Unnecessary Roughness

by Alison Hendricks

  But his opinion matters to Owen. Way too much. So I sit there and rehearse what I'm going to say, planning to go with the respectful church boy routine--at least until we know each other better.

  Once we get to the stadium, though, introductions and small talk don't really seem to be a thing. Talking in general seems like it fell off the back of a truck somewhere. Owen texts his dad to ask what gate we should meet him at, there's a wordless greeting between father and son, and then... that's it.

  I know it's not just Tom. He talks forever on those TV ads, and he seems to have no problem talking to his buddy. All I can think is that he's freezing Owen out for what happened Thursday, and boy does it piss me off.

  We climb to our seats and I spend the first half of the game fuming, wondering when it'll be appropriate for me to say something about Tom's behavior. There's a little bit of chatter about the game during halftime, but it feels like Owen and his dad have been estranged for years and this is their first time doing something together.

  I know it's messing with Owen's head, because I can feel the tension in his body as he sits next to me. Somewhere in the third quarter I reach for his hand to try and calm him down, but he casually pulls away and gives me the "not now" look.

  That honestly should've been my first clue that shit was about to go real bad, but I don't really start to feel that stomach-churning sense of dread until after the game.

  Tom takes us out to this steakhouse, and even though he's seated across from his kid, he doesn't talk to him or hardly even look at him. It takes Tom's friend Salazar to finally trip over the elephant in the room.

  "So Owen, is that suspension really for the rest of the season?" he asks, while somehow loudly crunching on his salad.

  "It is." Owen's gaze flicks from Salazar to Tom.

  "Seems a little harsh for one fight. It's not like you're playing in the NFL. I don't see why they can't relax the rules a little. Maybe two games, three max."

  I agree with him, but I'm not sure my opinion counts for much here. Plus, I'm biased. If this were anybody other than Owen, I'd probably say they deserve it for being stupid enough to sock another player in the middle of a game.

  "They need to come down hard on juvenile shit like that. Can't have the rest of the team thinking it's okay to behave like children," Tom mutters.

  I bristle, staring right at him. He must feel my gaze because he looks to me, and for a second I wonder just how much he knows.

  "I didn't plan to do it," Owen says, sounding small. "It just happened."

  "Is that supposed to make it okay?" Tom is chewing his fucking roll like it’s molten steel he plans to spit into nails like some old war cartoon.

  "No, sir."

  "Yeah, but you were defending your teammate. That's gotta count for something."

  Some part of me feels really bad for Salazar right now. He's caught up in the middle of this shit show and he doesn't even realize it. The rest of me wants to tell him to shut the hell up, because he's only making things worse.

  I settle for taking a big gulp of water so I can't say anything at all.

  "Doesn't look like Nate here would have any trouble defending himself," Tom points out.

  Well, shit. So much for staying quiet.

  "The Armada are really aggressive, and that DE took it too far. I would've had Owen's back the same way he had mine."

  That gets me a look from Tom that I really don't like. His gaze pierces through me, and I just feel exposed. It's almost like he understands exactly what I'm saying.

  Hell, maybe he does. You don't win a Heisman by having tunnel vision.

  "And what was he doing that you felt you needed to have Nate's back?"

  "I don't know, Dad." I can hear Owen's temper coming out in his voice as he continues. "Just a bunch of homophobic shit. Can we talk about literally anything else right now?"

  "Men talk that way to each other all the time," Tom says shortly, "If you're that sensitive about it, you're not going to make it far in life."

  Man, fuck this guy. He's looking right at me as he says it, and now I know he knows.

  "It's not about being 'sensitive,' it's about not standing for that bullshit," I fire back.

  "Why am I not surprised you agree with him?"

  "Dad--"

  "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you set this whole thing up looking for a repeat of what happened in high school. He got passed over by scouts then, and he'll be passed over by them now, too."

  "Tom, I don't think--" Salazar starts, but Owen cuts him off.

  "That's not what happened in high school."

  "I know what happened," Tom says. "People found out Nate was gay and he started losing the stupid rivalry you two had, so he decided to take it out on you."

  I stare at the man, slack-jawed. This college football legend is sitting across from me, and he's acting like I was some catty little bitch who ruined his son's life? No. Fuck that.

  "You can't be fucking serious right now," I say.

  Salazar tries to interject again, "Maybe we should--"

  But again he's cut off. "No, Dad. I outed Nate. I'm the reason all of it happened. He was just reacting to the stupid shit I did."

  Owen's words reach somewhere deep inside of me and my eyes are wide as I look at him. It's not like I expected him to throw me under the bus, but well. Maybe I did.

  For some reason it seems like a huge thing that he's willing to be honest about his part in our past, and I decide to step up too.

  "I could've handled it a lot better than I did. I took it really hard."

  I look at Owen, giving him an apologetic little smile. He smiles back, and I can feel Tom's eyes on us.

  "So what? Today was you making up for high school again? Because it seemed like you were a lot more invested in it than that." Tom takes a long drink of his beer and levels a stare at Owen. "Salazar asked me earlier if you were fucking Nate."

  Salazar's eyes fly open and his face turns beet red. "Jesus, Tom. I didn't say it like that. I was just asking---"

  "--if he's gay," Tom finishes. "Which he's not, because my son would've told me."

  I can't fucking believe this guy. I can see it in his eyes; he already knows the answer. But he's staring Owen down like he's trying to intimidate him into giving the "right" one.

  "And if he was gay, he wouldn't openly broadcast it in a sport that doesn't tolerate it."

  My fingers grip hard around my fork, my knuckles turning white. "This isn't the fucking nineties. Things are different since the last time you stepped into a locker room."

  "You telling me you feel comfortable being passed over in drafts because no team wants to risk alienating their players and their fans by having an openly gay player on their roster?"

  Our voices are raised so much that people are looking at us now, but I don't give a shit. Tom started this whole thing. If he wants to keep it going, that's fine by me.

  "Why the fuck would I want to play for a team that doesn't want me? There are plenty of franchises that'll start a gay guy."

  "Only the ones that need good press. Or the ones doing it as a publicity stunt. Is that the life you want for yourself, Nate? Because it's not a life I want my son to be associated with."

  Holy fucking Christ.

  "Dad, seriously," Owen hisses. "Can we not do this here?"

  "I just want to know, Owen. I want to know if you're throwing your life away over this. If you are, tell me now, so I can stop thinking you're actually going to go anywhere or do anything with your talent."

  "Do you hear yourself?" I stand up, my knees banging against the table as I do. Plates and silverware clatter, and I can see a waiter making a beeline for us. "Owen's your son! And you treat him like shit 24/7."

  "Excuse me," the waiter says, keeping a safe distance from the table, "I'm going to have to ask you to keep it down. You're disturbing the other guests."

  "I'm not gay!" Owen says, his own voice raised now that everybody else in the restaurant is fucking sil
ent. "Is that what you wanna hear? I'm not fucking gay, so stop harassing my friend about it."

  All those warm feelings I felt when Owen stood up for me evaporate in an instant, replaced by a cold, sinking feeling that I've just been stranded.

  Friend.

  Is that what I'm going to be to him whenever it's not just the two of us? Is he going to be gay when he's alone with me and closeted everywhere else?

  I should've expected this. It's the same shit I've been dealing with my whole life. Guys want to fuck me; they don't want to actually be with me. I just thought Owen was different, and it fucking hurts to find out he's not.

  "If you can't settle this yourselves," the waiter continues, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

  "Yeah, don't worry about it." I feel numb as I climb the rest of the way out of my chair. "The gay guy's out. Shouldn't be any more problems now." I curl my tongue against the back of my teeth, trying to keep my jaw from trembling. "Was good to meet you, Salazar."

  It takes him a long moment to find his voice, and he finally chokes out, "You too."

  I can feel everyone's eyes on me as I move away from the table, but I don't care. I don't care that I just made a huge scene. I don't care that I have nowhere to go since Owen drove us here.

  The only thing I care about is getting as far away from this train wreck as I can before I just break down completely.

  19

  Nate

  I don't make it very far before I realize I need some kind of plan to get out of this fucking city.

  Crossing the crowded parking lot and ignoring Owen's car, I walk past a couple of employees on their smoke break and into the lot of a nearby shopping center. That puts at least a little bit of distance between me and Owen, and I stop by a tree to pull up the Lyft app. Outside of calling Eli--who I know will come get me if I'm desperate--a Lyft driver is really my only shot. Even then, I'm not sure I'll be able to find somebody to drive me almost three hours back to ESC. I might have to settle for getting to Gainesville--at least that'll be halfway there when I inevitably have to call Eli and beg him to help me out of the shit I've gotten myself into.

  Putting in my details, I send out a Lyft request. Not seconds later, I hear a voice carrying from across the lot.

  "Nate!"

  My heart leaps into my throat as I realize how much I didn't expect Owen to follow me. And how much I wanted him to. The power of that emotion slams into me so hard that it pisses me off, and I harden myself as he dashes across the steady flow of traffic to get to me.

  "What the hell are you doing out here?" he asks, making it really easy for me to stay pissed at him.

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" I flash my phone at him, my fingers gripping the case hard. "I'm getting the fuck out of here."

  Owen at least has the decency to look guilty, but it doesn't do much to soothe the hurt that's gnawing away at me.

  "Let me drive you," he pleads.

  "Yeah, being stuck in a car with you for three hours doesn't sound like my idea of fun right now."

  "Come on, man. You're not going to find a driver to take you that far. You'll end up spending hundreds on a taxi, and I know you don't have that kind of money."

  My jaw clenches as I realize he's right. Nobody's going to respond to a Lyft request that takes them that far outside of their city. Same with Uber. And I'm sure as shit not paying standard cab fare to get from here to there. That'll blow everything I've got budgeted for the next two months, at least.

  I'm stuck with Owen, whether I want to be or not. My teeth grind together, and I grate out, "Fine. But I don't wanna fucking talk, Owen. If you try to start shit, my ass is gonna tuck and roll right out of the car."

  It's an empty threat, and anxiety thrashes around inside of me. I don't even know what I want to hear from him right now. Would an apology matter? Is there any explanation that would make this shit show of a dinner better?

  And if it does matter--if he's able to talk his way out of this--what the fuck does that say about me?

  I follow him back to his car, and it's a point in his favor that he doesn't go back inside. Apparently he said whatever he needed to say to get out of the dinner. Shame he couldn't have done that before.

  I'll give him credit, too. We make it about an hour before he starts taking advantage of the fact that I'm a captive audience. And since we're in the middle of 75, on a fucking long stretch of interstate highway with nothing but trees flying by us on either side, I can't make good on my threat.

  "About what happened today..."

  I shift in my seat, turning away from him. With my elbow propped against the window, I press two fingers to my forehead. "Jesus Christ. I told you I didn't wanna hear this shit."

  "Too fucking bad, Nate. I need to say it."

  I shoot him a glare, feeling betrayed. Where was this stubborn insistence when I needed it earlier? Why's he ready to fight for us now when he was such a coward before?

  Easy enough to answer that question: Because his dad's not here right now.

  "I know that was a train wreck," he starts.

  "You think?"

  "I came in with a plan, and he just totally blindsided me."

  "Come on, dude. He was baiting you, and you couldn't man up and tell him to fuck off."

  I don't know how Owen doesn't see what I saw. Tom knew exactly what he was doing. It was like watching a lion dare a gazelle to run.

  "He's my father!" Owen cries, his voice rising an octave or two.

  "He's a controlling asshole who wants a second shot at being relevant."

  Owen's jaw clenches and he draws a breath in through his nose. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his knuckles starting to turn white from how hard he's gripping the steering wheel.

  A good half hour goes by without him saying anything to me. I look out the window, seeing my own reflection in the glare cast by the lights on either side of the highway. Feels like somebody ripped my heart out and punted it a few hundred yards today, and it looks about like that, too.

  I don't know how to say what I need to say to him. I close my eyes as I hear him let out a heavy sigh, knowing he's going to start talking again.

  "I'm sorry, Nate." His voice is softer now, and there's a big part of me that really wants to be soothed by it. "I never meant to hurt you."

  "Yeah, well, you did."

  "I know," he admits, his voice breaking. I venture a glance at him and he genuinely looks torn up by this. It breaks straight through to my heart, even with as much as I've guarded it. "He caught me out, and I was scared. Fucking terrified."

  I get that, but I still barely manage to avoid being petty and bringing up the fact that I never got a choice. Coming out's usually done in degrees, sure, but Owen's teammate made sure I had a running head start whether I wanted it or not.

  But mentioning that now's not going to do anything but make us both feel worse, so instead I try to put what's bothering me most into words.

  "I need you to be straight with me, Nate. Do you want to be with me or not? Not just fucking around behind closed doors, but actually with me."

  "I do want to be with you," he says, reaching over to squeeze my knee.

  I let out a breath and nod slowly. Okay. Okay. I can work with this. He fucked up tonight, but we can get past this. As long as he wants the same things I do, we'll figure it out.

  I turn to face him finally, resting my hand over top of his. And he fucking ruins it with only a few words.

  "I just need more time."

  Cold dread floods my veins and every cell in my body just wants to nope right out of this conversation. I don't know how I can sense it--maybe it's like a defense mechanism at this point--but I know there's worse to come.

  "More time," I say numbly.

  "Yeah. You know, the thing you said I could have as much of as I needed?" he fires back, his tone indignant.

  Which is so fucking helpful right now, let me tell you.

  "Yeah. Okay. Silly me for assuming you'd tell him you'
re gay in a reasonable amount of time, not... I don't know, when he's on his deathbed or something."

  To my surprise, Owen pulls off onto the side of the road, right in front of an exit. He throws the car in park and turns on his flashers before turning to me.

  "That's really fucking unfair, Nate. I don't even know if I am gay."

  Oh for fuck's sake.

  "Dude, don't play semantics with me. Gay, bi, pan, whatever. You like dick."

  "I like your dick. I don't look at other guys and want to fuck them. It's only you."

  Oh my fucking God. Is this boy seriously going to play up the "gay for you" defense? I stare at him, slack-jawed, torn between wanting to laugh in his face and wanting to get the hell out of this car.

  "So what? You're not a 'real' queer so you don't have to do 'real' queer things, like come out to your folks?"

  Owen makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

  "I sure as shit don't!"

  "Why do we even have to label this, Nate? Can't we just be whatever we want to be to each other?"

  As I stare at him, that feeling of floating aimlessly, watching this from outside my own body transforms into something very, very real with a swift kick to the heart.

  My stomach lurches and my lungs stop working for a moment as I remember the very first gay relationship I ever tried to get into. It was back in high school, after a few hookups. I thought the guy really cared about me, but as soon as it came time to tell somebody about us, he was out.

  I wasn't worth it to him. Screwing around with me wasn't worth it unless he could do it without anybody else knowing.

  I don't know why I'm so surprised it's happening again, but it fucking hurts. I'd let myself believe Owen was different; that he actually gave a damn about me. That I might matter to him the way he matters to me.

  But I guess I was wrong, yet again.

  Reaching for the handle, I try to pull on it, to get the fuck out of this car, but it doesn't budge.