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Well, that was depressing. The Barons’ locker room had never been that grim.
“Y’all still have a shot,” I offered. “If—”
The speakers boomed loud cheers and an excited shout from the commentators.
“Brawley is on the move!”
I glanced at the screen again, unable to keep from grinning and jumping to my feet as Gavin charged down the field with the ball. One of the Predators’ safeties went for a tackle, managed to only grab him around the waist, and Gavin just kept going. I was shocked the ref didn’t throw a flag for the contact.
“Gavin Brawley carrying Swoops,” the commentator shouted as Gavin dragged the safety a few more yards. “The beast is out of its cage, and it’s not fair!”
We watched as Rocky Swoops dropped to the turf right before the Predators’ end zone. Gavin spun, finally losing his balance, but brought his right foot down just in time to gain enough leverage to launch himself into the end zone.
Adrián sucked his teeth and sat back on the couch. “We ain’t winning shit.”
There were thirty seconds left in the game, and the Barons were up by eleven points. He was probably right that they weren’t winning shit, so I did him a favor and shut off the television.
“Look at it this way, boo. You still have the nicest uniforms in the League besides the Barons. I dig the green and navy.”
Adrián stared at me blankly for several seconds before breaking into a loud laugh. He leaned over on the sectional, face pressed into the cushion as his entire body shook.
“That was the gayest shit you’ve ever said, Simeon.”
“More than me telling you how nice your piece was?”
“Yes. Even more than that.”
Made sense, since this little trick thought letting me deepthroat him wasn’t a homosexual activity if it was for a “game.” Athletes were deluded about the importance of competitions.
I walked over to him, making sure my crotch was angled in front of his face. I knew for a fact the joggers I wore made my dick look great. He looked up, gaze fixed on my bulge before slowly climbing my thighs and the deep V tank that showed all kinds of skin. My plan was to torment him until he realized he wanted to fuck me. Or that was my hope. De-straightifying Adrián Bravo, the homophobic dipshit who’d screwed up my season, was a serious goal.
“What do you wanna do now?”
I shrugged. “The Patriots are playing the Bears.”
“No,” he said. “No more football.”
“Aiight, then what? Wanna watch the news?”
“Fuck no.”
“Weather channel?” I asked. “They said there’s a storm brewing in the Atlantic. May come up this way.”
Adrián snorted. “That’s unlikely to happen.”
“Never say never, doll face. I take that stuff seriously.”
He started to say something, probably to make a wisecrack, but stopped after digesting my serious tone.
“Right. Makes sense.”
The fact that he didn’t dive headfirst into a bunch of intrusive questions about my Katrina experience softened me up a bit. The guy was more intuitive than anyone ever gave him credit for. “Eat? Drink?”
“I could use a drink.”
As stressed as he was over his team, he probably could.
“Beer or bourbon?”
“Bourbon.”
“Good man. Might as well indulge since we’ll be sitting on our asses for the next five weeks.”
Adrián glanced down at his shoes, and I walked away before he could apologize again. Truth be told, I didn’t want his apologies. I didn’t want his sad faces and hangdog expressions. I didn’t want him to keep trying to be my friend.
I wanted us to fuck so he could know how it felt to be a queer in a homophobic industry, and then regret everything he’d ever said while in his feelings about something that had happened years ago. I wanted him to understand.
After turning on some music and grabbing two tumblers and a bottle of Woodford Reserve, I returned to the living room. Adrián had turned the television on again and was now moodily watching highlights. Except for the moments when they focused on his backup, most of the highlights were Barons glory moments. Awkward.
I set the bottle on the coffee table and pressed a tumbler into his hand. “Drink.” He downed it in one shot, not looking away from the television, so I poured another. I stood in front of him. “Drink again.”
He took the glass and downed it again, this time not taking his eyes off me. “You trying to get me drunk?”
“Fuck off, Bravo. It’d take ten more to get your big ass wasted.”
“Truer words have never been spoken, gorgeous.”
“You talk to everyone that way?”
“Nah. Makes Rocky and the other guys cagey. That man is severely allergic to any kind of affection between two dudes.”
I laughed and sat beside him, nursing my drink. “Like you’re not?”
“Pssh. No. My mommy raised me not to fear nicknames and hugging.”
“But not kissing.”
Adrián grew quiet for a second before launching himself to his feet. He grabbed the neck of the bottle and refilled his glass without drinking. It was dwarfed in his large hand, and I took the moment to admire him. He was wearing all black for the first time since we’d started seeing each other on a near-daily basis. Usually he wore bright colors, making sure everyone noticed Adrián Bravo—gorgeous Boricua, celebrated linebacker, and center of everyone’s attention. Now it looked like he was going to a funeral. He’d known they were gonna lose.
