Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Soon, the other guys pour in. Hayden and Isaiah join Carter and me on stools at the counter while Miles and Evan grab tables.
Shep and a few staffers serve us food and dessert. I thank Shep for the ice cream, then dig into a cup of dark chocolate with cinnamon.
Carter tastes his everything ice cream, then gives a satisfied sigh and hoists his cup victoriously. “And with one bite, I’m over Izzy.”
The other guys chime in with hear-hears, and you can do so much better. “But I’m getting back on the apps,” Carter says. “Like, tonight.” Then he turns to me. “What about you, Beck? Are you seeing someone?”
The place goes weirdly quiet. I half wish I could live off the radar. Get a little cabin somewhere, fish all day, read all evening, and cook a gourmet meal.
But these guys are my teammates.
When I was in Los Angeles, I didn’t get up on the bench in the locker room and announce my orientation, but I didn’t hide it either. It came out in conversations, the way it always has for me. I’m not the only queer pro athlete in San Francisco. I hope no one has a problem with it, but if they do, that’s on them.
As the guys look at me, waiting for an answer to an innocuous question, that unfinished feeling swims up once more.
But the only way to complete a pass is to throw the ball.
“Nope. I haven’t dated in a while. A woman or a man,” I add.
Carter pauses, spoon in midair.
Isaiah knits his brow, maybe connecting the dots.
Then Hayden flashes a grin. “Same here,” he says, his smile growing even wider.
I blink. Wait. Our kicker is bi?
“Yeah?” I ask the wiry, curly-haired guy who rarely misses the goalposts.
“Yes,” he says, then picks up his burger and takes a big bite.
I try to hide a grin, but I have little luck with that. “Cool,” I say.
“Totally cool,” Carter seconds, then clears his throat. “Also, did you know ice cream cures everything?”
Including nerves. I finish the dark chocolate, and it’s delicious. It tastes like a reward.
The team is just the start. But for now, I’ll let myself enjoy that important step.
Shep won’t let us pay, so I stuff several big bills into a tip jar when he heads to the back to clean up. When we leave a little later, I glance at the street sign on the corner.
An address flashes through my head, thanks to a photographic memory.
Jason lives on Jackson Street.
I can picture his house perfectly.
I can feel, too, how much I wanted to go back there a year ago. Maybe how much I still do.
When I hop into Carter’s car, I hope he has to take this route to drive me home.
I rein in a private grin as he turns onto Jason’s street.
As soon as we hit his block, I’m stealing peeks to the left. Once his home comes into view, I catch my breath. A light shines in his living room. The blinds are down. But he walks past the window, and I can make out the shape of his shoulders, the silhouette of his strong body as he moves through his house.
Later, I picture the rest of the scene once I’m home alone.
I’m naked in bed, under the covers, imagining another silhouette in Jason’s window—me on my knees, him on the couch, his hands wrapped tight around my head, his noises and grunts guiding me home as I make good on our bet.
9
PRE-GAME RITUALS
Beck
The next morning, I sink onto the oversized beanbag in my living room, breathing out to a count of four, then in for a count of eight, visualizing being calm and competent. And also not vomiting.
Hey, everyone has a pre-game ritual. Until high school, mine was barfing.
When my brother Griffin found out, he told me it ran in the family.
Not vomiting, but anxiety.
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret that can fix that issue,” my brother said one Friday when I’d been a mess of nerves before a game.
“Seriously? There’s a solution for this?” I’d figured if I ever made it to the pros, I’d be known as the barfing quarterback.
“Meditation will do you wonders. It did for me. Did for Dad too.”
“You’re just telling me this now? Yakking before kickoff is a trait the men in this family pass onto each other?”
He’d laughed in the kitchen as he made a sandwich. “Now you’re old enough to know. And good enough. Wait, make that better than Dad or I ever were.”
Griffin introduced me to guided meditation, and, holy shit, it worked.
Now, this is my pre-game ritual—so much better than vomiting—and I find it works before big media interviews.
On Monday morning, once I’m settled into the comfy chair in my apartment, I open one of my apps and click on a five-minute session.