The second he was within arm’s distance, his duffle hit the ground at my feet and we reached out at the same time. It wasn’t a quick embrace. I’d waited what felt like endless hours for the feel of his chest against mine. His arms were my favorite place to be, and I didn’t care who was uncomfortable at the sight of two grown men embracing in the middle of the airport, because I needed the feel of him like I needed oxygen in my lungs.
The softness of his shirt was welcome against my forehead when I pressed it against his shoulder. The tips of his fingers dug into my sides, and I felt the brush of his lips along the side of my hairline.
“I kinda fucking missed you, Forrester,” he murmured.
“I’m not doing this again, frat boy.” I vowed, and I truly meant it. The next time he had to travel for work, I was going, too.
“C’mon,” he said, releasing me and tossing his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We held hands through the crowds; we held hands almost everywhere we went these days.
Some people stared. Some people made faces. A few made lewd comments.
Some people smiled.
Sometimes it still bothered me, but most of the time, I felt sorry. Sorry for the people who were so closed off about everything that they would never get to experience the kind of love I felt with Trent.
The best days, though, were when no one even noticed at all. As if two people in love weren’t anything to even notice, as if it were a natural occurrence.
Maybe someday it would be like that always.
“So,” I asked as we headed out into the warm sunshine, “how was your first official business trip for the NRR?”
The NRR was what the division settled on as a name. New Revolution Racing. I liked it; it fit. After Trent’s article and cover ran, the word revolution took on a life of its own in the indie community.
We were a revolution on many fronts, and the new division was taking over, the popularity of the “new” sport even more than Gamble anticipated. The preliminaries were huge, the competition was fierce, and with the actual racing season about to begin, I knew it was only going to get bigger.
Trent’s passion and smarts for business and finance earned him a job offer from Gamble himself. He was now employed by the NRR and handled a lot of the financials but also some of the business side of the division. When Gamble first offered him the position, he was skeptical for two reasons:
1.) He didn’t want the job because of who he knew. He wanted it because he deserved it.
and
2.) He still wanted to be my manager.
I told him the only way he could prove he deserved the job was to take it and do it well. So he accepted on the condition he still be allowed to manage my career and be at all my races.
Gamble accepted because, after all, I was just another extension of the racing and one of his investments. What was good for me was also good for him.
Gamble wasn’t the only owner of the NRR; it was too big for just one man to own. Now there were three different investors, and they all had a vote in how it was run, so technically, Trent wasn’t working for Gamble, but for a corporation Gamble partly owned.
I didn’t care really. I just wanted T to be happy, and it seemed like he was.
“It was good,” he answered, throwing an arm around my neck as we entered the short-term lot where I’d parked the Fastback. “Busy, but good. I’m excited about this season.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But no more business trips without me. If you can travel to all my races, then I can travel to all your meetings.”
“I can live with that.”
At the car, he didn’t get in. Instead, his duffle hit the hood and the sound of the zipper brought up my head.
“What the hell are you doing, frat boy?”
“I got you something.” He grinned.
“Yeah?” I abandoned the door and came back around.
Nodding, he reached inside his bag and pulled out what looked like a rolled-up T-shirt. It was gray, and he held it out.
I took it and let it unravel, shook it out, and held it up. Laughter bubbled up as I stared at the front. It was a vintage-looking tee, and in the center was the huge label for Heinz ketchup.
I lowered it enough so I could look at Trent. He was smiling wide. “You had to have it.”
I tossed the fabric on the hood and ripped the T-shirt I was wearing right over my head in the center of the lot. Trent ripped the tag off the new shirt and handed it over, and I slid it home.
“Looks good.” T nodded.
“You owed me a new favorite shirt anyway,” I said, taking in my old favorite shirt, which was stretched across his chest.
“I got you something else,” he said, reaching back in the bag.
“How the hell did you have time for shopping? I thought you were working.”
He shrugged. “I missed you.”
Sometimes, Trent’s voice still dropped with vulnerability. Sometimes, I still heard the hesitation when he expressed his deepest feelings.
I walked around the hood where he stood and squeezed between him and the front fender. My ass hit the car, and I spread my legs to make room for him to step close.
I didn’t care we were in the parking lot at a busy airport. All I cared about was making sure the vulnerability that sometimes haunted him was put back in its place.