“Barrett?”
I hesitate a fraction too long.
“BARRETT KNOWS?” Another octave up. A coffee lid pops off and liquid spills over his hand and he doesn’t notice. “Barrett knows and I DON’T? I’ve been bringing this man coffees that he doesn’t even like every game day for two YEARS and he’s been—with YOUR—and BARRETT knew before ME?”
“Barrett walked in on us at the Christmas party.”
Rodriguez makes a sound like someone stepped on a dog toy. “I was AT that Christmas. I was IN YOUR HOUSE.” He closes his eyes. “Oh god. Oh god, Mackie. Jack is going to kill him. Jack is actually going to murder him with his bare hands and I’ll have to watch because I’ll be standing right there when it happens because I’m ALWAYS standing right there.”
“Nobody is murdering anyone?—”
“You don’t know your dad when it comes to you and boys! Remember when that kid from school picked you up for homecoming and your dad answered the door in his game jersey? That kid’s hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t pin your corsage!”
“That was years ago?—”
“And this is WORSE. This is his TEAMMATE. This is a guy who SHOWERS in the same room as your father, Mackie. Do you understand the level of—the absolute —” He runs out of words and just gestures wildly with the coffee, spraying droplets across the hallway carpet.
“Rodriguez.” I take his arm. “I need you to breathe.”
“I am breathing. I’m breathing and panicking. I’m doing both at the same time.”
“I need you to not tell my dad. Not today.”
“Obviously not today! It’s Game 7! I’m not going to —” He stops and closes his eyes. When he opens them the panic is still there but something else has settled over it.
“You love him,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And he loves you.”
“Yes.”
Rodriguez looks at me for a long time. The coffee is dripping down his wrist and he still hasn’t noticed.
“This is so bad, Mackie,” he says softly. “You know that, right? This is so, so bad.”
“I know.”
“Not today. Not before the game. I’m not going to do that to him. But after. Mackie, after this game, after this series, whatever happens—this has to come out. You have to tell your dad.”
“We were going to. Zach was going to tell him after the season. Before everything—” I stop. Before Game 5. Before Luca.
Rodriguez nods slowly. “Okay. After.” He looks down the hallway toward Zach’s door. “I’m going to go knock on that door and bring him his coffee and we’re going to go eat breakfast and I’m going to act normal and he’s going to focus on the game and we’re not going to talk about this. Can you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Don’t text him about this. Not today. Let him have today.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” He straightens up and puts on a version of his face that almost looks like regular Rodriguez. “Okay. I’m going. I’m walking to his door. I’m being normal. This is me being normal.”
He walks down the hallway. Then stops and turns back.
“Linda Smith,” he says flatly. “You panicked and said Linda Smith.”
“I know.”
