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“Oh,” is the best I can manage in response to that. Brad looks excited enough for both of us. When we stand, preparing to leave, he places a hand on my shoulder and leans forward. For one dizzy moment I think he’s going to kiss me on the mouth, and I almost push him away. Instead, he pecks me first on one cheek and then the other, like he’s fucking Italian. Somehow, barely aware of the words coming out of my mouth, I convince him to leave without me. The second he’s out the door, I look for Anthony.
I find him, tucked into a back corner in what might be the darkest part of the room. Gingerly, so as not to trip or run into any tables, I make my way over to him. He doesn’t see me coming; he’s sitting alone, face down and scrolling through something on his phone. He’s still wearing the athletic clothinghe was wearing when he left SCU, and he’s still sexy. It pisses me off.
“Hey,” I say, stopping at his table. It comes out exactly as unfriendly as I mean it to. He looks up, surprised, but grins when he sees it’s me.
“Nico.” He peeks around me. “Did your date leave?”
“Are we going to have a problem?” I bite out, and his eyebrows rise. Slowly, he places his phone face down on the table.
“What?”
“Are we going to have a problem?” I enunciate each word clearly, speaking slowly. My body can’t decide if I’m nervous or angry; I feel clammy with cold sweat, and my hands are shaking slightly.
“No,” he replies, equally as slow, drawing the word out as though it has a string of o’s. “But it seems like maybeyouhave a problem. What’s going on?”
“I told you earlier that I had a date tonight, and you just saw me here with a man. I’m gay.” Perhaps he needs me to be explicit. I’m not convinced he’s the sharpest tool in the shed. “Nobody at work knows, and I’d prefer it to remain that way. So, I’ll ask again, are we going to have a problem?”
I’m standing close to him, and am focusing very hard on his face. Even in the low light, I can see the exact play of emotions as they race across his face: surprise turns to momentary confusion, before it settles on anger. His black eyes narrow on mine.
“Are you asking me if I have a problem with you being out with another man? What the fuck do you think I’m going to do, send out a memo to the college staff to let them know that a homosexual is among them?” He stands, suddenly, and I have to take a step back to keep his chest from brushing mine. “That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’m a homophobe?”
“You were hired as a temporary member of the coaching staff, so if you don’t want to work with me, I can make an excuse for you and we can call it a day.”
The look of rage he gives me has me wondering if he’s going to throw a punch. I stand up straighter. I’m taller than him, but he’s wider and has been playing in the NHL for the last two years while I spent the majority of my time in a hospital bed. Not exactly a fair fight, but I’m willing to take my chances.
“Fuck you,” he says, but snaps his mouth closed as the server walks up with a plastic bag bulging with to-go containers.
“Here’s your food, Mr. Lawson, I apologize about the wait.” The woman eyes the pair of us warily, correctly reading the tension. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you. See you next time, Bridget.” I’m impressed with his ability to smile at her, when it’s obvious he’s still seething. With a glance over her shoulder at us, Bridget walks away and Anthony turns back to me. “You’re right, I do have a problem with you, you miserable jackass. But not because you’re gay. I don’t give two shits who you fuck, though I’d be surprised if you could find someone to take you up on the offer.”
He bites out each word, anger morphing into offense. I stare at him, a little shocked. He’soffended, bristling with indignation. Snatching up the bags of food, he places a surprisingly gentle hand on my elbow, steering me toward the door.
“Outside,” he says, and I don’t argue. I’m sweating through my shirt in here.
He doesn’t let go of my arm when we reach the sidewalk, but firms his grip as though he knows I want to jerk away. If I do so now, it’ll look petulant. Steering us to the side of the bar, where we won’t be in full view of the patrons still inside, he tugs me around to face him and finally releases me. We stare at each other, silently waiting for the other to speak. Eventually, I breakeye contact in favor of pulling up the Uber app on my phone. If he wants to stand here and argue some more, he can have at it until the vehicle arrives.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
“Ordering an Uber.”
He tugs the phone out of my hands and I look up at him, aggravated. My insides feel like they’ve been sandpapered, everything catching up to me all at once. I want to gohome. I would turn around and start walking, if it wasn’t dark and I wasn’t fucking blind as shit.
“You don’t need an Uber. I can give you a lift,” he snaps, sliding my phone into his back pocket and stepping around me. He’s several strides down the sidewalk before I begin to follow, too tired to argue at this point. I’m certain that driving back to SCU is going to be far out of his way, but don’t want to shout this at his retreating back. Resigned, I trail after him. He’s waiting next to an SUV when I make my careful way down the sidewalk, and he pops the passenger door open for me before quietly stepping around the front of the vehicle.
The silence inside the car is damning. In a perfect world, it would take forty-five minutes to get back to SCU; as it is, with traffic and my horrible fucking luck, it’ll probably take us over an hour. I lay my head back against the seat and finally close my eyes. It’s a relief to rest, even for just for a moment. It’s a credit to how anxious his arrival at the bar made me, that it didn’t dawn on me until now that he was in agay bar.
“Anthony.”
He grunts. “What, Nico?”
Despite myself, the response makes me smile. Nobody calls me Nico, and I’m fairly certain nobody calls him Anthony either. “Do you go to The Tailor a lot?” I purposely use the shortened version of the name; obviously he frequents it enough to know the wait staff by name.
“Yes.”
It would appear that he’s still pissed enough to not be particularly loquacious. “It’s a gay bar.”
“I swear to god, if you ask me if I’ve got a problem with queer people again I’m going to pull over and beat the shit out of you. Not because you’re gay, but because you’re an asshole.”
