Page 21 of Locked & Loaded

The way I kept telling myself he was arrogant because it was easier than admitting I cared that he didn’t seem interested.

That’s the part I should be losing my mind over. The fact that I can want a man. The fact that I can lie here in the dark and think about Rodriguez’s mouth and his hands and the way he looked at me earlier when I took off my shirt.

But instead of feeling wrong, it feels terrifyingly easy.

I’ve never been homophobic, but maybe that’s part of why this never occurred to me. I never had some big dramatic thing to push against. I liked women, I dated women, I slept with women, and that was enough evidence, apparently, for me to file the whole question away and never look at it again. Even when Roman came out, I didn’t suddenly start reevaluating myself. I was proud of him, furious at every reporter, player, and random fan who thought his private life was suddenly theirs to dissect, and still completely convinced I already knew what I was.

Apparently, I did not.

Because now I’m lying here in the dark, wanting Chris Rodriguez like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The idea should probably knock me flat.

It doesn’t.

I try to question it, because after thirty years of being sure, I probably owe myself at least one honest second of doubt. Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline from tonight. Maybe it’s because he admitted he used to want me, and now my ego is doing something stupid with that information. Maybe that fantasy I had earlier got shoved into overdrive by his confession, and I’m confusing curiosity with attraction.

Except I’m not.

Now that I’m actually letting myself think about him, there’s nothing vague about it. I want to kiss him. I want to touch him. I want to know what he’d sound like if I got my mouth on his neck, if I got my hands under that hoodie. I want to climb onto that narrow bunk and find out whether he still wants me too.

So no, apparently this isn’t confusion.

Rodriguez is hot. I want him. My brain has accepted both of those things with humiliating speed, and somehow that’s not the part turning my world upside down.

The part my brain can’t accept is that he wanted me before, and now he doesn’t.

Jesus.

A rustle comes from Rodriguez’s bunk. The sound of someone trying to shift position without being heard, which means he’s as awake as I am.

I keep my eyes on the ceiling.

For a second, I think about saying his name. Just that. Rodriguez. Maybe Chris, if I’m really trying to make this night weirder. I could ask him if he’s awake, even though I know he is. I could tell him I’m not weirded out or angry. I could tell him I’m only quiet because he just handed me a version of the world where he wanted me, and now I’m pissed off I somehow managed to fuck up the entire thing.

But he already retreated once. If I say the wrong thing now, he’ll probably disappear so far inside himself I’ll need a search party to get him back.

So I say nothing.

Moonlight shifts in thin lines along the ceiling, and I track them with my gaze. The train rocks. The wheels click.

And the longer I lie there turning the whole thing over in my head, the harder it is to pretend this started tonight.

Because wanting a teammate to stop freezing you out is one thing.

Realizing you wanted him to want you back is something else.

And if that’s what this was, the last three months start to make an ugly amount of sense. Him avoiding me because he wanted me. Me getting angry because I thought he didn’t. Both of us turning it into hockey because hockey is easier. Simpler. Something you can yell about without accidentally admitting neither of us knew what we were really fighting over.

Across from me, Rodriguez shifts again.

This time, I turn my head. He’s facing the ceiling now, but in the dim light I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed.

I should let him sleep.

I should sleep too.

Instead, I lie there staring at him, wide awake, with the worst possible realization settling through me.