“I’m not great at giving things time.” He should tell Phil to give his attention to his other clients. But that would raise questions Leo didn’t feel like answering. Phil knew he was gay, but had encouraged him to keep a low profile if he wanted a snowball’s chance in hell of playing in any league higher than this one.
“I know.” Phil said it without judgment. “Stay the course. I’ll keep working the phones.”
Leo hung up and drove the rest of the way with the radio off. Two months ago, that call would have ruined his afternoon. He’d have pulled over and scrolled other teams’ rosters, building a case for why he deserved better. Now, he was hoping Phil didn’t find him a trade before he worked up the courage to tell his agent he was comfortable where he was. Of course, saying as much would probably guarantee his ass would be headed off to somewhere like one of the California teams, even further away from Dawson.
He pulled into his parking spot, killed the engine, and texted Dawson.
Heading to The Penalty Box later. Team thing.
I’ll probably be there.
The Penalty Boxon a Tuesday was half-full, which by Port Haven standards meant packed. Jonesy had commandeered the big booth near the TV, and Russ and Riggs were arguing about a Packers play from 2011 that everyone in Wisconsin had committed to memory. Novo was studying the menu with the skepticism of a man who’d been burned by the cheese curds once and hadn’t forgotten.
Leo slid into the booth and found Dawson before he’d finished sitting down.
He was perched on a stool in his usual corner of the bar, book open, beer half gone. Flannel sleeves pushed to the elbows, forearms braced on the rail, jaw propped on his fist. He was reading, and his stillness in the midst of the jukebox and TV both playing pulled at something low in Leo’s stomach. Dawson’s finger was hooked over the top of the page like he was about to turn it. His other hand was wrapped around his glass, and Leo tracked the line of his wrist to where his sleeve bunched at the elbow, the tendon shifting when he lifted his beer. He made himself look away.
Wes set a drink in front of him. “Jonesy says you’re buying.”
“Jonesy’s wrong.”
“Too late. He opened a tab in your name.”
“Jonesy,” Leo hollered. No way in hell was he paying for everyone tonight. It was their last night off for a while, which meant they’d all be relying on two of the rookies, who were the acting sober drivers, to get them home.
“What?” Jonesy spread his hands. “You had a good practice. We’re celebrating. That’s how teams work, V. You do something good, I spend your money. It’s a system.”
Leo shook his head, drank his beer, and let Riggs drag him into the Packers argument, which he lost because he didn’t know shit about the team, the players, or why it even mattered. Riggs seemed delighted to have a fresh audience for his outrage.
Across the bar, Dawson turned the page.
Twenty feet between them, and both of them pretended they were strangers. Leo on this side, loud and laughing, wedged into a booth with teammates who were starting to feel like more than coworkers. Dawson on that side, quiet and contained, occupying the same corner he always did. They hadn’t acknowledged each other. Leo kept glancing over, quick looks he covered by reaching for his beer or checking his phone. Once, he caught Dawson’s eyes already on him, and the contact held for a full second before Dawson dropped back to the page. Leo’s pulse kicked, and he picked up his glass just to have something to do with his hands.
He excused himself to the restroom. On the way back, he detoured past the bar. Stopped close enough that his sleeve brushed Dawson’s shoulder, and said, low enough that the bar noise covered it, “Good book?”
Dawson’s eyes stayed on the page. “Decent.”
“You look comfortable.”
“I am.” Dawson turned his head to look up at him. “I’ve been falling behind on my reading lately. Some cocky athlete keeps texting me when I’m trying to relax.”
“That’s a damned shame. You should really tell him to piss off.”
Dawson shrugged. “Eh, he’s not so bad. Besides, I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. Guys like that can be fragile as glass.”
Leo gave him a playful shove. “Dick.”
“Just calling it like I see it.” He jerked his chin towards the booth where his teammates were in yet another heated conversation. “You’d better get back over there before they send someone over to see why you ditched them.”
“You’re probably right. Talk later?”
“You know it.” Leo’s dick twitched when Dawson winked and licked his bottom lip.
He lasted forty minutes. Leo pulled his phone into his lap under the table while Riggs launched into another story.
Tonight would be more fun if you were over here.
He watched Dawson’s hand go to his pocket. Watched him pull the phone out, read the screen, and set it face-down on the bar. Dawson stared straight ahead for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he picked it back up.
