HeartOn

by Amy Jo Cousins

  “Shoulder. Probably a career ender.”

  Carlos didn’t mention that he’d been glued to the TV the night Deion had taken the hit that separated his shoulder and torn his labrum. And that he’d pored over football blogs online for weeks afterward, looking for gossip about Josh’s college friend. It was kind of weird how obsessed he’d gotten about the guy, so nodding and passing Josh the serving dish seemed like the better move. “Sounds bad, man.”

  “Yeah.” Josh’s expression sobered for a moment, before he perked up again. “He spent enough time at the rehab facility to hook up with one of the nurses, though.”

  “Yeah, but that was months ago, right?” Benji asked, passing Carlos a platter of roasted vegetables sprinkled with goat cheese.

  “Dude, I love you,” Carlos said with reverence as he served himself a heaping portion, piling it on his plate next to the frittata that had already made him damn near orgasm with its explosion of fluffy eggs, gruyere, onion, and crispy fried potatoes in his mouth. He shoveled in another forkful and violated his ma’s ingrained manners long enough to speak with his mouth full. “Mmf. So good.”

  “You know my baby likes to feed people. Makes him happy as a grandma.”

  “I wish I knew how to make food this good,” Carlos said. “I think I got my dad’s cooking genes, and he’s all about the grill, not the oven.”

  “I swear, when we were looking at apartments, Benji drooled so hard over kitchen-counter space, I had to force him to look at any other rooms,” Josh said with a goofy smile as he glanced at Benji. “There was one place with a bathroom so tiny I’d’ve had to fold myself in half to take a shower, and he almost signed the lease without me just because it had one of those two-oven dealies in the kitchen.”

  “I came to my senses in the nick of time,” Benji said, waving a serving spoon imperiously.

  “Well, I will seriously come build you anything you want if you put on a spread like this every time I break out my toolbox.”

  “You know I love a man with a big toolbox,” Benji said with a blown kiss and a leer, and even Josh groaned at the sad joke. “Is Deion bringing Nurse Ratchet with him?”

  “Be nice, and no way,” Josh snorted. “If it’s been three weeks, he’s probably ready to move on to a new lady.”

  “How long is he staying?” Carlos asked, keeping his voice casual.

  “Almost two whole weeks!” Josh damn near bounced in his seat with excitement. “Arrives on Wednesday, leaves two Mondays later. I’m gonna try to convince him to move down here, so we gotta show him a good time.”

  “We have to show him the clinic and convince him he can find a place to land if the NFL doesn’t work out,” Benji interrupted, before turning to Carlos. “Josh is worried about Deion.”

  “Not worried,” Josh said, frowning at his boyfriend.

  “Okay, not worried. Concerned. Paying attention.”

  “I just remember what it’s like.” Josh grimaced. “The first time you have to deal with the rest of your life after football. It’s a big change.”

  Benji reached over and squeezed Josh’s hand. “I remember.”

  “And Deion’s always got a girl, but his girls are never the kind of women who are, you know . . . there for him. They barely get to know him before he moves on, so it’s not like he’s got someone to lean on.”

  Carlos always had a girl too, when he wanted one. So he knew Josh was right. That didn’t necessarily mean a damn thing.

  “I know you don’t really know him, but he’s a good guy, I swear. I just want to make sure he’s doing okay. Deion keeps talking like it’s a done deal he’s gonna play again, which is just. . .” Josh shook his head, frowning like he’d braced himself to be the bearer of bad news.

  “And he’s staying with you guys?” Carlos asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Not in some fancy hotel downtown? I’m kind of surprised.”

  Because Carlos did know Deion. Of course, he knew of him more than knew him, if only because Josh’s friend from college was one of those weird people who avoided social media like the plague. Guy had Twitter and Insta accounts, but he hardly ever posted on them, especially not since he’d officially been put on injured reserve by the Kansas City team.

  Which was a shame, because he had cheekbones that could cut glass and an attitude to match on the rare occasions he came down from Mount Olympus to hang with the mortals. He gave Josh shit about everything from his “cartoons” to his inability to acquire a tan without burning, even after two years in Miami, and had teased his teammates with equal ruthlessness before he’d disappeared online. There was nothing Carlos enjoyed more than seeing Deion’s wickedly sharp attitude pop up in his notifications.

  Not that he kept track of the big-bodied offensive guard with the men’s runway model wardrobe and the string of beautiful girlfriends, none of them serious. Not really. But he’d read enough interviews with the guy to know he appreciated the finer things in life. Carlos would have expected him to be staying at the Four Seasons or something.

  Josh went off on a tangent about how Deion came from a big family full of teachers and preachers who were all the kind of folks to take it as an insult if you stayed at a hotel instead of with family when visiting somewhere. Apparently Josh had been effectively adopted during a family visit and now considered it his solemn duty—“And pleasure,” he insisted—to host Deion whenever he visited.

  Which had happened all of once before. Carlos still remembered that visit, two weeks after Deion had been drafted by the Kansas City Chiefs.

  Deion had vibrated with suppressed excitement, Josh had been genuinely happy for him but also quieter than usual, and Benji had cranked up the artificial gaiety the entire weekend as if he was afraid to let Josh take a breath.

  And now Deion was coming to visit, knowing that the thing he wanted more than anything else might be out of his reach.

  Carlos knew how that felt, twice over. Long before he’d figured out he wasn’t meant to be an actor, he’d desperately wanted to break into the music business. In high school, he’d been obsessed with his abuela’s records from the island, singing “El Cantante,” “Suavemente,” and other old-school salsa and merengue classics and taking private singing lessons from teacher after teacher.

  Obsessive fandom and learned technique couldn’t turn a frog’s croak into a soulful croon, though, no matter how hard he tried. Eventually every teacher brought his hopes of singing stardom gently back to earth. Success at his second favorite hobby—hitting things with a hammer—had made him philosophical about the loss of the first, but he still remembered how crushing the blow had been. And that had been when he’d still thought he had a chance at an acting career.

  So when Josh described Deion’s family, Carlos didn’t just recognize the comfort a large, loving family could offer him. He also knew about the nosiness and the pressure and how even the comfort was sometimes too much when all you wanted to do was not think about the bad news that might be coming down the pipe.

  Before long, they were back in the living room, Josh and Carlos stretched out on the couch while Benji packed up “just a couple of things” for Carlos to take home for dinner later that night.

  “So . . . you gonna go full hippie on us?” Carlos lobbed the question at Josh, nodding at his hair. Benji’s boyfriend had been eternally buzz cut when Carlos had first met him. No longer.

  “Josh thinks he’s Tom Brady, circa 2010,” Benji said with a smirk, as he rejoined them, passing Carlos a reusable shopping bag bulging with Gladware.

  His boyfriend responded with a whack to Benji’s ass as he passed. “You’re the one who told me you wanted something to hold onto, baby.”

  “It’s true. Plus, my boyfriend’s way hotter than Brady.”

  Carlos nodded sagely. “That’s cause he’s got that Julian Edelman thing going on. The beach blond.”

  Like a king on his throne, Josh draped his arms wide in his corner and settled in with a happy sigh. “I love it when you guys argue about which hot f
ootball player I look like.”

  “Not look like, babe. Look better than,” Benji said, sliding over the arm of the leather couch to slither into Josh’s lap and wrap an arm around his neck.

  That only works because Benji’s such a pip-squeak.

  Not that he was thinking about big guys. Or making out with big guys. Or how sturdy the furniture would need to be around a couple of guys who topped out well over six feet. Because breakage was a real worry with that much weight and force involved.

  Of course, everything he owned was handmade, built to last a century at least.

  Plenty sturdy.

  Carlos cleared his throat and stood up from the couch. He loved Benji like a brother, and Josh was an excellent boyfriend, but there were some things a guy just didn’t need to see. Especially when it was kind of making his dick hard, and he was still telling everyone girls were the only thing that did it for him.

  “Yo, thanks for the good eats. I’m gonna head out.”

  “Keep your calendar free,” Benji said, prying his mouth away from his boyfriend’s enough to issue commands. “Your presence is required at the barbecue and to watch RWBY and hit up the clubs at least one night while Deion’s here.”

  Carolos nodded and waved as he headed for the door. Their entire crowd had become fans of Josh and Benji’s favorite animated web series whose acronym title was pronounced like its main hero, Ruby. Viewing parties were a semi-regular thing. Benji would probably send him daily reminder texts all week, as a precaution against Carlos’s tendency to get caught up in work and vanish without warning from social engagements. His theater construction gigs had gone from irregular to near constant bookings over the past few years, and his custom-built furniture gig more than managed to fill in the calm between the storms of working on shows. Pushing to make the jump up the ladder from Chief Hammer Swinger to set designer had only intensified the effect. When he got hired for the occasional set-design gig, he obsessed. Talk about vanishing. His friends had learned how to compensate for his feast-or-famine social life.

  “Looking forward to it,” he said cheerfully, as if they were making plans for a regular, old fun time.

  Just like that.

  2

  Wet heat slapped Deion in the face the moment he set foot outside the iceberg-cold air of the Miami airport, sweat springing out all over as he stripped off his linen jacket. He’d grabbed his suitcase from the baggage carousel and texted Josh that he was here. Checking a tiny little carry-on was not an option when every article of clothing you bought was XXL or, more likely these days, custom-made. Two weeks’ worth of clothes weren’t going to fit in anything less than a regular-sized suitcase. Plus, ever since he’d started getting his clothes custom-made—instead of buying them two or three sizes too big so they’d fit over his thighs, even if that meant his waists were always baggy—he’d become super protective of his suits. His casual clothes too. No way was he crunching shit up in little balls in some seventy-five-buck rollie.

  And he’d packed one helluva nice vacation wardrobe too. Deion enjoyed dressing well, and one of the most fun bonuses to visiting Josh was getting nonstop admiration from Benji for his clothes, with a side order of dramatic winks. And Benji’s crew of gay folks didn’t hesitate to dish out the compliments either, or dive in deep to conversations about designers and the latest trends. A stereotype that ran true in Benji’s circle at least.

  There had been one guy the last time he’d visited—a couple years ago now—whose eyes had tracked him the entire time they’d been at the same party, like he wanted to eat Deion alive. A tall Latino guy with longish dark hair that fell from a dramatic widow’s point, whose long friendship with Benji showed in his casual sarcasm and careless physicality. Deion had managed to ask Benji what the guy’s story was when Benji was just drunk enough not to remember that he’d asked. Benji had sworn the hot guy wasn’t even gay.

  Not hot. Handsome. Probably girls think he’s hot, though.

  Hot guys aside, Deion had stacked his wardrobe deck with lightweight, semi-casual clothes full of quirky color and style, and he’d packed them all with care in his big suitcase. He’d happily wait the extra time it took for his luggage to show up rather than be stuck in crappy clothes for his first vacation in a year.

  Josh was running behind anyway, which gave Deion college flashbacks, so there’d been plenty of time to wait for his luggage. He spotted Josh and wheeled his case over to the trunk of the car, shrugging off with irritation Josh’s offer to take care of the heavy lifting and then ignoring the sharp look that earned him. He was so tired of seeing that worried look on people’s faces when they spotted him on the verge of exerting more than a toddler’s worth of effort. He was fine, hefting it into the trunk with his good arm, still reflexively avoiding the injured shoulder even though he was almost back to full strength now and his therapist had told him to use it like normal.

  Of course, two seconds later the guy had reminded him “use it like normal” did not mean “prepare to show up for training camp in eight weeks” and Deion was not cleared to return from injured reserve. Then the dude had hinted—more than hinted, really—that Deion might have healed as fully as was possible with this injury. Which was not fully enough to play pro football.

  Which was unacceptable. He was going to be cleared in time for training camp, period. He’d shut the door firmly on every stray thought or worry otherwise.

  “Hugs can wait, man,” he said, waving Josh back inside the car. “Crank that AC up high.”

  The heat back in Kansas City didn’t hit until late June. Miami was supposed to be nice at the beginning of May, but the city was stuck in some kind of early heat wave and the humidity made Deion feel like he was sweating standing still.

  The ride back to the apartment proved that, as always, not seeing each other for a year at a time didn’t mean squat to their friendship, as they continued old conversations and arguments as if no time had passed.

  Heading into the complex where Josh and Benji lived was like traveling back in time. The central pool, glistening turquoise blue under the bright sun, was surrounded on three sides by two-story apartment buildings painted mint green, lemon yellow, and peach.

  “This is wild,” he murmured, mostly to himself, but Josh heard him.

  “Right? Looks like something from Beach Blanket Bingo,” Josh said with satisfaction. “Hella different from Minnesota, my friend.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” The white wooden pool chairs surrounding the T-shaped pool were all set at the exact same recline, only three occupied with sunbathers. Presumably most people were at work on a Wednesday afternoon, but he imagined the pool scene was jumping in the evening.

  On the top floor of the peach building, Benji was waiting for them with a pitcher of margaritas and burgers ready to hit the little Hibachi grill on their balcony.

  “Welcome! Are you excited to be totally upgraded from the couch this time?” Benji asked, linking arms with him and walking him immediately to the drinks tray he’d laid out on the dining room table. “Salt or no salt?”

  Before Deion had a chance to do more than nod and sip and offer praise, Josh was giving him the tour.

  “Drop your shit in the guest room—more like a closet, sorry. Your accommodation upgrade isn’t as exciting as it sounds. You’re gonna wanna spend as little time as possible in there,” Josh said, showing him to a small room that was almost entirely bed. Josh had a lot of big friends, and it looked like the guest room was furnished with them in mind. “There’s a set of spare keys on the hook by the front door. Benji put a tag on them that says Deion, because he wants you to know you can come and go like you live here.”

  “Aww, that’s nice,” he said, because that was just like Josh’s man, thinking of the little things like what a pain in the ass it could be to be a guest somewhere and be stuck waiting on your hosts’ schedule to come or go.

  Josh nodded. “Yup. That’s my guy. Now change out of your fancy-pants shit—Benji said to tell you
he put the good hangers in your closet—and get in some regular-people clothes, will you? You make me look bad.”

  Deion flipped him the bird and wheeled his suitcase into the guest closet. Like he was gonna get on a plane in raggedy-ass clothes. He’d done it before, but it just wasn’t worth the hassle, some dipshit passenger always waving him to stop when he walked up to the gangway. “They only called first class so far.” He always wanted to answer, “No shit, Sherlock,” but he wasn’t about to start some nonsense with the TSA in handcuff distance. Not to mention his mom would’ve killed him for leaving the house looking like some other woman’s baby boy who’d never been raised right.

  He used to wonder when he’d be old enough that she stopped calling him her baby, but now he figured that’d be sometime between his seventieth birthday and never, so he didn’t mind.

  By the time Josh finished pointing out the gym across the way from their balcony, Benji had the burgers sizzling and buns lined up ready for toasting. The balcony furniture was big and sturdy, built for guys like Josh and Deion, and Benji perched on the edge of his seat rather than scramble awkwardly out. Hours of grilling and drinking and laughing stretched through the setting sun and into the night, until Deion’s bones were melded to his chair and his chest was aching at how easy and happy the connection was between Josh and the man no one had expected him to end up with. A weird sense of longing twisted around his heart and squeezed, spiking the slow taffy of his relaxed pulse with want.

  I wish I had that.

  He meant the solid relationship and unstinting support of someone who loved him, of course. Not the boyfriend. Deion forced himself to laugh at the idea, but just shook his head when Josh and Benji interrupted a peck on the lips to glance at him.

  They’d traded salt and the tang of the sour mix for squeezing limes directly into bottles of Corona. Deion had laughed at the stereotypical beach beer. Josh just shrugged.