“You know, at least one of those guys back there will print that we’re together now. So, uh, sorry in advance.”
Talon doesn’t seem fazed; he even smiles.
“Why’d the team send you? This a publicity stunt?”
“I asked to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you as much as Coach and the GM do.” He gives me the side-eye, and my gaydar pings, but I reckon I’m reading into it.
“Okay. Again, why?” I ask. “You know shit’s gonna go down that first day in any locker room I walk into. Why would you want to invite that into your team?”
“Because you’re a good player, I want you on my line, and … what they’re doing to you in the media is wrong.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Wow, are you a cynical bastard, or what? I don’t have to be gay to know homophobia is still a problem. And we both know how this industry works. Lie to magazines all you want about why you were dumped by the Bulldogs, but we both know the truth. When you have the stats you do, no one should care what you do at home.”
“I may be cynical, but you’re way too optimistic if you think no one will care.”
“So make them not care,” Talon says. “This is about football. You’re probably the most versatile tight end in the league.”
Okay, so I was questioning his sexuality right up until he said versatile tight end with a straight face. No gay man could do that.
God, I wish I had his type of faith. Ideally, my talent would get me a pass, but that’s not going to happen in the real world.
“I know the contract the Warriors offered you can’t be much, but we’re determined to make you sign with us. If we can take it to the Super Bowl this year, next year’s contract will triple what they offered.”
“It’d need to be more than triple,” I mutter.
“That bad, huh?”
“Your fault. Apparently.”
Talon smiles. “Someone has to fund the lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to.” He pats the dash of his car.
“And just when I thought we could be friends.”
“Yeah, yeah, Lambo man. I’ve seen your car in the tabloids. My baby could beat your baby in a fight.”
I laugh. “We gonna race for pink slips and have a rumble?”
“Only if you don’t sign the dotted line.”
If the rest of the guys on the team are like Talon, signing the shitty contract might not be so bad.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I take it out to look at the screen, I don’t know whether to be pissed off or laugh. “Motherfucker.”
“The photos from the airport hit the tabloids already?”
“Nah, Noah … uh, my boyfriend, took my little brother for a campus tour of my alma mater. At least, he was supposed to. The bastard took him to his instead. He sent through a pic of them at the Newport entrance with goofy-ass grins on their faces.” And even though it’s Newport, I’m jealous as all get out that I’m not there with them.
“Ah, the old Olmstead versus Newport debate.” Talon laughs.
“Olmstead wins on location alone. It’s not in Jersey.”
“Hey, I’m a Jersey boy born and raised.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
Talon laughs harder. “I’m messing with you, man. I’m originally from Denver.”
Talon’s easygoing nature makes me forget about locker room politics. I’m already comfortable around him, which is more than I can say for any of my teammates from the Bulldogs.
Talon pulls into the stadium and parks in the faculty parking lot.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
“Training facility’s here, and the GM is meeting us later, but I want to show you something first.”
He leads me through the back tunnels and corridors, taking me out to the field, and when he opens his arms wide—as if saying ta-da!—I look at him as if he’s lost his mind.
“I’ve seen the field. I’ve played here.”
“But have you ever looked at it like home?”
I shake my head.
“Picture it, Jackson. I can’t wait to make this place mine.”
The smell of turf, the grass beneath my feet, the imaginary crowd going wild … yeah, I could call any stadium home. It’s not the money holding me back, but the thought the Warriors management thinks I’m a risk. The others might not like playing with a gay guy. This is something I’ll have to face no matter which team I join, and if it’s a choice between less money but a great team or the millions I deserve and a hostile work environment, I’d pick less money every time.
“Do you know many guys on the team?” I ask.
“There’s Miller who I went to college with. Henderson did his captainly duties and invited me over for dinner with his wife and kids when I moved a few weeks back. Seems decent. There’s a few others I’ve hung out with after games.”
“Oh, God, you’re one of those players who hangs out with the opposition after games?”