Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (9 page)

Still, it’s a relief to get home, where I spend three hours writing text messages and answering voicemails. People want to talk on the phone for hours, and I have to politely shuttle them off so I can talk to the next one. I ask the first two how they got my number, but they give me reporters’ non-answers, so I stop asking. When they ask their questions, I take Fisher’s advice. I say the same things over and over. “Of course it’s been difficult,” I say to them. “But I try to focus on football and keep my private life separate.”

I pace back and forth in my apartment, eating chocolate protein bars, looking at the lights in the city below. I haven’t spent a winter in Chevali before. It’s nice, but I miss the chill and snow of home. I miss my parents, too, even though I didn’t talk to them all that much. Knowing they were there if I wanted to call was something I didn’t know I cared about until this week. Talking on the phone so much just makes me realize I’m not talking to the people I really want to. At least I can call Lee later.

Mentioning that I have a boyfriend might’ve been a mistake. The reporters ask about him all the time.
All
the time. “I don’t want to bring him into this. He didn’t choose to be public. No, I won’t tell you where he lives. It was my decision to come out. No, I didn’t consult him. No, I won’t tell you his species. Yes, I get to see him during the season. No, not as often as I like.”

Not nearly as often as I like. When I hang up from the last call and toss the protein bar wrapper in the trash, I strip to my boxers and lie face-down in my bed. I bunch the pillows under me like they’re his chest and press my nose into them. His scent lingers there, buried so I have to really push my nose down to get a good whiff of it. It gets me good and hard, ’til I can almost feel him under me.

I’d never press him to come out. Even if he did, we couldn’t live together, couldn’t curl up together every night. But at least I can talk to him.

It doesn’t even cross my mind that it’s midnight where he is, not until later. He picks up on the first ring. “Hi, tiger.”

Even though I’m tired of having the phone next to my ear, his smooth voice calms me, relaxes my muscles. I don’t even realize how tightly my tail was curled up until it stretches out beside me, draping over the edge of the bed. “I’ve been on the phone for hours,” I say. “Reporters. I don’t know how they got my number.”

“
They all talk to each other,” he says. “So what did you say to them?”

“
Oh, it was fine. I didn’t mention your name, or species. They asked a lot. But mostly they wanted to know about my teammates, and did I feel discriminated against. Some of them asked what I thought about the plight of gay football players and whether this would open the door for more of them to come out.”

“
And you said...?”

“
I said I hope so.”

He chuckles. “That makes two of us. What about the rest of it?”

“
Just told the truth. Kept it bland and positive, like Fisher told me.”

“
He’s got the experience. How many calls did you take?”

I stretch out to my full length, on my stomach. “A lot. But it was nice to talk about stuff, you know?”

“
Yeah,” he says, in that way that tells me he really does know. “I’ll keep an eye on the Internet tomorrow. I hope they quote you accurately.”

“
Why wouldn’t they?” It’s funny, but until he says that, I’d kind of forgotten that the things I was talking about with the reporters will end up in articles that people will read. My mind goes back to talking to Frank, and saying, “I can’t really talk about stuff in the locker room.” And I’m imagining my parents reading it, my mother saying, “what stuff?” and my father just putting it down with that look he gets.

“
Just be careful,” Lee says. “Don’t get all caught up in being famous now.”

“
The guys are already giving me a hard time about that.”

“
I’m just saying.”

“
I can take care of myself.”

I can hear his smile. “That’s my line.”

I growl. “Well, I can take care of myself too. How can I get in trouble telling the truth?”

“
This from the person who kept his private life secret for two years?”

“
Which I wouldn’t have had to do if not for a certain conniving fox.”

“
You didn’t put up a whole lot of resistance, as I recall.”

I let out another growl. “Hey, I’m only a football player.”

“
Hence why you’d better be careful when talking to reporters.”

That takes a second to sink in. “Christ, doc, it was funny once. I told you, I can handle it.”

“
I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

“
You don’t trust me?”

He snorts. “I don’t trust them.”

“
I’m pretty sure—”

He cuts me off. “Look, you have a football game to prep for. I don’t want you to be worrying about this other crap.”

I exhale. “Yeah, you’re right.” He doesn’t say anything. “You know, doc, it’s not as much fun arguing with you when I can’t drag you into the bedroom to make up.”

“
We can argue again on Monday.”

I feel a slow smile spreading over my face. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

His voice is a breathy purr. “You’d better hold me to something.”

By the time I hang up and turn off the light, even my boxers are feeling tight. It isn’t until the next morning that I realize with a flush of guilt that I never asked him whether he talked to his boss.

Morty’s voicemail, left on Monday, just says, “Hey, wonder if you’re watching this Miski press conference. Interesting stuff.” Nothing about me being gay. Nothing about me being in trouble. It doesn’t make me feel better. He’s my closest friend on the Dragons, taught me a ton about evaluating kids (he’s the one who’s got me calling them ‘kids,’ some of these athletes not two years younger than I am). If he knew, he would’ve said, wouldn’t he? He would’ve asked for a meeting.

Tuesday, I try to get time with him, but he’s not in the office at all. So I sit at my desk, go over my evals, and wish I were back in Chevali. Don’t get me wrong; I love my job. I get to watch football pretty much 60 hours a week, and the Hilltown Dragons pay for me to fly to college games around the Northeast region. It’s the first year I’ve had a region all to myself. Last year, I was technically Morty’s assistant, but I went out with all the different scouts on some of their trips. Then Ferd, a coyote with a glass eye who’d scouted the Northeast for eighteen years, left to become director of scouting for Port City. Nobody wanted his region, so Morty got permission from Campbell, the GM, to give it to me.

The Northeast isn’t the best region. The weather sucks toward the end of the season, and it’s common wisdom that the best players come from the Midwest and Southeast. But I like that challenge. It means I have to dig deeper to find the gems, I have to be a better evaluator not only of talent, but of ability to perform in big games and to make the transition to the pro level.

All the other scouts played at least in college. Alex, the rabbit who covers the Southeast, is closest in age to me. He kicked for Lakewood State the year they played in a major bowl, and he’s three years out of college. He and I share an office and a lot of sensibilities. A pair of black bears cover the West and Southwest, and they both played on the offensive line. The Midwest is the territory of Vic, the coyote I met at the combine two years ago, a former linebacker. And Paul, the white-tailed deer who covers the South, is the senior scout and a college star at running back, though a broken leg kept him out of the pros.

Wednesday is our big group meeting day. We keep a chart of all the players we’re tracking, and talk about what they did the previous week. Morty’s still tied up with the front office, so Paul starts the meeting. “Hey, rook, who ya got this week?” He rubs fingers over his antlers. He can’t stop touching them when they’re coming in.

I rattle some names off my laptop. There’s a game in Chesterton, about forty miles from Port City, featuring three of my top ten prospects. That’s the one I’m angling to get sent to.

As I talk, Paul nods, checking my list against his. While we’re doing this, Morty walks in and drops into his chair. Paul defers to him when I’m done, but Morty, looking distracted, waves at him to go on.

Paul’s antlers dip, turning back to me. He asks why I moved one player over another. I talk about the games they had, what I observed. This player stepped up, this player remained consistent, this player made an extraordinary play. This one was practically invisible in his game, this one whiffed on two important plays.

“
Though I think he’s hurt and not letting on,” I say, finishing up.

“
I saw the end of that game,” Paul says. “That faggot better be hurt or he’s not goin’ anywhere.”

Morty rumbles. “Hey, you can’t say that now, y’know.”

“
What?”

“
Faggot.”

Paul stares at him and then laughs. “Oh, that tiger, the Firebirds guy?” He waves a hand. “You see him anywhere around?”

I can feel Morty looking at me. I don’t meet his eyes. I’m just about sure that’s going to be all that’s said when Alex pipes up. “There was a gay guy on my team.” Everyone looks at him. He shrugs, scratches behind one of his long ears. “No big deal.”

“
What, the punter?” I’m sure Paul would’ve said “kicker” if that hadn’t been Alex’s position.

Alex looks mildly back at him. “No, the center. He’s working at a sports equipment store now. Nice guy.”

Paul snorts, and gives his antlers another rub. “Well, I never played with one.”

“
Shame,” I say. “They mighta taught you that jerking off works better on your dick than on your antlers.”

He snaps his arm down and glares at me, while Alex snickers and the bears chuckle. Paul points at Alex. “Gimme your list.”

After the meeting, Morty takes me aside. “Take it easy on Paul,” he says. “He’s old school, like me.”

“
You changed,” I point out. “When I first met you, you were tossing around ‘queer’ and ‘faggot’ like they were cuss words.”

He grins. Even though he’s a cougar and about thirty years older, his feline grin, with its touch of earnestness, reminds me of Dev. “They were, then.” The grin fades, and he gives me a searching look. “Hey. Come into the office a sec.”

My fur prickles.
He knows.
I take a breath, smoothing it down, but my treacherous heart speeds up. I take my time walking in, trying to get a lid on my reactions. This is it. I’m gonna come out. Just like Dev did.

Morty closes the door behind me with a slam and waves me to the guest chair while he parks his butt on the corner of his desk. I sit and look up at him. “When I met you,” he says slowly. “You were pretty good friends with Miski.”

My heart’s pounding. I’m sure he can see the tremors in my ears. I take a breath, will myself to be calm. “Yes. I knew he was gay.”

“
Uh-huh.” He smiles, but his tail is lashing. “Anything you want to tell me?”

He’s tense. I take a breath. “Yeah,” I say. “I—”

“
Keeping in mind,” he interrupts, “that if there was a relationship between a player and a guy working for a team, and that player got drafted by that team, and that guy had something to do with it, that that’d be something pretty serious.” He looks steadily at me. “Could get the guy fired. Maybe the guy who hired him, too. Don’t know if you know that.”

I’m having trouble getting air into my throat. I just nod.

“
So,” he says, leaning back. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Slowly, I shake my head. I force my throat to open long enough to say, “No.”

He relaxes. “You still talk to Miski?” I nod, once. “What made him come out?”

I tell him the story of Brian’s blog and the media attention, of the increasing pressure and Dev’s hatred of lies and hiding. I tell him how the team reacted, about Fisher’s crucial support, about Coach’s acknowledgment. He listens without interrupting. “Well, it’s a hell of a thing,” he says.

“
Hope there’ll be more soon.” I still feel all hopped up. Can’t stop my tail from swinging back and forth.

“
Dunno.” He shakes his head. “Easier now, but still hard. Any other gay players are gonna wait and see what happens to him. Even then, everybody’s got their own lives, right? Got to make their own choices.”

The thing about staying closeted, though, the thing I knew but didn’t feel until I experienced it here at the Dragons, is that once you fall into that pattern, it’s hard to break out. If you’re doing well at your job, things are smooth, and you’ve earned respect from your team, so what if you can’t be out? What business is your personal life of theirs, anyway? I sure as hell don’t need to know that Vic’s wife is cheating on him, but Paul heard about it from one of his friends. Now we all know it—all except Vic. “Until a few more guys come out, I’m gonna keep giving Paul a hard time.”

Morty starts to say something, and then laughs, a laugh that turns into a cough. “I know better’n to try to talk you out of it. Fuck, I need to take a walk.”

“
Rough meeting this morning?”

He fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”