repeating yourself.”
“Apparently it takes a few tries to get you to understand some things,” he says tardy.
“You know,” I say, “You go on about how football players like to beat up faggots and how we’re just primitive jocks and yet you seem happy to sit there at a table with a bunch of them, just begging for trouble. Why would you do that, huh? Why not just leave them alone?”
“Leave them alone,” he snaps. “Easy for you to say. Why don’t they just leave us alone?”
For a moment, I think he means me and him, not the collective non-football-playing gay population. Things come into focus, slowly. “Why can’t you let that go?”
“Just let it go. Don’t think about it. How appropriate for a football player.” He turns away.
I run after him, grab his shoulder. He wrenches it free and takes another couple steps. I glare at him. “That’s not fair.”
I can see his breath as he pants. “Neither was what happened to Brian.”
“Brian’s not here,” I point out. “I am.”
His ears go back, but not in an angry way. I see retorts flash across his eyes, but he bites them back and just turns away again.
I don’t have to run to catch him, and this time, he doesn’t pull away when I grab his shoulder and turn him towards me. Light mist hangs in the air between us, the fog of our breath combined with the chill of the night. His scent is strong in my nose; I can smell his anger matching mine, and all the other emotions below it. I feel like slapping him or screaming at him.
“Don’t just walk away from me, dammit!” I say, louder than is necessary.
“Oh, now I’m not supposed to just let it go? Didn’t you just want me to leave all those football players alone?” His eyes are piercing, challenging me, and I want to shake him, he’s being so frustrating. I grab his other shoulder and he puts his paws on my stomach, bracing himself to push away from me. We freeze there.
I can feel his heat, the pounding of his heart matching the quick lashing of my tail. My paws are tight on his shoulders, my blood is hot, and I’m thinking I should’ve just walked away. Let us both cool off, that’d be the sensible thing to do. But I don’t want to be cool. Part of my anger is knowing that he’s right, and I’m sure I see in his eyes that he knows that I’m right too. But there’s more in his eyes; the anger isn’t uppermost anymore, though it lingers in his scent. What I see there mirrors what’s battling with anger inside me, reflecting the change I can feel in my expression.
In a heartbeat, in the silence with his question hanging in the air, the tension between us changes, and we both feel it. We’re both all worked up, and it doesn’t matter that it was an argument that did it. We’re breathing hot and heavy, warming the night, and anger and bitterness are subsumed into something else as I look back into his blue eyes and say, “No… don’t let go.” Then I’m crushing him to me and we’re together and kissing in the middle of the street, and the chill of the night is gone. All I can feel is his heat against mine. Our clothes might as well not even be there. I’ve got one paw down on his tail and he’s cupping my butt in his and I thank god he’s in his blouse and skirt, because I didn’t even stop to think about what passersby might see.
“How many blocks to your house?” I pant raggedly when we wrench ourselves apart.
“Six,” he says, tongue lolling slightly out.
“We’ll get there faster if I carry you,” I say, and for once, he doesn’t spurn my help.
September 2006
And there’s still my one big secret left to tell.
It’s the morning of our first real game. Randy’s ritual to kick off the season is to be hung over Saturday morning, so when the phone rings, he howls and clutches his head. “Shut it off!!”
I grin and grab the phone. “Probably coach making sure we’re up,” I say, clicking the phone on. “Hello?”
“Hi,” his voice
“Apparently it takes a few tries to get you to understand some things,” he says tardy.
“You know,” I say, “You go on about how football players like to beat up faggots and how we’re just primitive jocks and yet you seem happy to sit there at a table with a bunch of them, just begging for trouble. Why would you do that, huh? Why not just leave them alone?”
“Leave them alone,” he snaps. “Easy for you to say. Why don’t they just leave us alone?”
For a moment, I think he means me and him, not the collective non-football-playing gay population. Things come into focus, slowly. “Why can’t you let that go?”
“Just let it go. Don’t think about it. How appropriate for a football player.” He turns away.
I run after him, grab his shoulder. He wrenches it free and takes another couple steps. I glare at him. “That’s not fair.”
I can see his breath as he pants. “Neither was what happened to Brian.”
“Brian’s not here,” I point out. “I am.”
His ears go back, but not in an angry way. I see retorts flash across his eyes, but he bites them back and just turns away again.
I don’t have to run to catch him, and this time, he doesn’t pull away when I grab his shoulder and turn him towards me. Light mist hangs in the air between us, the fog of our breath combined with the chill of the night. His scent is strong in my nose; I can smell his anger matching mine, and all the other emotions below it. I feel like slapping him or screaming at him.
“Don’t just walk away from me, dammit!” I say, louder than is necessary.
“Oh, now I’m not supposed to just let it go? Didn’t you just want me to leave all those football players alone?” His eyes are piercing, challenging me, and I want to shake him, he’s being so frustrating. I grab his other shoulder and he puts his paws on my stomach, bracing himself to push away from me. We freeze there.
I can feel his heat, the pounding of his heart matching the quick lashing of my tail. My paws are tight on his shoulders, my blood is hot, and I’m thinking I should’ve just walked away. Let us both cool off, that’d be the sensible thing to do. But I don’t want to be cool. Part of my anger is knowing that he’s right, and I’m sure I see in his eyes that he knows that I’m right too. But there’s more in his eyes; the anger isn’t uppermost anymore, though it lingers in his scent. What I see there mirrors what’s battling with anger inside me, reflecting the change I can feel in my expression.
In a heartbeat, in the silence with his question hanging in the air, the tension between us changes, and we both feel it. We’re both all worked up, and it doesn’t matter that it was an argument that did it. We’re breathing hot and heavy, warming the night, and anger and bitterness are subsumed into something else as I look back into his blue eyes and say, “No… don’t let go.” Then I’m crushing him to me and we’re together and kissing in the middle of the street, and the chill of the night is gone. All I can feel is his heat against mine. Our clothes might as well not even be there. I’ve got one paw down on his tail and he’s cupping my butt in his and I thank god he’s in his blouse and skirt, because I didn’t even stop to think about what passersby might see.
“How many blocks to your house?” I pant raggedly when we wrench ourselves apart.
“Six,” he says, tongue lolling slightly out.
“We’ll get there faster if I carry you,” I say, and for once, he doesn’t spurn my help.
September 2006
And there’s still my one big secret left to tell.
It’s the morning of our first real game. Randy’s ritual to kick off the season is to be hung over Saturday morning, so when the phone rings, he howls and clutches his head. “Shut it off!!”
I grin and grab the phone. “Probably coach making sure we’re up,” I say, clicking the phone on. “Hello?”
“Hi,” his voice
Similar Books
