"We should think of this as brand development." Larry Summers waves his hands excitedly. "And your brand is worth millions." He is a short, petite man, but has the energy of an angry hive of bees. I hired him to help me quiet the negative media buzz. He has a history of helping celebrities turn their lives around, and he has a 100% success rate. I'd say he’s worth the money. How can I go wrong with him? It's an understatement to say that I can use the help. I can't believe how crazy things have gotten with my life. One minute I'm buying a woman 100 long-stemmed roses, and the next, I'm broadcasted as one of the biggest sex scandals of the year.

"There are three general areas that we must focus on—communication, behavior, and physical appearance," he continues. "I'd say you're fine in the appearance department." He eyes me up and down and then continues, "Your Armani suits are sharp and tailored—perfect because that shows you are serious. But perhaps consider wearing a tie that will bring out your eyes, like a nice blue one, or even yellow—yellow is a power color you know."

"Good point. I'll make a quick note of that." I have a note pad out and reach for my pen.

"But we need to make adjustments to your communication. When you find yourself in a conflict zone—like you are so often finding yourself with reporters and other members of the media—listen first! When it's your turn to say something, speak in a calm, level tone. Punching people on National television will never do. That should go without saying."

I laugh. He is right, of course. But that seems like a million years ago now. I no longer feel like punching Colt Stackford in the face. And I am still trying to come to grips with what exactly I am feeling for him.

"I mean it," he continues. "Use your nonverbal cues to your benefit. Instead of throwing a fist or giving off some other negative cue like crossing your arms—which you are doing now, by the way—keep eye contact at all times and give off positive cues, even when you are screaming inside like you are about to burst, or like you are an angry elephant about to stampede a village."

"That feels dishonest, like shaking my head yes but internally saying no," I say.

"You are Ethan Blake, one of the greatest defensive ends in the NFL. Stop falling into unhealthy knee-jerk patterns of behavior. If you want to continue living as the darling of the league, you need to pull it together. And quick. Quite frankly, you are running out of time."

"Speaking of time, I'm having a hard time staying focused," I admit. I involuntarily slump my shoulders at this realization. Remaining focused and working hard is one of my strengths, but now it seems just out of my grasp. It is a frustrating feeling.

"That'll never do. You have to pull your head from the clouds, Ethan. Focus is key here."

If only I can describe these clouds for Larry. My head is currently locked in clouds shaped as two humans.

"You seem overwhelmed, and when you compound that with a lack of focus, the results are disastrous. 911 disastrous."

"No kidding," I say sarcastically. Is this man dramatic or what? It is not as simple as he makes it out to sound.

"And your behavior has been, well, how should I put it—"

But before he finishes his thought, I hear a sharp knock at my door and excuse myself to answer it. Standing in the doorway, I see a man in his late 30s with one of the toothiest smiles and flashiest suits I have ever seen. He greets me with a bear hug and a masculine pat on the back. His large hands make thumping sounds just below my shoulder blades. "It's good to see you," he says. "How you feeling champ?" There is something in his smile that makes him look dishonest, and I’m about to kick him about, but I hesitate, thinking how I’m supposed to be rehabilitating my image.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask instead, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, pardon me, Ethan,” Larry says as he waddles over to where I’m standing. “This is my assistant, Dave.”

I’m still a bit weirded out that Dave is so physical when he greets other men. But who am I to say anything? I let my team mate jerk me off in the locker room, right?

Dave looks at me and asks again, “How you feeling, champ?”

I wince at his usage of the word champ, but reply. "Just trying to put this shit storm behind me, man, but I'm hanging in there."

"The hell you are! You’re Ethan fucking Blake!"

"So I've heard," I say, leading him into my apartment. "Why does everyone keep saying that today?"

Dave ignores my question because Larry turns to both of us.

“Dave is an excellent strategic negotiations counsel that I’ve bring on challenging cases,” Larry says walking back to the table. “Dave, tell Ethan your take on the situation, and try not to bore us with technical lawyer bullshit.”

"You're funny,” Dave says with sarcasm. Then he turns to me. “Listen, I'm concerned about negotiating a new deal with the New York Nailers. There's no doubt in my mind that you deserve a spot on this team, but with all of this scandal, if you don't make it, it may be difficult to find you a spot on any NFL team. No one wants to touch a 'head case' as they say."

"A head case? Is that what you think of me?" I ask - a bit surprised.

"Not me man—them! The media and other franchise owners. You might be a tough sell."

I can feel the rhythm of my pulse increase, and I feel a hot wave of anger rise in my chest. I clench a fist. This is all feeling like too much to handle.

"Remember what I said about non-verbal cues," Larry says, noticing my fist and lowered eyebrows. He is right. I need to make a more conscious effort to remain calm.

Larry opens a notebook and jots down some points. "Any other thoughts, Dave?“ he asks, and then Dave gives a giant sigh.

"Yeah, I gotta say, you've been getting a bit too much action off the field," Dave says, laughing and jabbing me in my side with his elbow. He is trying to be funny, but I really am not in the mood for jokes.

"I actually have a plan," Larry says, continuing his train of thought, and that really grabs our attention. “I’ve been talking with AJ Ledoux over at the Times.”

"What's that?" I ask. "I'm open to any ideas you have, but why are you talking to that man?"

"There's one way that we can wash you of these scandals," Larry says. "While the SportsNation highlights are damning, we can flip the story. It's like that old saying, 'if you don't like what people are saying, change the story,' and in this case, I think it would work brilliantly."

"How can we change the story when the evidence is captured on video? I just don't understand," I say, furrowing my eyebrows. “And why have you been talking to AJ? You didn’t answer my question.”

"Right now, the media – basically spurred on by AJ - is painting you as a willing participant in these actions," Larry says. I can hear Dave giggle at the word 'action' and I wonder if he is secretly 12 years old. “Ninety-nine percent of the anger is because of his daily column where he takes you and runs you over the coals. But I know he’s open to a deal.”

Larry continues, "What if you weren't a willing participant after all? What if you were seduced and strong-armed?"

"That's not what—" I begin to say, but Larry cuts me off. I know I just said that I was open to any ideas, but now I really am not so sure that is true.

"You know what the new script should be? Well, I'll tell you even if you don't want to hear it. The new story should tell the world that Julianna deceived and seduced you, and Colt accosted you in that locker room."

“But that’s not true,” I say, standing up. “She didn’t do anything like that. In fact…”

But Larry doesn’t let me finish. “I know that, but who cares?” he asks me. When I don’t answer, he looks at me. “Listen to me, Ethan, AJ Ledoux has his sights set on only one person – Julianna Heaton. None of this shit would have blown up if he hadn’t been stoking the fires this entire time. Now you can stay on the burning bus that he’s pushing into a ditch, or you can get out. But if you get out, you gotta help him push. Now what’s it gonna be – your career, or your cock?”

* * *

That night, I can't sleep. It doesn't feel right. How can I throw Julianna and Colt under the bus? The media would have a field day with that kind of story. I am pacing from one room to another. The entire place makes me feel claustrophobic, like a caged animal. I have to get out of my apartment. It is 9 pm and I know my favorite pub, Black and Bull, down the street is still serving food. I grab my jacket, keys, and wallet and head out the door.

The place seems a little more crowded than usual for a weeknight, and just as I am about to turn around and head back home, thinking it may have been a bad idea to come, I find an open booth in a far back corner of the room. This place is great for a number of reasons, but my favorites are that the seating offers a lot of privacy, the number of different beers on tap are staggering, and the burger, well—you might as well ask for a bib with that burger. Take one bite and melted bleu cheese gushes out and offsets the crunchy slabs of bacon placed on top of the patty. If I was to have sex with a burger, and I realize that's a strange thought—this burger would be it.

I settle into the dark wood and red vinyl booth and the waitress hands me a menu. I immediately look at the beer listing. I need something to mellow me out. There are ales, wheat beers, lagers, IPAs—why are IPAs so popular these days? I can't understand it. And then I see the darker beers—stouts and porters. Yes, that is what I am in the mood for, something substantial, like a meal in a pint. I am buried in the beer menu when someone approaches my table. I think it is the waitress, so I begin to order. "I think I'll have the dark—"

"Do I look like one of the servers to you, asshole?" The question comes from a familiar voice. I look up and see him. He seems taller and stronger than usual, if that is even possible. His brown eyes hang warmly above me and he is smiling. It is like staring up at a strong oak tree.

"Wh-wh-what are you doing here?"

"I've been looking all over for you. You haven't been answering my recent calls or texts. Hell, you even dodge me on the field. I knew I'd have to find you."

I watch as Colt approaches the table. I feel almost embarrassed being caught off guard like this. What's the point of him meeting me here like this?

"Have a seat." I find myself inviting him into my booth even though I feel like being as far away as possible from him right now. I still need time to gather my thoughts. He thanks me and eagerly scoots in.

"So you came all the way to Black and Bull to find me? How did you know I was here?"

"Just a hunch," Colt says. Damn it. Colt has known me longer than most people. His ability to read my mind is uncanny. If anyone can find me in this city, it is definitely him. I notice that he seems more subdued. Not the gregarious loud mouth I had grown accustomed to. The way he silently looks into my eyes is making me uncomfortable, and I don't know what to say. Since it is a small booth, we are sitting in close proximity to each other. I can feel his broad, muscular shoulder brushing up against mine, and my cock twitches.

Great, not now, I think to myself. I hear the deep, harsh words of my father repeat themselves in my mind, What are you, a faggot? I feel so confused. There is no doubt that I am attracted to Colt. All these years of intense rivalry and hatred are starting to make sense to me. The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference. I never hated Colt. I can see now that the identity I am so scared to embrace is true. I have desired him all along. I've been attracted to him all these years and was too afraid to admit it, and he must have felt the same thing. But that's not the whole picture. The other side of this perfect equation is Julianna. I love her, but now I know that I love them both.

"Let me guess, you were going to order the Bleu Cheese Burger," he chides.

"Fuck off, you always think you have me pegged," I say jokingly.

He gives me a playful punch on my arm and I laugh, brushing the hair back from my forehead. Now this is the Colt I know, which is a comforting feeling. I feel like I am treading back on familiar territory.

"It's because I do. Just admit it. When have I ever been wrong?" He laughs, and opens the menu from the table.

"Plenty of times! In fact, remember when you—"

"Now fucking stop right there. I'm going to have to tell you to go fuck yourself," Colt laughs.

Despite everything, I laugh back.

For a moment, I forget everything and look at Colt. I’m supposed to hate this man. But that hatred seems to be a mask - hiding something greater.

He reaches over and I take his hand. I lean over the table in the booth before I realize what I’m doing. Is his face coming closer?

Our faces are inches apart.

I could kiss him right now.

I can feel his breath. I’ve wanted this for a long time. I squeeze his hand and my eyes droop, preparing to kiss him.

Just then, the figure of a blonde woman walking across the pub catches both our attention, and our easy banter fades. We do not have to say anything because I know we are both thinking about the same woman: Julianna. The woman at the bar isn’t her, but I realize that she is the force we need in our universe. The person who creates balance to all of the opposing forces in our lives. I wonder if she feels the same way. I have to speak to her.

But I can’t. I shouldn’t even be talking to Colt.

I pull away from Colt’s face and lean back against the booth.

“I…I gotta go,” I say hastily, slapping down some money on the table in case I didn’t pay for anything.

I can see the hurt in Colt’s eyes. “You’re running away, man,” he yells at me as I keep walking. “Your dad isn’t here anymore, Ethan. Hey, are you listening to me, fucker?”

But I’m gone. Into the crisp New York City night. I pull out my phone and call Larry.

“I’m in,” I say to him. “What do I need to do?”

“I’ll be right over,” he says, not caring about the time.

I hang up and decide to walk back to my condo.

By myself. In the loneliest big city in the world.