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“Right,” the woman says. “We want to make it very clear that this isn’t an issue with the team.”
Audrey opens a file folder and pulls out a sheet of paper, handing it to me. It’s a printout from a website, a blog. One where the author has written a post about their theory on my sex life based on an encounter while suit shopping.
Motherfucker.
I read it as quickly as I can. It’s not long, but I’m a ball of tense rage by the time I finish.
“Frankly, it’s not the team’s business,” I grit out.
“We feel the same,” Markel says. “It was the League that brought it to our attention.”
“We’re sharing it with you because you have a right to know,” Audrey adds. “Your personal life is your business.”
“But if it starts to affect the team…” I ask, because that’s what it always comes down to in sports. They’ll drop me if it’s good for the franchise.
“I think if we all work together, we can keep that from happening. Legal team will see if they can get the page removed. We’ll do whatever we can to help you, Zander.” Markel has always seemed a stand-up GM to me, this bolsters my opinion, even if my instinct is to not fully trust what he says. “If you want help navigating anything, Audrey will help with PR.”
“The four of us and Legal are the only ones aware of this within the organization,” the other woman says. I think she’s from Human Resource, if memory serves.
“Coach doesn’t know?”
“We haven’t told him,” Audrey says.
“I appreciate the candor,” I say. “Any suggestions on what I should do?”
“Ignore it, for now. No comments. It’s a small blog, it may gain no traction at all. It does, however, have the potential to spread locally, at least. We can wait and see if it dies off by itself.”
But if it gains traction, not only will my career be on the line, but the relationship with my family as well. I’ve never come out to any of them. For good reason. My father isn’t a good man, and for all my mother tries to be, she’s still incredibly conservative. Not to mention, easily influenced by my father’s tirades.
The best thing to do would be to defuse the rumor altogether.
“Would it help if I was seen with a woman publicly?”
“We won’t ask you to do that, Zander,” Markel says emphatically.
“I’m not…” I start, then pause to take a steadying breath. These people are here to help me, and I need to take advantage of that. “I’m not gay. I’m bisexual. My personal life is never something I’ve highlighted, but if it would help, I can take a woman to a function or two.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Audrey says. “But again, to be clear, we’re not asking you to do that.”
“Understood,” I tell her.
“We’re with you on this, Zander. If you need help, reach out,” Markel says, standing to let us all know we’re done here.
“Thank you, sir.”
My mood only sours further as the day goes on. I made a trip to Ikea to buy essentials for my new place. What a fucking nightmare that place is, but I had such few possessions, since I was only renting a room from Ben in California. At least, I need to be able to cook some basics and dry my ass after a shower.
Then I stopped at one of those grocery stores that has a home department attached so I could grab both a coffee pot and coffee. As well as some other food and cleaning products. Between those excursions and the furniture that is now getting delivered, I should be set. I’ll have a bed anyway, along with a sofa and television.
I’m rarely home for more than a night’s sleep. What more does a guy with my schedule need?
Some motherfucking privacy, that’s what.
I knew we were pushing it that day we were shopping. Damian doesn’t understand that even though I don’t have paparazzi trailing my every move, I’m still a recognizable figure. Probably more so when I’m with him, because he stands out in all his expensive, dark glory.
While paying the delivery guys, I feel Damian’s piercing stare into my back. As promised, he came over to help me get settled. After the day I had, I’m not the best company, but I haven’t had the opportunity to explain why. He’s been glaring at me with gaining interest for the past forty-five minutes, obviously picking up on my sour mood.
“What’s up with you,” he asks as soon as the movers walk out the door.
