“That must have been hard.”
“The hardest part was my dad.” The words came out rougher than I intended, old pain resurfacing. “He coached high school football for twenty years. Had this image of his son the quarterback, carrying on the tradition. When I came out, it wasn't just disappointing him. It was destroying his picture of what our family was supposed to look like.”
Dusty was quiet, not trying to fix it with platitudes. Just listening. That was one of the things I was learning to appreciate about him. He didn't rush to make everything okay with advice or empty reassurances.
“What about teammates? Other guys in the league?”
“Mixed bag. Some guys were cool about it, said it didn't matter as long as I could throw the ball. Others started acting like I might hit on them in the locker room.” I shook my head, remembering the subtle ways the dynamics shifted. “But Kris Lowry, the guy who took me out? He was different.”
“How so?”
This was the part I hadn't talked about with anyone. Not the therapist, not Ruben, not even the investigators who looked into whether the hit was intentional. But sitting here with Dusty, morning light warming my face and nowhere to hide, it felt like time to let the poison out.
“He made comments to people knowing it would get back to me. Nothing you could report, nothing direct. But jokes about 'watching your back around certain people,' questions about whether gay guys should be playing contact sports. Little digsthat let me know exactly what he thought about me sharing a field with him.”
“And the hit?”
“Wasn't random. I was already going down when he dove for my shoulder. Had to change his angle to hit me that way. You don't target someone's throwing arm with that kind of precision by accident.” The memory made my shoulder ache, phantom pain mixing with real tension. “He smiled at me afterward, when I was on the ground. Just for a second, but I saw it.”
“Jesus.”
“The league investigated, but what are they gonna do? No one wants to admit hate crimes happen on national television. Easier to call it 'aggressive but legal contact' and suspend him for four games while I get surgery and wonder if I'll ever play again.”
“That's fucked up.”
“That's football.” I set my mug down, surprised by how steady my hands were. “But saying it out loud, I realize that's bullshit. That wasn't football. That was bigotry hiding behind the game.”
Dusty reached over, his fingers brushing against mine where they rested on the chair arm. The contact was warm, grounding. “I'm sorry that happened to you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
His phone buzzed from inside the cabin, and he glanced toward the sound with a slight frown. “Probably the gallery stuff. Realtor's been pushing for final paperwork.”
“When's that supposed to happen?”
“Soon as I get back and can handle the documentation in person.” He shrugged, but there was tension underneath the casual gesture. “Lot of moving pieces when you're starting a business.”
Another buzz, followed by another. He ignored them both, but I could see the way his shoulders tightened with each notification.
“You don't have to stay here for me,” I said. “If you need to handle business stuff.”
“I'm exactly where I want to be.” Then he held out his hand. “Come here. I want to try something.”
I followed him inside to the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The glass was old, warped at the edges, but clear enough to show us both. He positioned me in front of it, standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders.
“What do you see?”
“A guy who's been through hell and looks like it.”
“Look again. Really look, not at what you think you should see.”
I tried to follow his instruction, studying my reflection like I'd never seen it before. The way I held my right shoulder higher than the left, protecting it even when it didn't hurt. The lines around my eyes that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with stress. The stubble I hadn't bothered to shave in days, the way my t-shirt hung looser than it used to.
But beneath that, I could see other things. The way my stance had changed over the past few days. Less rigid, more grounded. The color returning to my face. The way my jaw wasn't clenched tight for once.
“I see someone who's tired,” I said. “But not beaten.”
“What else?”
