present, the rest appearing via video—was Alí Iskandar. Tam and Quinn watched, as touched as the audience, as Alí took the hand of the tiny towel boy and carefully made his way out onto the court for the remarks, looking natty but almost painfully thin in black skinny jeans, turtleneck and moto jacket. Even his cane—more of a walking stick—was black, threaded with silver and topped with what Quinn thought on the big screen looked like a silvery skull. He leaned on it lightly as he took the cordless mike in his left hand—a man bridging the land of the living and the land of the dead. We die with the dying. See, they depart, and we go with them...

  "Thank you, thank you for your kind words and welcome," he said to the crowd, speaking English with an inflection that had long since ceased to betray an Iraqi accent. "It is a great honor to be chosen for the Hall. I've had the great pleasure of watching Étienne Alençon and Alexandros Vyranos being inducted, and I know what joy it has brought them. In fact, Alex said to me, 'You're next,' and he was the first person to call to congratulate me, making the honor doubly special."

  Here Alí paused as if gathering his emotions or maybe just his strength. "I'd like to thank my family for their love and support always. They're flung to the far corners of the earth for their work these days, but they are never far from my thoughts nor am I from theirs. I'd like to thank the late Private Michael Smeaton, who made my journey to America and my career possible. He is gone from this world, and yet remains through his widow, Kathy, who has done so much for me and for veterans and their families. She is here tonight with their daughter, Michaela."

  With that, Alí gathered the mike to his chest and applauded as he gestured to an attractive blonde and a younger, willowy one whom Quinn thought looked like a model. Seated with them was another blonde who was a real one, Kahrin Klaus—she of the sculpted cheekbones and even more sculpted figure—rumored to be Alí's longtime girlfriend, though Quinn thought that more of a relationship similar to the one he had with Brenna. He searched the crowd, scanning at last the other private boxes. Where was Daniel Reiner-Kahn?

  "There are others I wish to thank privately," Alí said, at which the crowd giggled as the kiss cam found Kahrin pointing to it and chuckling. "Why is everyone laughing?" he asked, blushing and laughing himself. "There is, however, someone else I would like to acknowledge publicly and that is the late Dylan Roqué. It is my pleasure to announce tonight the winners of the Dylan Roqué Scholarships for academic and athletic excellence, which are awarded through the Ani Foundation of Ari Kahn LLP."

  With that, ten high school seniors scampered out onto the court to pose with Alí.

  "Last but never least, my thanks to God and to you for listening and for your love. You have been one of the great joys of my life. And now I've played with and against Evan Conor Fallon and Ryan Kovacs. I know we're in for a great match."

  With that, the crowd rose as one for an ovation that only grew. Alí tried to quiet the crowd and even went to take his seat courtside, only to have Kathy, Michaela and Kahrin gently push him back out onto the court. Alí had had such an up-and-down relationship with his adopted country, Quinn thought. Now leukemia—and time—had made him beloved. As Quinn and Tam stood with the others clapping, Quinn finally caught sight of Daniel in a corner of a private box, wearing a pinstripe suit and wiping his eyes.

  Finally, the throng was sated but the Tennis Hall of Fame official was not. "We can't let you go without asking you, do you miss playing as much as we miss you on the court?"

  "Oh, why don't they l
eave him alone," Tam muttered to Quinn.

  Alí brought the mike close and said, "Ah, in a word, 'No,'" which made the crowd roar. But they both knew what he really meant. Not only did he no longer want to play; he couldn't.

  "Still," the official persisted, "would you oblige us with a hit?"

  "This guy's getting on my nerves," Tam whispered.

  Quinn could see Alí's reluctance but the crowd was into it, so he said, "OK," motioning to the towel boy who had come out with him. The child took his place on the other side of the net—a slip of a thing whose racket covered about a third of him—and Alí lobbed a ball that his "opponent" returned sharply. Alí, who never moved, shrugged, applauded and, turning to the crowd, said, "Let's have a round of applause for a future Hall of Famer."

  Nicely played, Quinn thought later in the quiet of his loft as he and Tam did their yoga stretches. But he couldn't help but think of how cruel life was, particularly to athletes, how it drained them of their talent, just as death could slowly rob someone as lovely in every sense of the word as Alí of the life force. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them...

  "Penny for your thoughts," Tam said. "No, wait, the economy still sucks. I'll give you a whole quarter."

  Quinn laughed. "No, I was just thinking…"

  "Yes."

  "My back needs an extra stretch. I've got an idea. Get down on all fours and stretch like a cat—your arms out in front of you, your face and upper body on the floor, your heels resting on your butt."

  "Hey, I don't like the sound of this."

  "Just trust me, will ya? Now I'm going to sit on your tailbone and—"

  "Wait a minute. You're gonna what?"

  "I'm going to sit on your tailbone and then do a backbend over your back, resting my head next to yours and stretching out my arms to reach yours in reverse. And then we'll change places. It's a fantastic stretch for the back, you'll see."

  "It better be."

  "Comfortable?" Quinn asked as he placed his tailbone on that of his lover. It had been so long since they had touched intimately that this was like sex—hot, wet, dripping sex. Quinn thought he'd explode.

  "OK," he said, trying to keep his mind on his breathing and the pose. "On the count of three, I'm going to do a backbend over your back, rest my head in the curve of your neck, and extend my hands to meet yours. One, two, three."

  And with that, Quinn dove backward as if he were Dylan or Daniel diving into the water for the backstroke in the old Stanford days. Immediately, he felt buoyed by Tam's breathing, spine and back. Indeed, Tam's whole body lifted him on a warm wave as if he were Cabanel's Venus. Quinn nestled his face against Tam's head, taking in his intoxicating, spicy sandalwood scent and wondering at the luxuriant strands that were not quite blond, not quite brown as he nuzzled them.

  For his part, Tam seemed content, too, his breaths lengthening and deepening as they slowly ebbed and flowed, making a hollow, hissing sound. After a while, Quinn wondered if he had fallen asleep. "You OK down there?"

  "Marvelous," Tam said.

  "Is that sarcasm?"

  "No, no, really marvelous," Tam said luxuriously.

  "Time to switch places."

  "Do we have to?"

  Quinn laughed but there was nothing funny about the hard-on he was getting as Tam settled on his tailbone. Tam bent back over him, and Quinn felt enveloped and protected in a cocoon of warm, woodsy flesh. I could die here and be reborn, he thought, a chrysalis becoming a butterfly of love.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" Tam kept asking.

  "Yes, shh," Quinn murmured. He didn't want to break the spell. He just wanted to rest there in an extended child's pose with Tam's head close to his, their fingers entwined. It wasn't sex but it was, he thought, the biblical bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, so much so that he loathed Tam releasing his hands and rising slowly.

  "Wow," he said, exhaling. "I'll have to remember this when my back aches from other exertions," he added, teasing as he kissed Quinn deeply, his tongue alighting on Quinn's.

  "We could be enjoying those exertions now," Quinn said. "I feel nice and stretchy."

  Tam shook his head. "No, my love, not until I am really yours and you are truly, finally mine."

  When would that be? Quinn wondered. Wasn't that Triple Crown winner out of that barn? A plot formed in Quinn's mind to make that occur sooner rather than later. He turned it over as he sat after hours in the anteroom outside Brenna's new office at New York Rumours one early evening in late winter—his left leg resting at a 45-degree angle over his right as he circled his left foot nervously.

  To distract himself, Quinn took the full measure of the office. Gone were the animal and rainforest accouterments that had been set against a harsh gray modern backdrop. It was as if Ferdinand Le Wood had erased every trace of his former wife. In their place were rich moldings, saturated pastel and jeweled colors, Renaissance and Neoclassical paintings, books of all kinds and male Greco-Roman sculptures, busts and heads. Clearly, this was Brenna's influence and it looked as if Freddy Bear were giving her carte blanche—for now.

  Soon an officious young woman with a tablet and a headset came clicking along on four-inch heels.

  "I'm Alessandra Moroni, Ms. James' executive assistant, and you must be her 6:30."

  Normally, Quinn didn't care if people recognized him or not. So it amused him to no end that the ever-efficient Alessandra thought of him as no more than Ms. James' 6:30.

  "Brenna, your 6:30 is here," she said into the headset. Brenna in turn must've set her straight, for Alessandra said, "Yes, of course" and then, smiling at Quinn, said, "she's just finishing up a conference call, Mr. Novak. May I get you some still or sparkling water, or perhaps some tea?"

  "No, thanks, I'm fine," Quinn said, even more amused at the change of tone. He didn't have much time to speculate on what Brenna might've said as he was ushered into her office, which was an extension of the anteroom, and, Quinn imagined, Brenna's home with its comfortable, elaborately carved furnishings.

  "I'll be out at my desk now if you need me," Alessandra said, setting down a silver tray with two glasses, a crystal bucket of ice and bottles of still and sparkling water.

  "No, no," Brenna said, laughing, "you, out, home, go, do something fun.

  "She is so funny," Brenna told Quinn after Alessandra left. "You know what she told me the other day? She said she wants to be just like me—a great writer and editor, never get married and never have children. Can you imagine? You know what I told her? 'Keep an open mind and an open heart. Don't close either to the possibility of love,' which is what I did.'"

  As she talked, Quinn saw her as if for the first time. She stood behind a high-backed chair, one hand resting on it, the other on her hip, emphasizing her curvy figure, as did her structured, royal blue bandage dress. Her hair was drawn back in a loose, curly chignon, her skin highly polished; her fine nose underscored in profile as she gazed out the window of the One World Trade Center office at the dense resurrection that was Lower Manhattan, momentarily lost in thought. The transformation—of city and woman—was extraordinary, complete and yet, it seemed an utterly natural extension of the place and the person he knew. But there was a rueful quality to both now as well.

  "You can do this," Quinn said. "I know you can. You're strong, and you were born for this."

  "Really? I'm not so sure. Anyway, let's talk about you. Are you up for this? Poor choice of words. Are you ready for the photo shoot?"

  "Yeah, I guess. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe Freddy's letting you do this."

  "Are you kidding? He wants to shake up the magazine, and I think he believes this is one way to do it. I also think he assumes that if the issue fails or if there's a huge backlash, he has the ready fall guy in me."

  "You're not going to fall. I won't let that happen."

  She let out a long sigh. "All right then. Elliott's waiting for you in the studio."

  She led him downstairs to another f
loor past several locked doors that required keycards and codes.

  "Freddy's just as control-freaky as Vienne was," she said. Outside the door, she kissed him goodbye, adding, "Have a great shoot."

  "Wait, aren't you going to stay?" Suddenly, Quinn felt uneasy.

  "I trust you. I trust Elliott. Besides, if I stay, I might embarrass myself."

  "Now I'm really nervous."

  "Don't be. Hey, what you said to me: You can do this."

  But Quinn had never done anything like this before. His previous shoots for Elliott would seem tame in comparison. Maybe he was just a male slut punishing himself—for what? For not measuring up to others' and his own expectations? Maybe he was a supreme narcissist for thinking anyone would want to see arty nudes of him. (He remembered the ribbings he'd gotten from his teammates over his previous photo shoots.) Or maybe he was just a guy in love trying to prove something to the guy he loved. All he knew was that he was a long way from Misalliance.

  He sensed that the others thought so, too—or something similar—for there was a reticence on their part, a hesitance from all except Elliott's assistant, Christian, who had been undressing him with his eyes from the moment he walked into the studio.

  "Right," Elliott said, "let's get you ready. No, not you, Christian. I need you on the set."

  Brenna had thought of everything right down to the iced hibiscus Champagne he loved and the playlist, which included the apt Ready to Go, Won't Back Down and, of course, Amazing.

  "You must be sick of it," Tonya, another assistant, said of the Temps’ anthem.

  "No, actually, it never gets old," he said, hoping to keep the focus on the music to stave off his nervousness.

  He soon realized there was no need of it. Elliott's team managed to undress him and apply body makeup without ever exposing one body part or touching him intimately. They left him alone as he donned a navy hoodie, a pair of jeans and blue-and-white spectator sneakers, sans socks. He was feeling relaxed and sort of sexy already.