Authors: Kyell Gold
“Who? Why? Did you do something bad?” He doesn’t sound all that upset about the idea.
“No. Well… no. Just look out for it and let me know if you find anything And don’t do anything until I say so, got it?”
“Right, of course not, kid, I’d never do anything without your say-so, you know that. So what am I looking for?”
“I don’t really know,” I say, and then I hear something I never thought I’d hear in a phone conversation with Ogleby: silence.
After a couple seconds, I start to worry that maybe he’s had a heart attack or a stroke or something. “Ogleby?”
He makes a strangled noise in reply. Then it’s as if he cleared some blockage out of his throat. “What the hell does he think he’s doing? He can’t write that about you! Oh, kid, he’s in for a world of shit. You believe me when I tell you he will be sorry he ever hit enter to post that. A world of shit. You listen to me, don’t worry about this, I am going to take care of it. Oh, that punk, that little snot-nosed shit-faced dick-brained who the hell does he think he can just fuck with a professional like this?”
I don’t know if he means him or me. I try to get a word in, but the ferret just keeps on going and finally says, “I got this, I got this, you just focus on football,” and hangs up on me.
I’d be worried if I had time to be worried. As soon as I get to the stadium, I’m immersed in plays and drills. The only time I have off is when some of the guys go to see Corey — Killer — in the hospital. Everyone agrees that I probably wouldn’t be his favorite person to see. So I take the time to do a few extra reps in the weight room. By this time, I’ve forgotten all about Brian and his blog, a happy condition that lasts almost all the way to dinner, when Lee calls me.
“Hey,” he says, “I’m going to assume Ogleby just went off and did this without asking you.”
“Oh, fuck.” The rabbit behind the counter at the sandwich shop looks alarmed. “Sorry,” I tell him, and wave the people behind me forward. “What?”
“You haven’t seen it yet?”
“I’ve been at practice all day. I was just at Hot Pickle grabbing dinner.”
“You should maybe sit down.” He pauses a second, then says, “Brian wrote this thing about you on the blog, not naming names, but it’s pretty clear who he means if you stop to think about it. “A certain recently promoted tiger playing defense for the Firebirds uses his defensive buddy as security to stop people from finding out about his secret gay relationship. “”
I groan. “Fucking prick.”
“Well,” Lee says, “yes. But nobody really pays attention to him. His blog had three comments on it this afternoon, and one was from that presidential candidate who wants to abolish the court system. But then around four o’clock, Ogleby sent out a press release denouncing Brian, calling him “a screaming monkey who can’t bear not to be hearing the sound of his own voice” and saying that he’d “make up any kind of lies he thinks will get him a couple more hits. “”
“Christ.” I look up at the TV, currently showing a baseball playoff game, as though they’re going to break into the game with the news: Football Player’s Agent Insists He’s Not Gay, Makes Millions Wonder.
“A couple of the mainstream sports blogs picked it up. One of them went on a long rant about how the culture of football oppresses gay men, yeah, great. Another’s cautious, saying they want to see what else comes to light before making a call.”
“Shit.”
“It’s not the worst thing in the world.”
The guy behind the counter is occupied with his customers, not looking at me. I don’t know why I feel like everyone already knows but me. “You don’t sound all that upset.”
“It doesn’t seem like it’s that bad yet. I don’t know what we can do other than hope the mainstream doesn’t pick up on it.”
“Why’d you tell me to sit down, if it isn’t that bad?”
“Because I knew you would stress about it. Don’t stress, okay? Have your two beef sandwiches and call Ogleby and tell him to calm down.”
That is, more or less, what I do, though not in that order. Ogleby isn’t answering his phone, so I leave him a voicemail that goes on probably longer than it should, and louder than it should. It’s after hanging up that I realize I should probably go find and read the full text of the press release. First, though, I get my beef sandwiches home, I crack open a beer, and I sit down to watch sports highlights. Nothing about my boyfriend makes the top ten plays, so I’m a bit calmer by the time I fire up the computer.
Reading the entirety of Ogleby’s press release, which he’s e-mailed to me, just gets me worked up again. I stop short of throwing the computer against the wall, because it’s an expensive piece of hardware, but I do call Ogleby back again and leave him another message, longer and louder than the first, consisting of quoting sections of his press release interspersed with repeating basically the same things I’d said in the first voicemail.
He calls me the next morning, when I’m a little cooler, but I don’t pick up. I don’t want to be more distracted by this today when I have football to focus on.
Sadly, I don’t get much of a chance. First thing that happens is that Coach Samuelson and Steez call me into Coach’s office. I know right away what it’s about. Coach is snarling, and Steez just looks annoyed. The computer on his desk is humming. I can’t see the screen, but I don’t need to.
“I don’t give a crap what you do when you’re not here.” Coach dives right in. “Ladies, guys, livestock, whatever. What I care about is when it becomes a distraction that makes my job harder. Are you trying to make my job harder?”
“No, sir.” I dismiss the image conjured up by him saying “livestock.” “My agent issued that statement without my authorization.”
He holds up a finger, blunt claw pointing to the ceiling. Neither he nor Steez looks mollified. “That’s one thing. What happened last night up in Hilltown?”
The office is warm, in contrast to the cold locker room the night before. It feels like it just got a few degrees warmer. “Oh, uh, this friend of mine came in to see me…”
While I’m searching for the right words to talk about it, Coach growls, his ears back. “I told you, I don’t give a flying fuck what you do with your private life, but I need to know so I can deal with this. Is he more than just a friend?”
“No,” I blurt out. “Just a friend, a college buddy.” Steez and Coach exchange glances. Coach says, more quietly, “So what happened?”
“He works for the Dragons now, so he came down to say hi. And this guy, Brian, he, uh, he and my friend used to date but they broke up, and now he thinks we’re going out. So he came down to spy on us, and Fisher caught him.”
Steez leans forward. “What about ‘property damage’?”
My claws flex in and out, fortunately out of sight of the two coaches. “He had a video camera. Fisher took it from him.”
Coach leans back and folds his arms. “Christ Wolf. All right, we’ll talk to Fisher. So far, this asshole hasn’t filed assault charges, at least.” He fixes me with the stare I’ve only seen in games, when someone comes off the field after muffing a play. “That’s the whole truth?”
I pause. I’m not quite sure why I didn’t trust Coach and Steez, except that since yesterday, I don’t feel like trusting anyone. And having lied, I can’t go back on it now. “Yeah.”
He sends me out, telling me to let him know if anyone gives me a hard time. I nod, though of course I won’t, because I don’t want to cause any more distractions. And of course, the first one to come up to me as I head for my locker is Charm, towering over me in an undershirt and jockstrap. He knocks the wind out of me with a giant slap on the back. “Hey, Gramps,” he booms, “why’n’t ya just tell me you wanted to go to the Chippendales instead? ’S’all cool.”
“Shut up,” I mutter. Some of the other guys are grinning and elbowing each other. A couple are looking away from me, including Colin and Brick. I can’t tell if it’s intentional or not.
“Ah, just funnin’.” Charm grins. “You gotta fire that agent, though. Want mine?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I haven’t decided what to do about Ogleby yet.
The stallion grins and points down at his jock. “I got his number right here, just reach in and get it.”
Laughter breaks out. Not all over, but enough. “Fuck off,” I say. I’m getting the queasy feeling of being inside one of my dreams. I try to focus on getting into my uniform.
“Ah, sourpuss,” Charm says. “That time of the month, huh?”
More laughter. I flatten my ears and ignore him. Thankfully, that seems to be it. He gives me another pat on the back to show it’s all in fun (for him) and then we go out and practice and I don’t hear anything more about it.
I don’t hear anything—but I start to notice little things. A couple of the guys, not all of them by any means, but a couple, seem to be shying away from me in the contact drills, and again, Brick is one of them. When Colin and I brush on a play, he jerks away and runs back to the line before I can say anything. I’m pretty sure I’m not being paranoid, but I don’t want to make a big deal of it, and it’s hard to complain about a feeling, especially on a football team. Gerrard and Carson don’t treat me any differently, but the longer we practice, the more my whiskers tingle as if thunderclouds are gathering, like they used to on the plains back home.
When we hit the showers, I notice Brick and his friends hanging back. They look at me as I go in, and they don’t go in until I come out. I feel my claws flexing again.
“What’s with them?” Gerrard says.
“My stupid agent,” I say.
He smirks. “That statement? I saw it on the web last night. Just seemed like the standard thing. Angry fan makes up a story, people jump on it ’til it goes away. Don’t worry about it.”
I grab my cell phone, noting the blinking light. I’m sure Ogleby’s called at least three times. I don’t want to talk to him right now. “Seems like some people around here need that advice too.”
Gerrard follows my look to the showers. He shrugs. “That’ll last a couple days. You doing anything for dinner?”
I indicate the phone. “Sandwiches and damage control.”
He punches my shoulder. “Enjoy. Seeya tomorrow.”
There are actually sixteen messages on my phone. Twelve are from Ogleby, charting the progression of his moods from puzzled at my messages through defensive, conciliatory, and back up to excited as he relays interview requests from some media outlets. Interspersed with these are two messages from my parents, one from Caroll, and one from Lee, which simply consists of him saying, “Call me.” Three guesses which message I respond to first, when I open the phone next to my car.
“Did it get any worse today?”
He sighs. “Not really bad. Picked up by another couple blogs.”
I lean on the roof of the car. “I got some requests for interviews. How the hell are media stations paying attention to some asshole’s website? What if I just wrote some crap about him on a website?”
“You’re an athlete. Ogleby didn’t help, issuing an official press release. It got people’s attention. Now the major sports blogs are watching his, and the media watches them.”
“Fuck.” I watch Colin and some other rookie walk out. They glance at me and then walk pointedly away, talking more closely. “Did you hear from
him?”
The pause before he says “No” is so long that I know better.
“Come on,” I press.
“He called and left a message. I didn’t call back.”
The evening air is warm, but there’s a nice breeze. “What did he say?”
“It’s not important.”
“Lee…”
I hear him typing at a keyboard. “He was very happy about having outed you. He was delighted at the thought that finally there might be an openly gay active pro player.”
I feel the growl building in my chest. “You sure he wasn’t just happy at having ended my career?”
“Your career isn’t over. You’re starting.”
I tell him about the guys in practice, the talk with Coach. “Now I have to call Ogleby back and decline all the interviews, and that’s going to be suspicious.”
“Just go out with Caroll again.” His voice flattens as he says it.
“It’s only a matter of time now before it’s out. Then nobody will want to play with me, and Coach will say I’m a distraction, and that’ll be that. Tony Calhoun all over again.”
“They don’t do that anymore,” Lee says, without conviction. “What about that guy who came out a couple years ago? Retired on his own terms.”
“After eight years of keeping secrets and looking over his shoulder and not having a stable relationship ever.”
“Go call Ogleby,” he says. “I’ll be up late working.”
I call Ogleby, who is now delighted at all the press coverage we’ll get denying the charges. I have to argue with him for half an hour before he even understands why I’m choosing to skip the interviews. I tell him to think about what’ll happen if the rumors get any larger, that I’ll be out of the league and he’ll be out a commission, and he just comes back with the insistence that that’s why I have to do the denials. I leave him with the compromise that I’ll go out with Caroll one night this week and get into the papers.
Which means I have to call her next. She’s happy to fly out for an evening to help me out. By this time, my stomach’s growling, so I get in the car and call my parents on the way to the sandwich shop.
My father’s almost beside himself. “You can sue this guy for libel,” he says. “Or is it slander if it’s on the Internet?”
“I’m not suing anyone,” I tell him.
“He’s making false assertions that are intended to deprive you of your livelihood. Of course you can sue him.” When my dad gets on rolls like this, the best thing to do is just nod and let him talk. On the phone, I can’t really do that.
“It’d just give him more publicity if I do.”
“You need to prove to the world that he’s a liar, hold him up and expose him. You can’t let these people get away with their lies or they’ll just keep on lying.”
My stomach churns. I need those sandwiches. “It’s not worth it, Dad.”
“Your reputation isn’t worth it? Your livelihood isn’t worth it?”
“Jesus Lion, Dad, leave it alone.”
“All the guys at the shop were asking about it. They were asking if you’re going to start the next game in a tutu.”