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“You better do what she says. She don’t play,” I told him, then tugged him down so he sat on my lap. It wasn’t easy because neither of us were small guys, but we made it work.
“Don’t look so scared. I just wanted to officially meet my son’s boyfriend. I’m Bernice.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Patrick told her.
“Isn’t he gorgeous? I told you he’s gorgeous,” I said, rubbing his lower back.
“He is, but you say that like I don’t know who Patrick Whitt is. I watch him play nearly as much as I do you. And stop embarrassing him. His cheeks are pink.”
“Hey! You’re not supposed to watch my rival team!” I teased, then brushed my lips against his face. “I like him pink.”
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said. I could tell he was trying to act like this wasn’t a totally different experience for him. Patrick’s family wasn’t like mine.
“I already asked Malik, but how are you holding up, Patrick?” Mama asked him.
“I’m doing okay. Glad we get to play next week. I just don’t want him to lose anything because of me. I’m sorry this has turned into such a mess. If it comes down to it, I’d retire before I let him lose his career.”
How had I ever not realized how big his heart was?
“Don’t do that. Don’t make it sound like any of this is either of your faults. It’s not. It’s them. You didn’t do anything wrong. Like I told Malik, the two of you just need to stick together. And if shit gets real, I’ll get involved. They don’t wanna mess with a mama if they hurt her son or his boyfriend.”
I laughed, so fucking grateful for her, grateful that she was involving him, too, and showing him he was accepted.
“I will. I’ll stick by him,” Patrick told her. “Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for. I’ll expect you home for Christmas.” She grinned at both of us, then said she had to go. Patrick slid into the other chair as I ended the call.
“She’s great,” he said softly.
“Yeah, she is. And she meant every word she said. Did you look online?”
He nodded, his jaw tense, telling me it wasn’t good.
I went to Instagram first. The comments were a mixed bag. There was a lot of support, but there was a whole lot more shit-talking and name-calling than I would have liked to see—calling us cheaters, saying they didn’t believe we played at one hundred percent against each other, calling us traitors and saying we shouldn’t be allowed to play. Of course, there was homophobic stuff, too.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” I turned off the phone.
“That we play our fucking asses off and prove them all wrong? Show them who they’re fucking with and what they would be missing without us?” Patrick grinned.
“Fuck yes. That’s my man.” I replied. “God, I love you.”
I was going to do everything in my power to make sure this was my best season in the league. I was bringing home that motherfucking ring, and I knew Patrick was going to be fighting just as hard for it.
* * *
The Rush were on-fucking-fire.We won the next three games following my suspension. Everything clicked on the field. It was like we were in tune, mentally connected in a way I wasn’t sure I had ever experienced.
I think we all wanted to prove the haters wrong—me, Rams, Atwood, and Garrett more than anyone, because we were all queer and in relationships with other men. We stuck together, all of us having something to prove, even if it was in different ways, but there was no way the three of them weren’t going to fight like hell to make sure the people who doubted us, who doubted me, were proven wrong.
The really fucking cool part was that the Royals were kicking ass and taking names, too. While I wasn’t technically supposed to be rooting for them, I couldn’t deny that I’d maybe jumped on my couch celebrating when they won their third game in a row as well.
We were playing St. Louis at home tonight, and it was the closest game we’d had since all the drama started. It was basically like we were just taking turns scoring or stopping each other. Every time one of us scored, the other did, hitting their PATs, too, which kept the game tied a lot of the time.
It was the third quarter, and we were down by seven. We only needed one yard for the first down, so Ramsey, who’d been on all night, went for the quarterback sneak, getting us two yards on the play.
When we were in the huddle, I said, “They’re keeping their asses on Atwood and McRae. Why don’t we go for the sweep play and get the ball in Ward’s hands and see what he can do with it.”
Ramsey eyed me, trusting my gut, and gave a quick nod.
