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“Hardly.”
“Last season, your face was all over television; replays of your gameplay were streamed into millions of homes.”
My stomach churns. I love football, and it still blows my mind that I can make a living doing what I love, but the idea of that many people watching me, knowing my name, and thinking they somehow know me makes me uneasy.
“It didn’t last long. Our season ended and everyone moved on.”
“Why do you want them to?”
I don’t reply.
“You do want to play for the NFL?”
“Yes.”
“The two kind of go hand in hand. What if—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to suggest.”
“You’re going to tell me that I have to trust you. That you know what’s best for me and my career.”
“Umm, no.”
Wait…what?
“Okay, so what were you going to say, then?”
He takes another mouthful of his steak and vegetables, eyebrows rising slightly. Is he trying to think of something else to say because I was right and he was about to repeat the same bullshit I’ve heard for almost two years?
Jase swallows and takes a sip of water.
“I was going to say, what if I can find you an endorsement you want? One that you support, that you can put your name to honestly?”
“I don’t think that will work, either.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want the world knowing who I am—not the real me, anyway.” Crap. Not what I wanted to say, and now the words are out there, he’s ready to jump onto them.
“So there’s a fake you?”
“Not fake.”
“Then what?”
“Not the whole me, I guess. The me that’s reserved for my family and friends—the people who know me—not the ones who think they do because they watched a bunch of games I kicked in.”
“Like the fact you can cook. Things like that?”
It’s more than that—he has to know. It would be in my file for sure.
Fuck it.
“I don’t want to be only known as the gay kicker from Cleveland, okay?”
He coughs on the piece of steak he was chewing and grabs his water.
