“Or what?” Simeon shouted.
Joe’s attention shifted to me. It seemed like he was waiting for a reaction, or a cue, but I had nothing for him. It was the first time we’d been in the same room since Thanksgiving, and I had a hard time looking at him. The only reason he was still getting paid was because of Noah vouching for him, and because . . . I’d floundered when left to my own devices. Buried my head in the sand for weeks. Until Noah’s email had snapped me out of it and prompted me to start handling my own business, my own fan mail, and my own damn cooking. But I hadn’t replied, because it had felt too much like an email from a platonic friend. My brain had more trouble coping with that reality than this new debacle.
Right now, panic should have been spreading through me like an uncontrollable blaze, but I felt nothing. Just numbness that Noah and me had ended things, and this was happening anyway. I’d lost him . . . for no reason.
Joe turned to Simeon again. “Or you can come out yourself, in your own way, before the story runs at the end of the week.”
“What?” Simeon cried at the same time I muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I waited for Mel’s input, given the grim expression on her face. She spread her hands, but I didn’t know if it was in helplessness or frustration. Or both. There had been very few times in her career when her hands had been tied, but two of her most well-known clients having identical scandals was likely enough to make her hair turn white. How would she make money off us if there was no one willing to pick us up after our contracts ended?
It was a cutthroat way to look at it, but this was a cutthroat business. Half the time a football player got a big break was after someone more famous got injured or aged out. We made our livelihoods on the backs of other people’s misfortune. This was just one of the rare times when my existence was a misfortune, and it was screwing Mel over too.
“Listen,” she said when the silence in the room became too much. “We can fight this. Ignore it. Threaten to sue anyone who publishes it. The rumor will still be there and people will still wonder and question, and maybe your own teammates won’t let you live it down, but we can do our best to silence it.”
“And will doing our best stop it?” Simeon asked. “Can we kill the story before it goes live?”
“We can try,” she said again.
“Trying isn’t good enough! They’ll just go to someone else. Or put it on social media.” Simeon started pacing again, this time while shaking his head and muttering under his breath. With each word, his accent grew thicker. “I knew that damn fool still had the video on his cloud. Fucking knew it.”
“You’re awfully quiet over there, Gavin.”
I looked at Joe and scoffed out a laugh. “What do you want me to say?”
“This is your life and career. I want you to say what you want us to do.”
“Oh, now you want to know what I want?” The mocking in my voice likely could have cut through language barriers. The universal undercurrent of fuck you. “About a month ago, you screwed up the only decent relationship I’ve ever had without waiting to get my opinion on the matter.”
“I was looking out for you. And you know that. That’s why I’m still here.”
“You’re here because Noah believed you had my best interests at heart. I still think you’re a fuckboy.”
Simeon had stopped wearing a path in my carpet to pause and stare at us. He’d heard the story, of course, several times, but it was the first time I’d said it in front of Mel. The fact that she didn’t look surprised or upset was one of the reasons I loved having her for an agent. Despite the nagging over social media accounts.
“If you didn’t trust me, you would have fired me despite what Noah’s opinion on the matter was,” Joe said flatly. “And if you do trust me, you need to tell me and Mel how you want us to tackle this. Do you want to fight the story?”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”
Simeon sank to the sofa and put his head in his hands.
“And from where I’m sitting,” I said, “my biggest regret right now is letting my fear get to my head and then letting Noah walk out the door, since I’m still being outed. And by someone who doesn’t mean shit to me. I should have nutted up and done that shit myself so I could’ve kept the person who matters.”
Mel put a hand on my shoulder, but Joe just kept watching me with his shark eyes. Waiting for me to spit it out, save the emotional shit, and tell him how to spin this.
“If I dial up ole Spence and ask if he can do a follow-up interview to post like, tomorrow, what are my odds?” I asked, shifting my attention to Mel. “Doomed?”
“If I judge the Barons by the standard of toxic bullshit that dominates most locker rooms? A Super Bowl win with Phil as their tight end would mean we’re fucked,” she said matter-of-factly. “They won’t think they need you to win. Let alone a bisexual you. And your other scandal would give them an excuse beyond your sexuality, so they’d come out of it without being labeled as homophobes.”
It was what I’d expected, but it still took my breath and darkened the edges of my vision. Could I live with retiring this young? Technically I could. I’d have enough money to never have to do anything else another day in my life. But could I cope with not having football in my life? With never again wearing pads or being on a football field? Seeing the turf or the crowd or the lights so high above of us all? Last summer I would have said no. I hadn’t thought I could go six months.
In Noah’s email, he’d said it was time to start trusting myself. The fact that I’d made it through my house arrest intact without setting foot on the turf should have proved it to me. But the reality was that I’d survived because of him.
I’d not only survived, but for the brief moments we’d had together, I’d been happy. Without football. After he left is when it had all gone to shit. And yet, I’d chosen the sport over him.
“Simeon can do what he wants,” I said, looking at all of them. “But I’m not running and hiding anymore. Dial up my boy Spence. I’m done lying.”
***
Noah
Vice will be publishing my coming-out story tonight. Can you come over. Please?
The text came out of nowhere, and the ensuing panic attack was immediate. I’d never had a panic attack before, that I’d identified anyway, but this one was crippling. I had to sit on the floor with my head between my knees, sucking in even breaths until spots stopped dancing before my eyes, I stopped shaking, and my breathing evened.
I didn’t call Gavin until I had my shit together. And the fucker didn’t pick up. He didn’t pick up the ten times I called on my trek to the subway through the calf-deep snow, and he didn’t pick up once I’d gotten to Sutphin Boulevard to wait for the late train into Westhampton. There was absolutely no response to any of my pleas for an explanation until Joe called me while I was on the LIRR.
“Are you on your way?”