Chapter Six
Simeon
The diner was empty, which I took as a good sign. So far commuting had been okay except for a few autographs signed here or there, but I wasn’t ready to be packed into a small space with a bunch of strangers while eating. Everything was always so damn hectic that eating was my down time. I didn’t even like dinner parties because I preferred my meals in silence, unless I was with Marcus or Gavin. Call it a byproduct of growing up with constant-noise family dinners and no time to think or breathe.
Adrián snagged a booth in a far corner and plopped down with his back to the wall. He took off his fitted cap and shook out his dark hair, scratching his fingers through it before running them over his scruff. He wasn’t looking as polished as he usually did during the season, and I dug it.
He caught me looking and leered.
“What do you think the gossip rags would say if they saw us now?”
“Probably make it sound like I’m cheating on Gavin with your dumbass.”
Adrián’s eyes opened wide. “What? You’re fucking Brawley?”
“Nah, man. But they like to imply we are, just because they think two faggots can’t be buds without occasionally clicking together like Legos.”
“Bad analogy, man. Like awful.”
I snapped open the menu and put it up so I wouldn’t have to see his mournful headshake about my lack of wit. “Fuck you. You just want me to talk about dicks.”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Because dicks are funny.”
I glanced around the diner but no one was paying attention. “Okay, surround sound. Keep your damn voice at a normal level.”
“I do what I want.”
And now he just sounded like Cartman. Judging by his snicker, that had been his intention. It would have been annoying if it wasn’t so endearing, and now I had to stop and wonder if this is how Marcus and Gavin felt about me. For the past few years, I’d been the cavalier joker who acted before thinking, Marcus had been the level-headed planner, and Gavin the hotheaded, overprotective one. With Adrián in my role of joker, I had no idea what my role was. Less obnoxious joker? Enthusiastic camp counselor?
Whatever. Instead of dwelling on my identity crisis, I drooled over the millions of kinds of pancakes this place had to offer. They apparently were known for their pancakes and their pie, and I was down for both.
“Fuck, this menu is turning me on.”
“I know, right?”
Adrián hadn’t even opened his. His arms were draped along the back of the booth as he sat slumped with his thighs spread open. His knees were touching mine, a detail I shouldn’t have noticed but couldn’t help fixating on. What was it about this kid that had me acting like a teenager all over again? I couldn’t even stand his ass, and yet he had that whole badass-in-the-back-of-the-class charm that drew me in like candied bacon.
“Whatchu getting?”
“My usual,” he drawled. “Pile of bacon, an omelet, and a stack of pancakes with a side of hash browns.”
“Oh, man. I’m really turned on now. I’m copying you but getting pecan pancakes.”
“Biter.”
“I am a biter.” I wagged my eyebrows, leering and knocking my knee against his. “And a hair-puller, and a moaner . . .”
“Moaner or screamer?”
The waitress swooped in and saved me from spilling too much information all over the checked tablecloth. We both ordered, me swapping maple-crusted pecan pancakes for the bananas Foster, and then we both snickered because she’d barely batted an eye at either of us.
“Don’t dodge the question, Boudreaux.” Adrián hunched forward with his elbows on the table and a naughty smile spreading on his face. “How loud are you?”
“Loud enough,” I said vaguely. “Haven’t you seen the video?”
“Fuck no, I didn’t watch that video.”
“Oh-ho. Now I know what would make you nervous.”
Adrián had a more interesting reaction than I’d expected. Instead of blustering and posturing about why he would never spend his time watching some homo shit, he flushed.
“Unlike the rest of our crap society, I don’t peep sex tapes and leaked pics, okay? I take privacy seriously and that’s an invasion of it. I wouldn’t like it if some girl I fuck took secret pics and suddenly has my cock on Snapchat.”
“Why not?” I tilted my head, biting my lip with big sympathetic eyes. “Is it small?”
Adrián had been mid sip from a glass of water and spat it all over me. He choked and slapped his hand against the table, laughing and coughing at the same time.
“Fuck you, Booty. That’s bullshit you’re talking right now.”
“It’s okay if it is. Sometimes the smaller guys put more effort in and really know how to work it.”
“Motherfucker, I do not have no small dick.”
“If you say so, partner. No judgment here in the land of seven inches.”
“And ain’t no need to front over here in the land of eight.” Adrián leaned farther across the table. “Wanna check?”
“Yeah, whip it out. I’ll measure with my straw. It’s at least four inches in real time, right?”
Adrián kicked me, and we both cut up laughing. It was the most normal I’d felt in a while, and it was funny as hell that dick jokes took me to that place. But that was the nature of the beast in the locker room. We all sat around each other naked in there or with the trainers so much that players probably saw each other’s pieces more than their significant others did. Talking about cock, and making jokes about each other’s cocks, was our version of bonding.
And that was part of the reason why some of the guys, even my boys in the Barons, had started shying away from me and Gavin after we’d come out. They were still friendly enough, but there were subtle differences. The absence of dick jokes was one of them. A weird thing to miss, but it was part of the comradery I’d come to appreciate.
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Nah, something’s up.” Adrián wagged his finger at me. “You went from filling this room with that funny-ass laugh of yours to scowling at the Stevia like you’re feeling salty that there’s no Equal.”
“And he says I’m bad at analogies.”
Adrián smacked my arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I insisted. “Just thinking thoughts.”
“Deep.”
I flipped him off just as the waitress returned with a giant tray of food. We started putting it away without comment, but once I was halfway into my pancakes I couldn’t help casting another cursory glance around. Yeah, the place was empty, but I usually had a couple of people ask for an autograph by now.
“You think nobody recognizes us here?”
Adrián looked at me and then around before returning his gaze to me. There was syrup at the corner of his mouth and on his fingers. Not enough to make him a total animal, but enough to draw my attention to his lips and those long digits. Good finger-fucking size.
“Some people do, but New Yorkers are different.”
“Less into football?”
“Nah, they just aren’t easily awed. You know how many actors live in my building?”
“I’m guessing a lot.”
“You’re guessing right.” Adrián licked syrup off his fingers only to get them sticky again since he’d managed to pour syrup on his fork. “I don’t know a lot of other football players who live around here, but a lot of basketball players do. People are just used to seeing familiar faces. Regular people just seem kind of over it and unimpressed. Or they’re all rushing around and don’t pay attention to the people around them.”
It made sense, but it was a little jarring to be able to blend with a crowd. Back in New Orleans, seeing celebrities wasn’t exactly out of the norm, but folks weren’t shy about walking up and starting a conversation. People weren’t shy in general, which led to me being drawn into so many conversations with fans that I’d sometimes avoided going outside if I just wanted down time. There was part of me that was paranoid that my fans had lost interest since the video had been put on blast, but people in New Orleans loved football, and where I was from people took a lot of pride in celebrating their kin. An ache started in my chest, that familiar desire to return home. I’d been afraid to since coming out, even though my mom had reassured me that “no one had been surprised.” Whatever that was supposed to mean.
“There goes that face again,” Adrián said. “Getting all heavy?”
“Nah. Not really.”
I shook it off and pushed my plate away. Time to switch gears from the triad of most important things in my life—family, football, and fans. And the easiest way to distract myself? Attempting to torment Adrián Bravo—the dickhead who’d ruined at least half the season for me and was now charming and dimpling his way into my good graces. What did it say about me that I couldn’t hold a grudge against someone who’d gone out of his way to humiliate me? I’d always been the mediator, but I’d never been a fucking doormat.
Setting my jaw, I threaded my fingers together and braced my chin on my hands. He kept eating, fast and efficient and slightly messy, as if he was going to run out of time on an imaginary clock. When he realized I wasn’t looking away, he tilted his head.
“Sup?”
“I got a question for you.”
“Aiight, shoot.”
Leaning forward, I asked, “When did you first realize you were straight?”
His head jerked back. He laughed. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer.”
“Why? When did you realize you were gay?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Adrián hesitated, and that was the first sign that he was definitely smarter than I’d been giving him credit for. He knew I was trying to prove a point even though he had no clue what the point was. “I’m gonna go right ahead and guess people ask you that question a lot.”
“Fuck yeah they do. These days, it’s all people want to know. Simeon, when did you first realize you liked men? Simeon, when did you come out? Have you ever tried being with a woman? Did something tragic happen in your childhood?”
“What the fuck?” Adrián set his fork down and didn’t notice it was dripping syrup all over his hand again. “They ask if you got molested?”
“Apparently that’s one way people are trying to rationalize a big butch bastard from New Orleans liking dick.”
“But that’s—” There was some spluttering before Adrián said, “That’s not only stupid, but rude as hell. These people have no kind of home training. You should tell them to piss off and walk out of an interview when they start implying shit like that.”
I slowly nodded, staring at him and wondering who was this alien who caught onto homophobic microaggressions and where was the asshole I was supposed to be picking a fight with?
“I try to get along with the press,” I said belatedly. “If you treat them like shit, they treat you like shit. Just ask Brawley.”
“Whatever. When they start sniffing around here I hope you know I will tell them about themselves if they ask offensive shit in front of me.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?” Adrián demanded, outrage etched into his face and making itself known in every aggressive syllable. “Because that’s disrespectful. We have our issues, but I’ve never seen you be rude to anyone. Not demanding fans who think they own you just because they dropped sixty bucks for a jersey, and not creepy parents who stay up your ass like you can do something to improve their shitty lives.”
He stopped ranting after his voice rose three levels too high, but no one was paying attention or even facing us. After taking a deep breath, he rested his hands loosely on the table.
“Anyways, I’m not homophobic.”
“Way to circle back to the only thing you actually give a fuck about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“It means you care more about being called a homophobe than figuring out why you do shit that codes as homophobic,” I said flatly. “Which is why I brought this up in the first damn place. Every couple of minutes I catch myself actually enjoying your company now that we’re away from the competition and the adrenaline and the game, but then I remember you making gay jokes on Fox News, and I feel like a fucking idiot.”
He flinched, but there was no way to know whether he just hated being labeled as someone who hates gays or if he was regretful about his actions. There was no way to tell, which was the exact reason why I couldn’t let it go.
“If I was homophobic, I wouldn’t be trying to goad you into talking about your sex life. I wouldn’t be playing that game with you to begin with,” he said. “And—”
“And what?”
Adrián shrugged, frowning. “Nothing. I’m just not a homophobe. My beef with you just makes me do ill-advised things.”
“Why do we even have beef?” I asked incredulously. “We were cool back in the Predators.”
Adrián remained stubbornly silent, but the side of his mouth twitched. It was a tell if I’d ever seen one, but I didn’t know him well enough to know what it translated to. Eventually, I told myself. Adrián talked way too much to keep a secret, even though I had no idea why the seeds of Adrián’s dislike required a top-secret clearance.
“Fine. Subject change.” I mirrored his pose, leaning towards him with my elbows on the table. “Forget the realizing-who-you-want-to-fuck thing. When’d you lose your card?”
Relief swamped the table like the funky sweat of fifty-two dudes in a locker room. This was familiar territory for him. Trading sex stories and bragging about conquests, even teenaged ones.
“I was seventeen,” he said.
“Wow. I had you pegged for a fourteen-year-old stud.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because you’re fine as fuck, and you even looked good back in high school when most people are awkward.”
Adrián poked at his pancakes again but didn’t take a bite. I wondered if he was fidgeting with his syrup-covered fork to distract from the flush rising up his neck. One compliment from a guy, and he didn’t know how to act. It was adorable.
“How do you know?”
“The Internet, smart guy. There’s pics of you and your dad at an MLB All-Star game from a decade ago. You were a good-looking kid.”
“I know, right?” Adrián settled back into his cocky shtick and pretended to preen. “I had a lot of girlfriends, but I wasn’t allowed to date until I was seventeen. And I was too chicken to fuck anyone at school and get in trouble.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“Nope. I was a goody-goody. My parents had me on serious lock. All my dad cared about was me going pro in whatever sport I chose, and my mom—well, my mom didn’t think teenage boys should date.”
“’Cause hetero boys are scum?”
Adrián laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. She didn’t want to inflict me on someone until I was more mature, I guess. Gave me a ton of speeches about cousins of mine who turned out real shitty with kids by different women and didn’t do right by none of them. She wanted me to be, like, a paragon.”
“Huh.” His mom sounded a lot like my mom. Maybe we were secretly related. “So, who’d you give your laminated and protected-by-mama V-card to?”
“This girl Daniella. Total cliché, but she was a cheerleader. We did it in the back of her dad’s truck, and I hurt my back.”
I snorted out a laugh. “Sexy story.”
“I’m not trying to impress you.” Adrián flipped me off, but he was snickering at himself. “How about you? Lemme guess—fourteen?”
“Yup.”
“Man, I’m basically Dionne Warwick over here. All I need is a headband and a hotline.”
Damn, this dude was making me laugh at his ridiculous jokes. The more I tried to stifle my guffaws, the louder they got, until we were both cracking up together like a couple of dorks.
“Anyway, it was an older guy. He was in high school but didn’t make the football team, so we both did the Pop Warner league together. I was better, and he was salty about it, so at first we just talked shit to each other, even though he was a few years older.”
Adrián nodded slowly. He squinted at me as if visualizing the scene. “Okay, okay, I can see where this is going. He was creeping on you.”
“Nah. I was creeping on him. He should have told me to step off since he was sixteen, but he didn’t, and shit happened.”
Adrián’s lip curled. “I dunno, dude. That’s creepy.”
“Who you tellin’? But back then, I didn’t give a damn. I was a horny kid, interested in sex way too early, and closeted as fuck, so the options were real slim.” Thinking back to that time was weird, because it had been creepy and inappropriate, and my mama would have tore that boy up. “The first time I had good sex was in college. Before that, no one knew what the hell they were doing with their dicks.”
“Maybe because immature-ass dudes only care about trying to get off instead of how to please who they’re in bed with. That’s how I was until I was older,” he admitted. “Sex was just about blowing my load, until I went to college and got with girls who weren’t having that bullshit.”
“Heh. You expect me to believe you’re some sex master now?”
Adrián smirked, dimpling at me, and knocked his knee against mine beneath the table. “Let’s just say I know how to work my dick, and my stamina is the truth.”
A handful of braggy, mostly joking words, and my body was at attention. Dick twitching, heart pounding, and my stomach cramping up. I pressed my lips together and said nothing. Adrián pointed at me, delighted.
“You got nervous. I saw you, Simeon.”
“You didn’t see shit.”
“Shut the fuck up. I saw you get all serious face and back away. My bomb sex skills intimidate you. Admit it!”
“Keeping dreaming, Bravo. But I do have to tell you something.”
“Lemme have it.”
I extended one arm so I could lightly touch the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got something right there.”
The dark wings of his brows crashed down in consternation, and a flood of conflicting emotions danced across his striking face, but none of them was indignant or annoyed or disgusted—the reactions I was used to getting from straight men when I touched them and they weren’t interested. Or sometimes even when I touched them because of interest that was obvious to me and not to their own selves. Denial was powerful in most men, but Adrián Bravo settled on intrigued.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I brushed the pad of my finger against his lips, wiping the syrup away even though it left the remnants of sticky residue. Touching his mouth sent my thirst into hyperactive overdrive, and my mind betrayed me. Filled with images of dragging him closer for a messy kiss where I used my tongue to get him clean right before dragging him to the bathroom to get really nasty.
Where was my common sense? My inner angel to tell me to stop craving this bastard just because he had a pretty face and, according to him, a talented dick? Hadn’t I learned my lesson? My dick going from half-mast to fully risen proved otherwise. I would absolutely go down on him in the bathroom if the opportunity arose. I could hate him even while he was in my mouth.
He wasn’t reacting as much as I wanted him to, so I dropped my hand next to his and upped the ante.
“You got some on your fingers too.”
“Yeah? You gonna get all mother hen on me about that too?”
He thought he was so cool and collected. It was kind of cute how much he underestimated my competitive spirit.
“Not quite mother hen, but . . .”
I grabbed his hand after a quick scan of the diner, and brought it to my lips. His arm locked up briefly, a spasm going through his fingers, but he didn’t fight. Not when I parted my lips, and not when I enveloped the syrup-covered digits with my mouth. I sucked the syrup off, suctioning harder than I needed to for the current situation, and flicked my tongue.
“Oh fuck.”
We locked eyes. There was no hiding how dilated his had become. The way his breathing had picked up, or the bouncing of his knee.
I slid my mouth off, leaving his fingers coated in saliva, and grinned.
“I won this round, Bravo.”
Adrián grabbed a napkin with trembling hands and roughly wiped his fingers.
“Yeah. I guess you did.”