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“So you’re really pissed at me, huh?”
He wordlessly raised his wrist brace.
“And you’re gonna blame me for that whole thing?”
“You started that shit for no reason,” he said flatly. “Because you’re a homophobe who doesn’t like it when fags talk back on Twitter.”
Jaw dropping, for a long moment I could do nothing but scoff. “Are you—what—” I gestured at him. “That is the most bald-faced bullshit accusation I’ve ever heard.”
Simeon rose from his chair in a movement so fluid I didn’t have time to prepare before he was in my face. He planted a hand on either side of me and leaned in so close I could smell the coffee on his breath. I flicked my stare between his narrowed eyes and those full soft lips and swallowed. When one of his eyebrows gave an infinitesimal twitch upward, I lifted my chin and glared.
“How would you feel,” he said coldly, “if everyone around you used part of who you are as the butt of a joke?” Simeon’s fingers rose and pressed into the center of my chest. “People you respected. Other football players. Coaches. Managers. Fans. All of them. What if they all talked about how something deep inside you, something you can’t change and don’t want to change, makes you less of a fucking man? Of a football player? Makes you shady in the locker room?”
I looked down at his fingers then up at his face, holding my breath for who the hell knew what. Him to stop accusing me? Touching me? Hating me?
“The worst part of this bullshit with you is that back when I was with the Predators, I really fucking liked you, man.” Simeon released a harsh laugh. “There’s so many jokers on your team. Show-offs, braggy mofos, dudes who are more worried about fucking every night than putting in the work to win. DUIs, violence against spouses or even the press, all kinds of arrests for pitiful shit . . . and none of them gave a damn. It was disappointing, because I’d sworn all that was media spin.”
“Some of it is.”
“Nah. You’re lying to yourself, but I get it.” Simeon pressed harder. The imprints of his fingers would be on my skin later. I knew it. “But anyways, out of everything, you were the best part of being there. You were funny, didn’t treat me like a scrub just because I was new, and didn’t laugh during training when I said I’d be happy to even make third string. I liked you, man.”
Liked me how? Cringing, I tried to back off so he wasn’t touching me, but the desk had me caged in.
“But now I see that you’re just like them.”
“No I’m not,” I said quickly.
“Yeah. You are. You’re a big kid who grew up privileged with your rich baseball daddy and fancy lawyer mommy. This is all a game to you, dawg. I know it. You know it. Fuck, even Casey Rose knows it. But to me?” Simeon took a step back. “This is my life. This shit is everything to me. And I don’t have time for some fool who wants to ruin it just because me being gay makes him nervous.”
“You don’t make me nervous.”
Simeon smirked. “Yeah? Then why’re you sweating?”
A blustery protest formed in my throat, but he turned away and walked out before I could form the words.
Chapter Three
Simeon
Nothing made you feel more like a regular person than riding the subway in New York City. I’d driven down over the weekend to check out the situation in Williamsburg, but parking had been a nightmare.
It was all street parking with the cars real cramped together. I’d have a better chance walking from the Hamptons and getting to the community center on time rather than my ride remaining unscratched if I parallel-parked my truck every day.
Mel had suggested I rent a smaller vehicle, but I’d literally never driven a sedan and couldn’t see how I could fold my body into one. It was trucks or nothing. I gravitated to pickup trucks like diesel was in my veins. The probable reason I hadn’t been able to park my F-250 anywhere near Grand Street.
So today, the first day of a two-month punishment that I was convinced I didn’t deserve, I’d girded my loins for autograph seekers but had gone virtually unnoticed on the subway. No one had given a goddamn about my big ass squeezing into the two-seater on the E train or the L train. A few people had glanced my way, and I’d gotten more than a few long, admiring looks from dudes sweeter than my auntie’s pecan pie, but no one had approached.
I could fuck with New Yorkers.
Finding the Grand Street Center should have been cake since the subway had let me out at a station literally called Grand Street, but I got turned around twice before finding the place. It was easy to miss, and I had no idea where they thought we were going to teach these kids how to play football. There were probably a couple of small parks around, but where was the practice field and turf?
