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George came back a couple of hours later. Joq found him in the kitchen. He was bracing his hands on the bench, shoulders hunched with his head hanging between them.
“It’s over,” he said before Joq could speak.
“What happened?” Joq asked, faux-sympathetically.
George shook his head. “He wouldn’t let me in.”
Joq sighed. He didn’t know what to say. How did one sympathise when their boyfriend had an emotional affair on them? All he felt was anger, which was finally giving way to some relief.
“Sorry,” he settled on, a moment too late.
George dragged in a deep breath. “No, I’m sorry,” he looked up and out at the pool, exhaled roughly. “It was more than fucking. For me. It was unfair to you.”
Joq could see George’s eyes shining from the light from the microwave and he knew the sentiment was sincere. He thought that would make him feel better. He’d known it was more than fucking, of course he had, he hadn’t turned into a villain from some psychopath movie over nothing. But the confirmation broke his heart just a little bit more.
“It’s okay,” he managed. “It’s over now.”
“It is,” George said firmly. He stood tall and carefully didn’t touch Joq as he went for the fridge, grabbed a beer, then headed outside.
Joq stood in the darkness of the kitchen and watched George sit in the cabana, drink his beer, eyes on the pool, every inch of him a picture of defeat.
31
His phone was pinging. Joq groaned and rolled over, stretched his arm out. The bed was empty. Cold. His phone pinged again. And again. He rolled back and slapped his hand on the bedside table until he found it and brought it into his line of sight.
News notifications. A few texts. Finn’s name and season over?
Joq sat up and clicked on the top story.
Finnegan Flynn out for the rest of the season for mental health reasons.
Joq sucked in a breath and read the story. It was short and to the point: Finn was out, some bullshit about the side-effects of his concussion leaving a lingering depression and he wouldn’t finish the season.
His phone pinged with a new notification.
Breaking: Finnegan Flynn traded.
No way, no team would trade a player over this, it’d be public relations suicide—
Then he read the article: Trade was requested. Sydney. Closer to home. To family and friends with his current difficulties.
Joq flung the covers off and went downstairs. George was pulling his shoes on.
“Did he tell you?” Joq asked.
“He won’t take my calls,” George replied and slammed out the door.
Well, fuck.
Joq watched the news and Talking Heads all day with a mix of horror and fascination. There was a lot of quiet speculation, but everyone carefully talked around it. No one was going to call bullshit on a player for citing mental health problems, even if it seemed a lot of them wanted to call the kid a pussy who couldn’t handle being that far away from home. Combine this drama with his late entry to the league because of a slow recovery from injury and Joq could see the presenters were trying very hard not to call him weak.
It was late when George came back.
Joq stood from the couch. “Did you speak to him?”
George shook his head. “He’s gone.”
“Whaddya mean he’s gone?”
