Trick Play

by Eden Finley

Jet laughs. “Nope. His full name is Matt.”

  “Jethro was given the privilege of a full name and he refuses to use it. Pisses me off.”

  “Aww, you want me to call you Matthew?” I ask. “Because I’ll do it.”

  “And that doesn’t explain JJ,” Jet says.

  “Oh, that’s because I’m a dick,” Matt says and turns to me. “When he was six, he told everyone he wants to go by JJ. It caught on at school, but then …” He pauses and then his face drops. “I didn’t think. I remember you loving the name and then hating it, but it just occurred to me what made you stop liking it.”

  “What was it?” I ask.

  “Dad said it sounded like a drag name,” Jet says quietly. “Ain’t no son of his gonna be a f—”

  “I get the picture,” I say. “And, Matthew, you are a dick.”

  “I’ll stop,” Matt says.

  “Hallelujah,” Jet says. “Although, that totally gives me an idea to do drag for Halloween and send our parents an update. And, you know what? Fuck it. I’m taking the name back and owning it. Dad can’t do anything about it from where he is.”

  “Sounds like an idea,” Matt says. “Give the parentals a heart attack, and then you can look after the kids while I play for Chicago.”

  Jet and I share a glance.

  “You’re going to do it?” I ask Matt.

  “Damon called today. The GM wants to fly me out there. They’re serious about wanting me, and I figure I should at least go meet with him.”

  “When do you leave?” I ask.

  “Next week. It’ll just be a day thing. Fly out in the morning and come back that night.”

  I force a smile and fake my way through a lie. “That’s great news. Good luck.”

  Suddenly, my appetite is gone, even though Jet’s food tastes amazing. The eggs are perfectly cooked, the bacon nice and crispy, but I have to force myself to eat it. It sits in my stomach like lead.

  This is what was going to happen all along, so I don’t know why it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Am I angry because I want him to stay or am I angry at myself for allowing me to get to this point?

  I don’t want him to leave.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Matt

  The last person I expect to pick me up from the airport is Marcus Talon himself—the new star quarterback for the Warriors.

  He’s a bit shorter than I am, with pretty-boy blond hair and a killer smile that’s aimed at me in the arrivals section.

  “Hey, man.” He does the whole man-hug thing with our hands clasped between us and a shoulder bump.

  “Uh, hi … Marcus.” It’s not as if I’m expecting him to not know who I am, but I’ve met this guy maybe once. Our old teams had faced each other numerous times, but with both of us being on the offensive line, we’ve never gone head to head.

  “Call me Talon. Everyone else does. Did you have a good flight?” he asks.

  “Fine. Quick, which is good.”

  “My car’s out front.”

  And yes, it is. With people crowding around it. Some being paparazzi.

  I freeze in my steps. “How did they know I was here?”

  Talon laughs. “Someone has a big head. Sorry to burst your bubble, but they’re here for me. You’re not in your town anymore. I own this place.”

  “Speaking of big heads, already taking over and the season hasn’t started, huh?”

  Talon claps my back, and sure enough, as we head into the fold, Talon’s name is called out to the point the two syllables don’t even make sense to me anymore. But it doesn’t take them long to realize who I am and what that means. Questions of contracts are thrown at me, but I ignore them and push forward to Talon’s bright red Ferrari.

  Seeing as I’m only here for the day, I don’t have a bag, and it’s an easy escape into his car and out of the drop-off lane.

  It’s the first time I’ve been around anyone who belongs to my old world, so it’s awkward to say the least. And then I go and make it worse by saying something stupid.

  “You know, at least one of those guys back there will print that we’re together now. So, uh, sorry in advance.”

  Talon doesn’t seem fazed; he even smiles.

  “Why’d the team send you? This a publicity stunt?”

  “I asked to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you as much as Coach and the GM do.” He gives me the side-eye, and my gaydar pings, but I reckon I’m reading into it.

  “Okay. Again, why?” I ask. “You know shit’s gonna go down that first day in any locker room I walk into. Why would you want to invite that into your team?”

  “Because you’re a good player, I want you on my line, and … what they’re doing to you in the media is wrong.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Wow, are you a cynical bastard, or what? I don’t have to be gay to know homophobia is still a problem. And we both know how this industry works. Lie to magazines all you want about why you were dumped by the Bulldogs, but we both know the truth. When you have the stats you do, no one should care what you do at home.”

  “I may be cynical, but you’re way too optimistic if you think no one will care.”

  “So make them not care,” Talon says. “This is about football. You’re probably the most versatile tight end in the league.”

  Okay, so I was questioning his sexuality right up until he said versatile tight end with a straight face. No gay man could do that.

  God, I wish I had his type of faith. Ideally, my talent would get me a pass, but that’s not going to happen in the real world.

  “I know the contract the Warriors offered you can’t be much, but we’re determined to make you sign with us. If we can take it to the Super Bowl this year, next year’s contract will triple what they offered.”

  “It’d need to be more than triple,” I mutter.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Your fault. Apparently.”

  Talon smiles. “Someone has to fund the lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to.” He pats the dash of his car.

  “And just when I thought we could be friends.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Lambo man. I’ve seen your car in the tabloids. My baby could beat your baby in a fight.”

  I laugh. “We gonna race for pink slips and have a rumble?”

  “Only if you don’t sign the dotted line.”

  If the rest of the guys on the team are like Talon, signing the shitty contract might not be so bad.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I take it out to look at the screen, I don’t know whether to be pissed off or laugh. “Motherfucker.”

  “The photos from the airport hit the tabloids already?”

  “Nah, Noah … uh, my boyfriend, took my little brother for a campus tour of my alma mater. At least, he was supposed to. The bastard took him to his instead. He sent through a pic of them at the Newport entrance with goofy-ass grins on their faces.” And even though it’s Newport, I’m jealous as all get out that I’m not there with them.

  “Ah, the old Olmstead versus Newport debate.” Talon laughs.

  “Olmstead wins on location alone. It’s not in Jersey.”

  “Hey, I’m a Jersey boy born and raised.”

  “Shit. Sorry.”

  Talon laughs harder. “I’m messing with you, man. I’m originally from Denver.”

  Talon’s easygoing nature makes me forget about locker room politics. I’m already comfortable around him, which is more than I can say for any of my teammates from the Bulldogs.

  Talon pulls into the stadium and parks in the faculty parking lot.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  “Training facility’s here, and the GM is meeting us later, but I want to show you something first.”

  He leads me through the back tunnels and corridors, taking me out to the field, and when he opens his arms wide—as if saying ta-da!—I look at him as if he’s lost his mind.

  “I’ve seen the field.
I’ve played here.”

  “But have you ever looked at it like home?”

  I shake my head.

  “Picture it, Jackson. I can’t wait to make this place mine.”

  The smell of turf, the grass beneath my feet, the imaginary crowd going wild … yeah, I could call any stadium home. It’s not the money holding me back, but the thought the Warriors management thinks I’m a risk. The others might not like playing with a gay guy. This is something I’ll have to face no matter which team I join, and if it’s a choice between less money but a great team or the millions I deserve and a hostile work environment, I’d pick less money every time.

  “Do you know many guys on the team?” I ask.

  “There’s Miller who I went to college with. Henderson did his captainly duties and invited me over for dinner with his wife and kids when I moved a few weeks back. Seems decent. There’s a few others I’ve hung out with after games.”

  “Oh, God, you’re one of those players who hangs out with the opposition after games?”

  “What, you stick to your team?”

  “No, I don’t go out at all.”

  “Ah. Well, that’ll change when you’re a Warrior.” He grins.

  “Do you think … I mean … are the others …”

  “Do I think the team is full of homophobic wankstains?”

  “Nice word.” I laugh. “But yeah.”

  “I’m not gonna lie. The chances of no one on the team having an issue is small, but I guarantee you’ll have backup from me and Miller.”

  “Good to know.”

  A voice calls from the tunnel. “What are ya doin’ standing around gossiping?”

  We turn to Jimmy Caldwell, the head coach for the Warriors, as he makes his way toward us with a football. He’s as intimidating as he is impressively large. A two-time Super Bowl champion himself, he’s someone who knows what he’s talking about. He’d be a great coach to work with.

  “Show us that arm is worth every penny.” He throws the ball at Talon. “Wouldn’t mind seeing Jackson in action either.”

  “Testing out the merchandise before buying, huh?” Talon asks.

  “If we had it our way, we’d have already bought this one off the shelves.” Jim gestures to me.

  “I’m not a piece of stock,” I say, my tone light.

  “Yeah. You are,” Talon says. “So am I. Should we show them how lowballing you could be a big mistake?” He takes off his sneakers and socks.

  Barefoot football? As fast as I can, I strip off my suit jacket, roll my shirtsleeves up, and take off my shoes and socks.

  The turf is soft beneath my feet, and while there’s pressure to do well—as well as I can do wearing a suit instead of pads—I lose myself in the feeling of home. Running toward the end zone, all the bullshit fades away. Being outed, contract negotiations, a fake relationship that doesn’t feel so fake anymore—it all disappears into a black hole of I don’t give a shit right now. I’m where I’m supposed to be.

  Talon gives a yell that he’s about to hike the ball, and I turn, but he’s underestimated my stride length, and I have to backtrack. The ball sails into my arms for a perfect pass, and Talon gives a loud whoop.

  When I jog back to them, the coach has a wide smile. “You’re fast for your size. We need that in a tight end. Our guys are all blockers.”

  “I can do both.” I’m not boasting. It’s the truth.

  “You don’t need to sell us on you, kid. We’re supposed to be getting you to sign. You ready to meet the big man?”

  I nod even though I don’t need to meet him. They’ve already sold me.

  “Hey, how did it go?” Noah’s voice elicits both dread and happiness.

  I can’t tell him my decision yet. I want to live in our bubble for a little longer where we don’t know our exact expiration date. Before it was just something we knew was going to happen eventually. Not anymore. I’m moving to Chicago, which is eight hundred miles of distance between us.

  “I think it went okay. I’m just waiting to board the plane and thought I’d check in.”

  There’s a pause, and I can feel the question he wants to ask but won’t let himself. I don’t want to answer it, either.

  This was part of the deal. I’d get a contract and leave. Yet, I can’t bring myself to say it aloud—as if that’ll make it real.

  “How’d JJ go at Newport?”

  “He, uh, umm …” His next words rush out of him like verbal diarrhea. “He liked Olmstead better.”

  I grin. “It was hard for you to admit that, wasn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  “So, you took him to OU after all?”

  “Yeah, but good luck convincing him to apply to either. He doesn’t want to go to college.”

  I sigh. “Then what’s he going to do with his life?”

  “Isn’t that his decision?”

  To me, he’ll always be the fourteen-year-old punk I left behind five years ago. “I guess.”

  “He has his head screwed on pretty tight.”

  Pride swells in my chest. “The flight’s being called. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “I’ll try to stay awake, but I’m exhausted.”

  “I won’t wake you if you crash.”

  “I want to hear how today went.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. Night.”

  “Night, babe.”

  Halfway down the gangway, my phone vibrates with another call. It’s a New York area code but a number I don’t recognize. I’ve learned enough over the last few months not to answer. It’s most likely a reporter.

  I switch my phone to airplane mode and forget about it, but when we land at JFK, there’s a voicemail waiting for me.

  “Mr. Jackson.” The authoritative voice on the recording is both terrifying and confusing. “This is Noah Huntington.” Yeah, so not the Noah Huntington I know, but then I remember Noah is a number. He has numbers in his name when there should only be letters. “There’s something Rick Douglas would like to talk to you about. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who that is. If you can call my assistant and organize a time to come into my offices here, I can make a meeting happen. Rick is an old friend of mine.” He rattles off a number to call and then the message cuts out.

  Noah’s dad wants me to meet with the owner of the New York Cougars? Something tells me he’s not doing it outta the goodness of his heart. With one phone call, the strings have already been attached. It’s just a matter of how long they are.

  But it’s New York. Some strings might be worth it.

  I listen to the message another time and take down the number. Then I make the call.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Noah

  Hanging out with Jet makes me realize something. All those times my friends have called me an entitled asshole and I’ve shrugged them off because I know deep down I’m nothing like my father, I never once realized they were telling the truth and I was too entitled to see it.

  This nineteen-year-old kid knows more about the real world than I do.

  I’m not an idiot. I know there are homeless people everywhere—I’ve read the stats on them and seen them begging on the streets. But as Jet rambles like an ADD kid without his meds that if he hadn’t found Matt he would’ve been well and truly screwed, it’s crazy to me how close he became to being a statistic.

  “Why couldn’t you have stayed in your hometown?” I ask.

  “The guy I was hooking up with is in the closet, so moving in with him would’ve been suspicious. Plus, I don’t think we even liked each other very much. Don’t got a lot of prospects in Shitsville, Tennessee. Char lives in a tiny trailer with her boyfriend and is about to pop a kidlet. Not to mention Mom and Dad would disown her too if she helped me out. I had a few friends, but none I was close enough to be all ‘Hey, I got kicked out for liking dick. Can I crash on your couch indefinitely?’”

  I can’t help laughing. “You certainly have a colorful way of coming out to people. What would’ve happened
if you couldn’t find Matt?”

  “There’s this forum online, and I got in contact with a few guys in the city. Thought I could crash with them until I figured out what to do. I spent what money I had on trying to get here.”

  “You were going to stay with guys you met online? Did your parents never teach you about stranger danger?” What am I saying? From what they’ve both told me, Matt’s parents did nothing to teach anything. Except how to hold a football so Matt’s gay stops showing.

  “It’s not like that.” Jet takes out his phone, opens the forum, clicks on a thread titled Rainbow Beds, and holds it up to my face. “People who have a spare bed or couch post availability in here, and anyone who needs a place to stay after getting kicked out can find somewhere to crash. Kinda like Airbnb but gayer.”

  Either I’m a pessimistic bastard or Jet’s more naïve than I thought. “Still sounds like a great way to get locked in a basement and have someone wear your skin as a body suit.”

  “Nice image. The hosts probably aren’t heavily vetted, but there’s a lot of people who have no other option.”

  “Can I look?”

  Jet hands me his phone, and as I scroll through the threads, I feel like the biggest dick in the world. I live in a four-bedroom townhouse alone … well, I will when Matt and Jet leave. If they leave. I sigh. I really don’t want them to leave.

  But here are people who live in studio apartments offering up a couch, a pull-out futon, or even a floor for people in need.

  It’s dangerous, sure, but the idea behind it is inspiring. With the right backing, the proper channels …

  “Why can I see an imaginary lightbulb above your head?” Jet asks.

  “This is brilliant. It should be something bigger than a thread on a tiny forum. With some money behind the idea—”

  “Key word being money. You’re forgetting that shit doesn’t grow on trees.”

  “You and Matt are so cute. I swear to God.” They’re really oblivious to how much money I have.

  “Cute?” Jet asks. “You better not be hitting on me. Not only are you with my brother, you’re, like, super old.”