by Andrew Grey
“This is so good,” Bri moaned as he tasted the strawberry dish.
“It’s a favorite of mine,” Obie said. “Mutasem probably made it especially for us.” He took a taste of his own. “I do love his cooking.” Obie ate slowly as if savoring every taste, his lips closing around the tines of the fork so sensually.
Bri shifted his gaze downward. “I have to ask only because… well, I have to. Do you miss eating meat? I know I certainly would if I had to give it up.”
“Maybe certain things. But if I were to try to eat it now in any quantity, my stomach would rebel. It’s been long enough that it would be hard for me to digest.” Obie leaned over the table. “I choose to live this way because it’s healthier for me. I don’t profess to have all the answers and I don’t get on a soapbox to preach the doctrine of vegetarianism. Everyone gets to make their own choices. But sometimes I crave a BLT sandwich. They make bacon substitutes, but it just isn’t the same.” He added the last part in a whisper.
“Do you have them often?” Bri asked, with a little smile. He loved that Obie could tease and let him in on little secrets about himself.
“No. But when I do, I get good sourdough bread, fresh lettuce and tomato, and make the best BLT I can. I can only eat one sandwich. Any more and it’s too much, so I make it a good one.” He licked his lips, and Bri stifled a groan as Obie’s pink tongue traced the outline of his lips. “The last time I had one was months ago. Though you’re making me hungry for one.” He chuckled lightly.
“I don’t get them much either. I eat lean and healthy myself—chicken, fish, lots of vegetables and whole grains. We have team trainers who help us eat right. Otherwise, there’s no way we’d make it through a game.”
“What do you do before a game? I always find the different things athletes do interesting.” He took another bite, and for a second, Bri forgot what he was going to say. He stuck a forkful of food into his own mouth to cover up his gaffe and give himself a chance to remember without looking like a fool.
“Old-fashioned carb loading. I eat a lot of pasta the day before to get plenty of energy running through my system. It all depends on the timing of the game. I try to avoid heavy proteins until after the game is over. Then I eat quite a bit to recover. The team schedule during the season is demanding, and it takes a lot of energy in order to be able to play at my peak, day after day, week after week. I’m sure it’s the same for a lot of athletes.”
Obie nodded. “Yes. I tend to do the same thing before bicycle races. I have to get my body primed for the energy expenditure. That’s one of my real areas of interest. I ride bikes, but I don’t make my living with my body or my athletic prowess, so I didn’t know if it was different.”
Bri nodded. “In some ways it is, and in others it isn’t. I have access to resources that most people don’t. Like you.” He blew air out of his mouth. “There’s also some pretty ugly stuff. Professional sports are not for the faint of heart.” Bri stopped. He wasn’t going to go into a discussion of the darker side of the business he was in. Not that he didn’t know about the pressure and the lure of better performance through chemistry, but that wasn’t good dinner conversation.
Bri turned toward the door as a man came into the restaurant. He didn’t know what made him turn around other than the hair on his neck standing up. “Well, well,” Donald Mitchell said as he made a beeline to their table. “What do we have here?”
Bri shivered just from the guy’s tone. Donald was a team member, third-string, barely holding on, and yet he managed to stick around by the skin of his teeth. Bri had no idea why the team kept him. He wasn’t a particularly great player and he stirred the drama pot at every opportunity.
“Donald, this is my physical therapist, Obie. He and I were working this afternoon and we decided to grab some food afterward.” Damn it all, he shouldn’t need to explain anything to this asshole, and it pissed him off that he felt he had to.
“Pleased to meet you,” Obie said gently, his eyes narrowing slightly, flashing Bri a questioning glance. He held out his hand, but Donald ignored it. Obie might have muttered something about rudeness and then returned to his dinner.
“What do you need?” Bri asked, not hiding his impatience. Donald thought he was better than everyone else. It didn’t matter what his performance was on the court; in his mind, he was the best and no one was going to change his opinion. To the rest of the world, he came across as a snobbish, smug asshole. “Were you stopping in for dinner?” He knew damn well Donald would never eat in a place like this. The owner didn’t fit Donald’s narrow-minded worldview.
He scrunched his face as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “No. But I was passing by and saw you in here.” Donald leaned close. “You should watch the places you go and the people you’re with. People might get the wrong idea.” His words sounded like something out of a bad TV movie. Bri’s mouth hung open for a second.
“And what idea is that? I like to eat? That I have friends who might want to eat with me? I can see where certain people might find that a foreign concept.” He had to get the dig in there. Donald always rubbed him the wrong way—he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the string.
“This place, run by foreigners and extremists,” Donald stage-whispered.
Bri shook his head and went back to his food. He took another bite and turned to Obie, who looked at Donald as though he’d grown a second head. “Do you really believe something that completely stupid? Because if you do, I pity you,” Obie said, his lips turned downward. “That’s just sad.”
Bri had to stifle a laugh, because Donald had turned bright red, as if the top of his head was about two seconds from blowing off. “You pity me?” He whirled back around to face Bri. “What kind of people are you spending time with?”
Bri had had enough. “Ones who are a hell of a lot smarter than you. Now go, before I have you thrown out.” He smiled. “And I will be having a discussion with management about this little incident. They won’t take kindly to this type of talk.” He shook his head, turning away to go back to his lunch.
Reacting quickly to what Bri didn’t see coming, Obie jumped out of his seat, the chair falling back. By the time Bri turned around, Obie had Donald by the wrist, twisting his arm around, pressing it upward behind his back. “He was going to coldcock you.”
“Should I call the police?” Mutasem asked.
“No. I’ll get him out of here.” Obie maneuvered Donald to the door and pushed him out. Donald was bigger, but Obie proved that smarts and a little know-how could lick brawn every time. Obie and Mutasem stood at the door until Donald left. Bri set down his fork, not hungry any longer.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Bri asked when Obie sat back down, snapping his napkin and placing it back on his lap.
Obie smiled. “I’m a gay kid who was out in high school. I’m also smaller, so guys thought they could pick on me. I learned to fight quick and dirty. I have no qualms about going for any sensitive areas. The quicker I was able to put a guy on the ground, the faster I could get away and go for help. If this guy had given me any trouble, he’d be singing soprano, and not the kind on TV.” Obie returned to his diner as though nothing had happened.
“Thanks. He could have really hurt me.” Bri rubbed the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have turned away from him like that.”
“You had no way of knowing how loose his bolts were. You need to tell your team about this. I’ll talk to them, if I have to. That guy is going to hurt someone—maybe himself, though one less moron in the world isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” Obie ate some more, and Bri sat, watching him. “Don’t let Donald the Dick ruin your dinner,” Obie added. “You need to eat, and this is so good.”
Bri agreed. He wasn’t going to let Donald win, but he also watched Obie. People didn’t surprise him all that often, but Obie sure seemed to have hidden depths. “That guy just frosts my butt.”
Obie snickered. “I could tell. Is he always that obnoxious?”
“Yes. He
thinks he’s the thought and behavior police. Everyone should feel the same way he does about everything, and he never shuts the hell up about it. The rest of the team tends to ignore him, but Donald takes that as agreement, which only encourages him. I argue with him sometimes, but the other guys just shake their heads and I end up standing alone.” He set down his fork. “Most of the guys just want to play and not make waves, I get that. But there are times when you have to stand up for what you believe in. Especially when it comes to this guy’s brand of superiority.”
“Huh. I would have thought that with the team makeup, he’d get no traction on that kind of crap.” Obie ate the last bite on his plate and sighed contentedly. Damn, that sound was mesmerizing, and once again Bri forgot what he wanted to say, lost in Obie’s flaming red hair and deep blue eyes.
“Sorry,” he said and willed his head back on track. “Donald is pretty careful about who he talks to, but sometimes he goes too far.”
Obie shook his head. “I’m sorry. It sucks when you have a coworker who’s a pain in the ass. I had this guy at my first job—he’d been there for like ten years and thought he was the senior therapist. He tried to be everyone’s boss and thought he should get his pick of the patients. The thing was, they didn’t like him. So a lot of repeat patients would ask for someone other than him, and it pissed him off.” Obie grinned and leaned across the table. “Once, I was working with a patient, one that he had worked with before. She hadn’t been getting anywhere with him, but with me, she was seeing progress. Anyway, he accused me of poaching his clients. And he did it loudly enough that she heard.”
“Oh lord…,” Bri murmured in anticipation.
“Yup. She told him off, right in the middle of the open therapy room. She told him he was as useful as tits on a boar and that she had gotten more help from me in a few weeks than she ever got from him.” Obie grinned. “As far as I know, he’s still there, making everyone’s life miserable.”
“Why?” Bri asked.
“His uncle owns the practice and I think he’s too scared to fire him. He should, though.” Obie sighed. “I found the best way to deal with a guy like that was to do my best and let him make a fool of himself. It took a few months, but he did it in spades. I’m willing to bet Donald will self-destruct on his own. He almost did tonight.” Obie stopped talking as Mutasem returned to their table.
“The food was amazing,” Bri told him. “Thank you.”
“Only the best,” he said, putting his hands together and bowing slightly with a wide smile.
“I loved your food,” Bri told Mutasem. “Thank you for another great meal.” He waited until he left before getting out his wallet and passing Obie some bills.
“It’s too much,” Obie said, handing some back.
“Add it to the tip. A meal like that deserves to be rewarded.” Obie took care of the bill, and they left the restaurant together, going to his car. He looked around, half expecting to see Donald come lumbering up the street. Thankfully, he wasn’t around. Bri was able to get into the car in peace, and Obie drove them back to his house.
“That was fun… well, except for Donald. Then again, sometimes it can be entertaining to pick on the stupid.” Obie grinned. “I know it’s wrong, but sometimes people like that….”
“It was fun, but I’m doing my best to try to forget about him.” Bri ground his teeth together. “You saw the tape that showed me getting hurt, so you know he was involved. It was supposed to be a charity game, something we do to raise money for the Boys and Girls Club. It’s fun—we get to play and mess around. They call it a game, but it’s really a day to put on a little bit of a show and spend some time with the kids. We bring balls, and the team sponsors giveaways, stuff like that.”
“I’ve been to one of those events. It was super fun, and you guys looked like you were having a ball.”
“I was, until Donald got all huffy after he flubbed a few shots in front of everyone. He became aggressive, and that changed the tenor of the game. Suddenly both sides were really starting to go for it—at least that’s how I remember it. I was still playing like it was a charity game and I’m the one who got hurt.” He was more than a little bit bitter. “It was so stupid.”
“It always is, until someone gets hurt.” Obie turned off the engine and got out. “Thanks for a great dinner.” He smiled and waited while Bri got out, then went around to the other side of the car. It took Bri a while to maneuver, but he was getting a little better.
He got his crutches stowed and started the engine, lowering his window. “I promise I’ll do my exercises. Did we set up appointments for next week?”
“Tuesday and Friday at two,” Obie answered. “I’ll see you then.” Bri waved and backed out about a foot before coming to a stop.
“The team has an exhibition game on Sunday and I have some extra tickets. Would you like them? You probably have plans, but if you’re free, it could be fun. I’ve got four tickets.” He stifled a cringe as he thought of Obie’s feral friends, then shrugged. He was a big guy and he could take it. “Bring your friends, if you like. These things are always better with people you know.”
Obie gave him one of those “are you sure?” looks. “Why don’t you invite your friends? Don’t get me wrong—I’d love to go, and I’m sure Chippy and David would enjoy themselves, but….”
“Most of my friends will be there already. They’ll be playing while I sit on the bench and watch.” That was the real shits about these things. He was expected to be there, to be seen and to support the team, but it ate him alive because he wanted to be out there with the rest of the team.
“I’ll call the guys and tell them. I think it would be awesome.” He grinned from ear to ear, as if he’d just been told he got a second Christmas morning this year. “Count me in, and I’ll confirm with the others and tell them to be on their best behavior.”
“Awesome.” Bri liked that Obie would be there with him. “I’ll call you tomorrow with the details.” He left it at that and rolled up the window, backing out and heading for home.
He was just pulling into his driveway when his phone rang. He checked out the number on the car display and denied the call. It read as Number Blocked, so it was most likely a telemarketer. He hated those guys, but sometimes they were a fact of life. As he got out of the car, his phone chimed, letting him know he had a voice message. Bri figured he’d listen to the very beginning of it and delete it if it was useless.
“You don’t listen very well, Bri,” the message began. “You taint the sport by your company and who you are seen with, and that club… is a blemish on the city and the sport you play. I sent a message. You didn’t listen. This next time I won’t be so subtle. If you won’t listen, maybe your friends will have to help you. Maybe they need to feel some pain. Then you’ll change your ways.”
Bri leaned against the car, listening to the second message once again. He had no idea who it was, though the voice was familiar. Bri ran through the message twice more, just listening to the voice. If he had to guess, given the kind of message it was, he’d have thought Donald was behind this, but it definitely wasn’t his voice.
He saved the message and wondered if he should call the team or the police. He’d gotten crank calls before, and the last time he’d just gotten a new cell number. That had been such a hassle, and he didn’t want to do it all over again. But then maybe it was necessary. There were times when he loved his job. Playing basketball was all he’d ever wanted to do, and he’d led his team to several successful seasons. That had been amazing, the best time ever. But sometimes, especially at times like this, being in the public eye was a huge pain in the butt. Bri decided he’d call the team and get their advice when he got a chance.
I HATE it when people ignore me. I sent the message loud and clear. Maybe Bri Early isn’t as smart as he likes to think he is. I put the burner phone down on the table and sit down. I need to think. One way or another, he is going to pay. I get to my feet once again, pacing the small, dingy room
like a caged tiger. Yeah that’s it—I’m in a cage, one built by Bri Early, and I need to get out. Think, I remind myself. I need to figure out how I’m going to get my message across. A deep breath in and out soothes me and I stop pacing. Time. I have time and I’ll figure it out. Then the damn closet case asshole is going to pay.
Chapter 4
“WE’RE REALLY going to a basketball game?” Chippy asked as he pulled open Obie’s closet. “What does one wear to this kind of sporting event?” He put on a fake English accent that made him sound especially stupid.
Obie reached inside, flipping a Rockets jersey off the hanger. “You can wear this—you’ll fit right in.”
Chippy turned to show the shirt to David. “Would you wear this? It looks like I have a dildo on my chest. A weird-shaped one, but it’s definitely a sex toy.” He made a squeal. “I wonder if they sell those in the fan shops. Do you think I could order them as Christmas presents?” He pranced around the bed and flopped down, laughing himself silly at his own stupid joke.
“Be nice,” David said. “This could be fun, and I think Obie has a thing for this guy. Bri must like him if he gave us tickets—even though he likely knew he’d bring you.” David tapped Obie on the shoulder. “Are you sure he knows what he’s getting himself in for?”
“I promised him you two would be less feral than at the club. Man, you just about scared him senseless.” His friends could be over the top sometimes, but they always put a smile on his face. And when push came to shove, they had his back, without question.
David put his hands on his hips in fake indignation. “Well, I saw him first and you totally cockblocked me. But I’ll forgive you.” He made a big production of waving some imaginary wand. As long as he wasn’t shaking the one that came attached, Obie counted himself good.
“You two need to go home and get ready.” He set out his other jersey, the one he intended to wear. “Be back here in half an hour and ready to go. I’m not going to wait for you. Bri has to go in early because he needs to sign autographs and make sure he’s there to be seen by the fans. But he said he’d join us at game time.” Obie was more than a little nervous.