“Yes. It makes me want to punch you in the face.”
“Like that’s different from other times?”
“Yeah, because it makes me think you’re also trying to drive me to quit. Are you?” I spotted a slight upturn to the side of his mouth. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Nope.”
“You’re full of shit.”
Gavin pointed. “See? That attitude right there is why I talk so much shit to you. You dish it back with barely a hesitation, and sometimes you initiate it, so I figured you didn’t pay me any mind. If you’re gonna go cry about it, I’ll leave you alone. We can just never speak for all the fuck I care.”
“So not speaking, or you tormenting me about my sex life. Those are my options?”
“I’m gonna be me regardless, baby.”
“Fine. Then expect me to be me in return. No more filter.” I sat down on one of the oversized leather arm chairs. “Case had to reschedule our date, but it was fine because I wanted to focus on researching and getting here early. And yes, I know I still failed.”
“If you stayed your ass here overnight it wouldn’t be this much of a struggle.”
I couldn’t argue with that truth. “And maybe if you got laid yourself, you’d stop being so obsessed with what I’m doing in my spare time.”
“Probably not.” Gavin looked me up and down again, slow and deliberate, and absolutely filthy. “It amuses me to picture you getting fucked.”
For the umpteenth time in the past week, I was struck silent. Was he teasing me or hitting on me?
“You’re an uptight little bastard. I bet you spend the whole time trying to keep silent.”
He was definitely teasing me. That was easier to handle than the idea of him wanting to use me for easy-access brojobs. He wouldn’t be the first straight guy to assume the gays would flock to him the first time he offered to whip out his dick with the lights off. The “a mouth is a mouth, a hand is a hand” philosophy. If he was hard up enough, I wouldn’t be too shocked if he briefly entertained the idea.
I straightened my back and turned my attention to the overflow of envelopes.
“There’s your first mistake, Brawley. Don’t let the good-boy manners and button-down fool you. I’m an Irish kid from Queens. You’ve got no clue how loud I can be.”
“You know what? You’re right. Judging by the way you just about tore up that pap, there’s definitely some fire,” he said, reaching out to yank at my collar. The tip of his finger grazed my collarbone. “Beneath that ugly-ass shirt.”
I edged away, but my heart had begun beating faster. What was it about this guy that had me either hot and bothered or heated and annoyed?
“Let’s get back to the charities.”
“Fine, but I’m getting back to your inner rowdy Queens kid later. I like that version of you.”
Trying to ignore the compliment, I went on, “There’s a ton in New Jersey and the Tri-state Area in general. I have a list saved in my cloud that I wanted to go over with you.”
“Just tell me the best ones. We don’t need to go over every option.”
“There’s really no way to pick a best one because they all have good to them,” I said. “There are grant-making institutions—”
He leaned back again, long legs sprawled in front of him. “What’s that?”
“Foundations that collect donations and then redistribute them to people who have sent in grant proposals. Schools send in grants a lot, but also youth centers and shelters.”
Gavin rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, frowning thoughtfully at the envelopes.
“I dunno.”
“It’s not a fast and easy choice if you want it to have meaning,” I said.
“Who says I want it to have meaning? I’m just doing it because Mel Hawkins has been busting my balls over it for fucking years. She’s all about her athletes ‘giving back to the community.’ And she thinks it would help with PR.”
“Maybe so, but you wouldn’t be thinking so hard about it if you just wanted to throw a few million at the nearest charity and make sure the cameras showed up when you signed the check.”
“Whatever.”
Another point for Team Monroe.
“Just tell me your ideal situation, and I’ll make suggestions. This is my thing, remember?” When he kept giving me grumpy face, I added, “I’m not giving you a hard time or trying to soften you up. I’m genuinely interested in this making a difference, even if it’s just something you’re being forced to do. You may as well put your money to good use.”
He slowly relaxed, and I wondered if it really bothered him that much to think anyone was trying to change him. Another interesting Brawley-related nugget to churn over in my mind on the commute home.
“So, there’s this one kid.” Gavin ran a hand through his newly shorn hair, and heaved a slow breath. “He wrote to me and is from my old neighborhood. Goes to my old high school. Plays football. And he’s in the same situation I was in as a kid. I was hoping I could do something for him.”
I cocked my head. “What situation is he in?”
The question earned me a semi-incredulous stare. “You really didn’t look me up?”
“Not really. I mean, I found basic information. If you wanted me to know personal things about you, I figured you’d tell me on your own. Also, I don’t really care.”
Again, Gavin’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile before it flattened in the default slash. “I got no family. Grew up in the system. Never even had a foster home for more than a minute since I was a hard case.”
“Oh.” I winced. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Gavin. I didn’t realize.”
“Whatever, it’s not like you told my parents to dump me when I was born.” Gavin shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Anyways, this kid seems a lot like me. Anger problems, right? Can’t get a good foster spot because he gets bounced back into a group home after one fight too many. Football is his outlet. He wants it to save him like it did me. Wants to know how the fuck he can get out the way I did.”
He was trying to sound so tough, making his voice rough and impatient, like it was a chore to talk about all this, but I could see how much it affected him. Could see it in his downcast eyes and fidgeting hands. The way his shoulders hunched forward.
“I figured I could do something for him, but I don’t know what. I don’t know how to support the foster system, and it sucks so bad, I don’t know if I want to. I dunno if it’d get to him. And I don’t want to write him back some bullshit letter about how to go pro because less than one percent of high school athletes go pro. I looked up his stats and his damn team ain’t even ranked. Dunno why I’m surprised, since it’s my old team. It hasn’t been ranked since I played there a decade ago.” He spread his hands. “So, yeah. Any ideas you got are welcome as long as they aren’t trash.”
I nodded slowly, turning the idea over in my head, and held eye contact. He didn’t look away, not minding the scrutiny, and snickered at my spine-snapping, eye-widening, lightbulb moment.
“Is the sports program at your old high school well-funded? Like with a booster club or anything?”