Page 46 of These Secret Years

I close the phone before I say something truly desperate.

After the twins and I played fast and hard with the football out back until both of them were begging to take a break, I ran sprints until I wanted to puke, then I showered and settled back into bed to watch an old Super Bowl. It wasn’t the first one my dad played in, but it was the first he won.

I don’t know how many times I’ve watched it. I wasn’t even born when he played this game, but I do remember him showing it to me for the first time. He was proud of how he’d played and with good reason, but what really stands out about the game is the way the team works together. It was the thing I think he was always trying to get me to admire about this particular Super Bowl when I was a kid, but now that I’m a quarterback, I understand what he means. Back then, I was too mesmerized by my own father, and now that I have a deeper understanding of the game, and the fact that a quarterback is only as good as his offense, I notice the smaller things.

The way he pats someone on the ribs as they move into position, the way the other players orient themselves around him like they actually care about him and not the win. A team like that isn’t just a well-oiled machine. It’s a family, and the character of its leader is more important than anyone’s individual talent. At practice and on the sideline, the coach leads, but out there on the field, it’s usually the quarterback, the one calling the plays and making the decisions about whether to go with the original plan or default into another attack.

I told Gabe this before I moved out of the dorm—that his weird, forced fun UNO night was the catalyst for our group of freshman ballers to becoming a family that can win championships. Gabe cried at the compliment, and definitely needed a hug afterward, but I wanted him to know that these days it’s not always easy for guys to drop their guards and be themselves around each other. Especially guys like me. But we’re all better, stronger, and closer for it.

He confessed he’d been nervous, never having lived in one of the athlete dorms before, and that made me respect him even more for trying.

I’m so ready to play ball this season. I’m ready for my dad to see that I learned what he was trying to teach me. I’m ready to become a part of a real team—a family, and I’m ready to show the world what I can do—what I’ve trained my whole life to do. Football is the only thing outside my family that I’m allowed to love with my whole chest. And yeah, going down in history as one of the greats—that would make up for a lot. If I can’t live the life I want fully, then at least I’ll be able to help make it possible for someone else, especially if all they need is a hand up and not a full culture shift.

Tonight, however, it’s the life I’ll be missing out on that I’m thinking about as I pack to spend the night in the house where I’m meeting up with Sullivan. As the hours tick by, thoughts of him crowd out even daydreams about football.

I get to the address before eight. The house is a craftsman, which I’ve decided is my favorite style with its natural wood molding and built-in shelves. This one has a big fireplace in the modest living room and a traditional layout with lots of doors and hallways. All the rooms are furnished with decent-looking, if not cheap pieces. The couch is a three-seater facing the fireplace, flanked with two club chairs around a simple coffee table.

The kitchen table across the living room from the foyer is a rectangle of wood, already set with four place settings. The updated kitchen has green cabinets, gold fixtures, and a white quartz countertop, overly marbled through with gray.

I stock the refrigerator for the night with half a dozen eggs, a plate of cut-up fruit and some pre-marinated chicken I may or may not cook tonight. I have a salad, too. I’m past the point in the summer when I can allow myself to eat like shit. The hot dogs last week were both because I wanted them, and I didn’t know what I’d be able to cook in that old house, but I regretted them the next day when I felt sluggish and swollen.

I showered again before I got here, but with half an hour to go before Sullivan said he’d show up, I’ve run out of things to do besides be nervous, and I consider taking another one. It wouldn’t be to get any cleaner—I’m not sure that’s possible after all the extra measures I decided to take today for reasons I refuse to put a coherent thought to. But I could jerk off. It might help release some of this unbearable tension.

I can’t tell if meeting up with him tonight is stupid or clever. Sullivan didn’t tell anyone about me last year, but I have no reason to trust him other than that. What scares me about him is that I might like him so much it’s hard for me to care about lying low. Not when I want him in whatever way I can get him as much as I do. What I don’t get is why.

Yeah, he’s gorgeous. He kisses me and sucks cock like every non-football related fantasy I’ve ever had, but beyond that and the handful of things he told me about his girlfriend or music, I know nothing about what makes him tick. I don’t even know if he’s gay or bi or pan or whatever. I don’t know if he’s interested in me beyond knowing I can pass his algebra class for him, but then again, it’s not like it would actually be a good thing if he were. It’d be a fucking mess because I can’t have him anyway.

And here I am getting way ahead of myself again. I go ahead and take that shower and jerk off.

Sullivan shows up with a backpack and a violin case while I’m mindlessly watching one of my uncle Jake’s old games. Jake was a great quarterback, but not as well-known as my dad. Still, there’s something about the way he played that I’ve always admired. He was less deliberative. More aggressive. More exciting to watch in general. When the knock comes, it’s during a lull in the game where one of the other team’s players is down. I’ve watched this game enough times that I know the guy only sprained his ankle, but now I’m thinking about how the hell I’m gonna avoid getting majorly injured in the next few years. It seems impossible. It’s a little like the rest of my life depends on Dillon and Derek, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

When I open the door, my brain switches gears so fast, I get a head rush. Sullivan looks so good, he might as well be a hallucination or a clothed version of exactly what I was picturing when I got myself off in the shower.

He’s in a fucking black henley with the sleeves shoved up and thin gray joggers. His sneakers are white, and he’s not wearing any socks that I can see, revealing his ankles. Wrists and ankles for fuck’s sake. I’m like one of those Victorian perverts who gets hard at the sight of the slightest bit of skin.

What really doesn’t help is that my pants are as thin as his, and I should have thought about that when I was getting dressed. I forgot that I have zero control over the effect he has on me, but I didn’t forget how chronically horny I am, and therefore I should have known better.

He’s polite enough to keep his eyes on my face, and I try to keep mine on his, too, despite the urge to take off his clothes and study every inch of him. See the rest of the tattoo on the inside of his right forearm that I can already tell is a violin.

He takes a peek around the place as I step aside to let him in. “This is nice.”

“I like craftsmans.”

“What are we talking about? I assume it’s something to do with the house and not like—arts and crafts.”

“That’s actually another name for it, so I can’t tell if you’re talking about the house either, but I am. It’s an architectural style.”

“You don’t have to go into detail.” He sets his things down on the kitchen table. “I’ll take your word for it. I’m just saying it’s nice.”

It’s not that Sullivan is rude or all that abrupt, but he has this way of making me feel much smaller than my size, making my own intellect feel dull even though he’s the one who can’t pass something as simple to me as college algebra.

“Are you spending the night?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because houses look different in the morning.”