Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (39 page)

“
Give him a green salad on top of some taco shells, and a ceviche de huachinango and the carne a la parrilla for me,” I say, and hand my menu over.

“
With taco meat,” Dad says to the waiter, who this time doesn’t need my help. He scribbles down notes on his pad and leaves us alone.

Dad leans back in his chair. “Come here pretty often?”

I shake my head. “Just a couple times.”

“
They know you from a couple times?”

My ears get a bit warm. “They know me from the team,” I say.

“
But they know you like a margarita.” He points to the Top Shelf I’m about to raise to my lips.

“
I had the same waiter.” I shift in my chair and put the drink down. “He must be a good waiter.”

“
When did you start drinking,” he gestures at my glass, “those?”

He says it casually, as if there’s nothing else on his mind, but there’s an edge to it. It’s a strange manner from my usually direct father. Does he disapprove of me drinking, or just drinking tequila? I don’t know how to react other than to tell him I drink them casually, but that I usually drink beer. Which he started giving me when I was ten. He takes a drink of his, and says he never understood what was so good about rum or tequila or any of those fancy drinks. He has vodka on special occasions, or bourbon.

I ask him how his beer is, and he says “it’s Bud.” I drank Bud all through high school, and a year into college before Randy taught me that Old Hilltown is cheaper. You can choke down two and a half “moldies” for the price of one Bud.

The margarita tastes stronger than it did that night with Fisher. Maybe it’s me. “I really appreciate you coming down,” I say.

“
Your mother thinks we can resolve things better in person.”

He takes another drink of his beer, sets it down. I drink my margarita and then set it aside. The restaurant is busy, and there is chatter all around us. My tail twitches, unable to remain at rest, and in my lap, my fingers lace back and forth. It’s crazy, but I wish Lee were with me. He just makes me feel more confident, calmer, and capable. Even in the presence of my father. I wait for him to say something, but when he doesn’t, I start.

“
Did you come to apologize?”

His brow darkens. It’s the kind of look that makes me glad we’re in a public place. “I have nothing to apologize for.”

“
You dislocated his thumb.”

“
I am not here to talk about some fox.” He spits out the word “fox” as though it were something filthy. “I am here to talk about you.”

“
He’s not ‘some fox.’”

“
He is none of my concern.”

“
You
broke
his
paw!
He’s in a cast for eight weeks!”

He leans forward, staring. “What do you want? You want me to pay for the hospital?”

“
Jesus, no!” I say that a little louder than I’d meant to, but nobody looks around. Pain jabs through my side. I press a paw to my ribs, lowering my voice. “I paid for the hospital. I paid for the hotel we stayed in that night. I’m paying for this dinner. I can afford it. I just want you to say you’re sorry.”

“
Sorry for defending my family?”

“
How is picking a fight with Lee ‘defending your family’?”

His eyes narrow. “It was not a fight.”

“
I’m sorry. ‘Unprovoked attack’?”

His claws are out again, curved and white against his orange-and-black paw. “In a fight, someone hits, someone hits back.”

“
You wanted Lee to hit you?”

He snorts. “I did not hit him. And I did not expect that he would hit back.”

I shake my head. “That’s not how he was brought up.”

“
Of course not. No respect.”

I stare at him. “For what? For you? You didn’t give him—”

His fist slams down onto the table, making the glasses rattle. “For the rules I raised
you
to live with.”

Now people are looking at us, like they know I’m being punished. My ribs give a twinge as I lean back. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that,” I mumble.

“
Like hell,” he says. “You have changed.” He points a finger at me.

“
I don’t lie, and I don’t steal.”

“
That is not what I mean. I am talking about respect for your parents. It is about your family, about life.” His paw remains clenched in a fist, but he leaves it on the table.

For God’s sake. “You didn’t even give Lee a chance.”

“
I do not need to drop a tire iron on my toes to know I do not like it.”

“
That doesn’t even make sense.” Something stirs in me, like seeing a wolverine heading for the open field around my defense. My legs tense. My tail curls around my calf. I smell the open grass of the football field.

“
What does not make sense is you throwing away your reputation to gain some publicity. Yes, you are a little famous now, but is it worth what all these people think of you? That they say, ‘Oh, there goes Devlin the faggot’?”

“
Who says that?” I say. “Besides you.”

He frowns. “People say it behind my back. Your fox says it to my nose.”

“
Well, he’s allowed to.” I sigh, again, at Lee and his self-control issues. “He doesn’t say it in public, anyway.”

“
Yes, I am noticing for all his courage, he is not announcing himself. He lets you take all the rumors and whispers, while he is safe in the shadow.”

“
I’m telling you, nobody cares as much as you do.”

His eyes lower. “We do care, your mother and me. You know we would love you even if you were not playing football, do you not?”

“
What does that mean? Why am I not playing football?”

“
When Mitchell comes back, you will lose the starting job again. I know you wish for a way to make yourself famous so you will keep starting, but there are better ways—”

He stops, maybe because I’m staring with my jaw hanging open. “Is that what you think? You think I made this up—”

“
No, no.” He shakes his head. “That fox made it up. He tricked you into going along with it.” He waves a paw. “Some of
them
, they can be cunning. Easy to confuse a young cub.”

“
Lion Christ, Dad, I’m twenty-four.” I lift the margarita glass and take another drink. “Ease off the protective parent crap.”

“
Do not talk back to me.”

“
Then stop talking stupid.”

I know it’s trouble as soon as I snap it out. He glares, his eyebrows lowering, two fangs showing. His voice gets deeper and slower, the growl clear behind it. “I thought you were interested in talking.”

“
I am.” I’m shaking. I tip my margarita to my lips again. The salt and tequila numb my tongue.

We stare at each other over my glass until I put it down. Dad mutters something under his breath and then relaxes, with a visible effort. “All I am saying,” he says, “is that you can always come home.”

The words feel rehearsed, but I can feel sincerity behind them. The word “home” especially grabs me, defusing my tension, and it’s not weird anymore to be sitting in this Sonoran place with my dad, drinking.

Until he says, “As long as you respect your family.”

Everything comes rushing back. I grab my drink again. “How the hell is being gay not respecting you?” I snarl.

His muzzle darkens, his eyes almost slits. “Watch your tone with me.”

I finish the margarita, slide the glass to one side. “Stop fucking treating me like I’m twelve!”

“
Then stop acting like it.” He’s restraining himself, but his claws are out and his face and ears are abnormally still.

“
What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?”

He goes on, after a moment. “You make this announcement, you just bring this fox home...”

“
You don’t want me to bring Lee home any more.”

He makes a noise like I’d told him the Dragons were terrible this year, or that the sun was going to come up in the east. “We would like you to find someone suitable for you.”

“
We? Mom is on board with this?”

“
It is not what family is about.”

“
It’s not what
your
idea of family is about.”

I can’t see anything but his expression. The smell of the margarita overwhelms most everything, so I can’t get much of Dad’s scent. My whiskers are crackling with enough tension that I don’t need to. I honestly have no idea what he’s going to say. I almost wish the waiter would show up with our food.

“
Gregory, now, he—”

“
Goddammit!” And at that moment the waiter does show up with my ceviche. He hesitates at the edge of the table, until we both stop to look at him, and then he puts it down.

“
Is...everything okay?”

“
Fine,” I growl.

He reaches for my empty margarita glass. “Another?”

“
Oh, yes. Keep ’em coming.”

“
Very good, sir.” He gives my father an anxious glance and then scurries back to the bar.

“
Gregory does not drink so much,” Dad says.

“
Oh, he does. He just doesn’t let you see it.”

He huffs through his nose. Of course, I have no idea how much Gregory drinks. He probably suspects that, but he doesn’t know for sure. “What happened to that girl you brought home, when you were nineteen?”

That would’ve been Paulia, a tigress. “We broke up.”

“
I liked her. She was polite and pretty.”

“
Mom hated her.”

“
She did not insult our family.”

I roll my eyes. I see the waiter coming back with my margarita and wait for him to drop it off before continuing. It’s not quite as strong as the last one. I wonder if the waiter asked for a weaker one specifically. “If I could be like Gregory, I would.”

“
I know how your football world is,” he says. “You can have any girl you want.”

“
I can have any boy I want,” I counter. Then I have to take another drink. Why the hell would I say something like that?

“
All this fame,” he says slowly, “it is attractive. But it is not worth it.”

I drop the glass to the table. “Sweet Lion Jesus, Dad, it’s not about the fame. It’s about Lee.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Gregory’s wife supports his career and his family. She gives him a son. Is this fox giving you a son?”

“
He’s supporting my career. He helped me get drafted.”

“
Fagh.” He leans across the table. “It makes you look weak.”

“
Weak? What the fuck?”

He starts to say something at the f-word, and then just shakes his head. “People laugh at me, say my boy is a
??????
.”

“
Oh, come on,” I say. “I’m sure nobody in the auto shop speaks Siberian.”

I never could make him laugh, even when he was in a good mood. “You think this is funny?” he growls.

“
Why do you give a shit what the people at the auto shop say?”

He leans over, pumps a fist in front of his chest. “I have good, strong sons, they respect me. I have weak sons, then...” He opens his paw.

“
God damn. At least my teammates only think I’m weak when I get run over.”

“
There are many kinds of weak.” He leans back and nods as though he’s made some great philosophical statement.

“
Dad, I hit people for a living.”

He shrugs. “You hit people in padded uniforms. It is like hitting your girlfriend.”

That throws me. I gulp down more of my drink so that I don’t have to try to make sense of that. “I’m not a fucking psycho. I’m just gay.”

He jabs his finger at me and leaves it hanging there. “You are weak, you are confused by bright lights and cunning f—foxes.”

I lick the salt of the margarita from my lips. My ribs ache. “
His
name is Lee. You can remember that, can’t you?”

He sets his beer down, and his muzzle curls in a sneer. “I would not call that fox ‘he.’ A strong male fights when attacked.”

“
I’m so glad you didn’t teach me to be a fucking bigot.”