Page 129 of These Secret Years

Straight porn has the one obvious disadvantage for me—there’s always a super hung dude in it, and that shit’s really distracting. But I am trying. And I think I need to find a girl who wants to wait until marriage. Maybe that way, I can get away with just kissing and a few gropes. Maybe I will like her enough to marry her. Maybe she’ll hate the idea of having sex with me as much as I won’t want to have sex with her, and then I can at least look like all the rest of the men in my family.

It won’t be forever. If I can put everything off long enough—if I get a vasectomy or something, I won’t have to have kids with her, so when I’m done with football and we get divorced, I’ll be free to be whoever I want—with whomever I want.

It’s the best plan I can come up with, and I really should get started on it, but the idea of leaving Sullivan behind—the idea of letting someone else take the place that should be mine at his side or in his bed—it’s almost enough to make me want to flip houses for a living instead.

Almost.

He told me once, though, after he’d finally come to a couple of my games, that he thought I was incredible. That he understood why I was pursuing this particular dream, and that he supported me a hundred percent. That I deserved the chance to play in the biggest stadiums under the brightest lights. To wear as many Super Bowl rings as I could get. To change the world in that unique way a great athlete can.

But sometimes, when I want to be closer to him so much it feels impossible to resist the gravity between us, my childhood dream feels petty and unimportant. That last night in the tunnel—fuck. That anything else could matter more than the chance to be there for him—to hold him—especially something as generally pointless as football, well, it made me feel like a selfish asshole. And, in no small part, a fucking masochist.

I try calling him again when I haven’t heard from him. He doesn’t answer. I try FaceTime, too. It’s late, midnight, and I’m in the hotel bathroom with the water running so D will think I’m just taking a long shower, but Sullivan doesn’t answer that call either.

I try texting again.

Me

Please check in with me. I’m worried.

I wake up after having way too many dreams to find a response from him.

Sullivan

Hey. Sorry my phone was dead. I’ll be watching your game today, so make it good for me.

The relief? I can’t even explain it, and of course I can’t keep myself from going back into the bathroom, running the shower and calling him.

This time he picks up with a shaky and semi-breathless, “Hey.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Let your phone die. I was about to freak out.”

“Don’t freak out. You have a game.”

His voice sounds weird. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s like it lacks depth. I need him to say more. “How are you, though?”

“I’m okay. I’m home, actually.”

“Really?” Thank God. “In Michigan?”

“No, I mean, back at the house with Chelsea. I’ll be in Michigan for Christmas, though. I just needed to…” He trails off.

“Hey,” I say, still not convinced he’s all right. “We’re coming back Sunday morning. If you’re around⁠—”

“Won’t you need to rest? You should probably rest. You’re gonna play your ass off today, remember?”

He should want to see me. He usually wants to see me when I get back from an away game. The alarm that was threatening to go off inside me when he first picked up the phone blares loud and red. “Yeah,” I say. “You’re probably right. And yes, I’ll play my ass off. Are you really gonna be watching?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he tells me.

I’m tempted to give him a signal to watch for during the game—three pats on my hip or something so if the camera catches it, he’ll know that play is for him, but I bite all that back because it’s something a boyfriend would do.

“All right…I better go get breakfast or something.”

“Have a great game, okay?” And there it is. The break in his voice, the tell that he is absolutely not okay.