Long Pass Chronicles 02 - Canning the Center (11 page)

Edward nodded. Morris Hesch walked in with his rapid stride. “Hi. Hi. Did you get the signs made, Edward?”

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the wall, where a pile of placards lay with stick handles beside them.

Edward kept scrolling through his messages as Morris sorted through the signs. He laid several on the table in front of Trevor and some by Edward and a place for himself. Digging through his backpack, he produced industrial strength tape, a staple gun, and some glue. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

Trevor sorted through the big signs. One read
You Come Out for Us. We’ll Come Out for You. Gay Students Support Gay Athletes.

Another—
Time to Open the NFL Closet Door. You Come Out for Us. We’ll Come Out for You.

Football Can Be Fabulous! Gay Students Support Gay Athletes.

There were more, but he got the gist.

Ginny bounded in the door. “Cool beans. We’ve got signs. So are we all ready for Saturday?”

How ironic that he’d be prompting gay athletes to come out on Saturday afternoon and then dating one of them on Saturday night.

Jamal wouldn’t even know they were out there. With a sigh, Trevor started taping.

M
AN
,
HE
felt like he was plugged into an electrical socket. Every cell vibrated. Jamal pulled on his jock and took slow breaths—real quietly. Nobody else needed to know how excited he was. Of course, he was about fifty/fifty as excited about playing his first pro game as he was about going out with Trevor, or should he say Trixie, afterward. If Trevor agreed, maybe the “getting to know you” could end and some serious sex could start. Better stop thinking about that while standing in his jockstrap. For the first time, he was glad he had the apartment.

He pulled on his hip and tail pads, and then slipped the pants on over them. They’d been getting more pressure from health organizations to wear cups, but most of the guys hated them. For him, no way could he wear one. Snapping the ball in a cup could hurt the quarterback’s hand, and Jet would not like that. He sat on the bench in front of his locker. It felt funny pulling on his high socks, but he’d get fined if he wore low ones. He stuck double-sided tape on his shoulder pads so his jersey wouldn’t slip.

“Excuse me, Jamal.” One of the stadium guards stood a few feet away.

“Yes?”

“Your father’s here.”

The smile took over his face. “Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.” He didn’t bother with the jersey, just headed for the door to the hall. His dad stood outside in the corridor. Funny that Big John was small next to his youngest child these days, but he’d always be a lot more formidable. Jamal wrapped the man who’d been the center of his life forever in a giant hug.

His dad stepped back. “Just wanted to wish you success, son.”

“Thanks. Dreams come true, I guess.”

“With a lot of hard work, yeah.”

“I’d never have been here without you. I remember riding on your lap as you mowed the grass and wishing I could play in this stadium.”

“You got here on your own merit, but I’m privileged to be a part of it.” He glanced to the side. People came and went into the different locker room doors on the long corridor. “There are LGBT picketers outside the stadium.”

Jamal frowned. “What are they protesting? The NFL doesn’t have any antigay rules. Just a lot of behind-the-scenes crap it’s hard to prove.”

“They’re not protesting. It seems they’re encouraging gay athletes to come out.”

“Wow. That’s maybe not the best timing I’ve ever heard of.”

“Do you think they know something?”

“I doubt it.” Shit, had somebody seen him at the Cellar? Recognized him? Or maybe someone knew about Shields.

“I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be blindsided.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just focus on the game.”

He smiled. People kept saying that to him while the politics piled up deep and wide. “I will. Love you.” He hugged his dad. As he let go, he looked up and met the light eyes of Lex Arondel.

The owner nodded. “Hello, Mr. Jones. Ready for a good game?” Big smile and big voice. People in the corridor turned to look.

“Yes, sir.”

“This must be your father.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Lex Arondel. I hear you keep our grounds here at the stadium.”

His dad shook Arondel’s hand. While Big John was smaller than Jamal, he still towered over the owner. “Yes. It’s been my pleasure to give the Diablos the best playing surfaces in the game.”

If Arondel had expected deference, he must have been way disappointed. “Yes, you have. You must be very proud of your boy playing for the Diablos.”

“I am. His whole family is proud of everything Jamal does.”

Subtext? Nah
. Jamal controlled his smile.

Arondel nodded. “Enjoy the game. Jamal, I’ll see you in the locker room before the game. Good to meet you, Jones.” He strode down the corridor.

His dad murmured, “Has eyes like a snake.”

Jamal laughed. “You got that right.”

“Better finish dressing. This is a big day.”

One more hug and he jogged into the locker room. By now it was packed. Three of the guys were rapping something they’d made up about the team while other men listened and clapped. Jamal walked to his locker. There on the hook hung a pink garter belt. He froze.
What the fuck?

Ado strode over beside him, still wearing just his jock. “Okay man, all the rooks gotta wear the symbol of your power. Put it on.”

Other guys started clapping. Every muscle in his body practically collapsed from relief. This wasn’t for him alone. A hazing.
Good shit
. He grabbed the pink frilly thing and pulled it on his head.

Ado elbowed him. “If you think that’s where that goes, man, you ain’t gettin’ enough.”

The guys starting chanting, “Strip, rook, strip.”

Roone Curry stood across the big room wearing pink over his jock and laughing. Jamal unlaced his pants and pulled them off, then slid the garters up over his pads. He struck a pose and strutted in a circle with the garters flopping against his thighs.

The outside linebacker howled. “You are beeeyoutiful, man.”

No way he’d tell them it was kind of sexy. It reminded him of Trixie.

The locker room door burst open, and Boogaloo stalked in with Matoa. He announced to the room at large, “What the fuck is with the picketers outside the stadium?”

Ignore him. Maybe he’ll forget you’re here
.

ZZ, one of the linebackers, nodded. “Bunch of flaming queers out there telling us we should come out as gay. Does that make you sick or what?”

Well, hell
. Jamal pulled his pants back on over the required garter belt, then started strapping on his shoulder pads.

Boogie slammed open his locker. “Shit. First game. Every fan is gonna think we’re hiding a bunch of fags on our team.” He turned around and faced the other players dressing at their lockers. “Far as I know, the only fag on this team is gone. Anybody else feel like dancing in his dainty slippers?”

Jamal held his breath and controlled his hands, which wanted to clench into fists.

Smith, the running back, took a step forward. “Shut your mouth, Boogie. My brother’s gay, and I got no problem with anybody who is, so can it.”

Boogaloo matched Smith’s step into the center of the room. “Brave words for a dude with a hundred-pound disadvantage.”

Jet had been dressing at his own spot back in the corner. He took a few steps toward the center of the room. “Give it a rest, both of you. I’m sure the picketers have a license, and you getting riled about it only gives them more credibility. Besides, if we don’t have a great season, we’re going to need all the fans we can get. Anyone want to volunteer to come out so we can secure the rainbow faction?” He grinned, and some of the tension broke. Boogie glared at West, pissed, but Jet was Jet, and nobody argued with that.

Jesus, relax a little
. Jamal took a breath and rotated his shoulders.

“Jones.”

He looked up as Boogaloo crossed the locker room.
His turn in the barrel
. No friendly smiles this time around. “I hear you’re not taking Lavinda out.”

He sighed and let it show. “I told you I was already involved. Since I spoke to you last, that relationship got more serious. I’m not going to cheat on, uh, her to take out Lavinda. Your sister’s beautiful and smart, but I know she doesn’t want me cheating either.”

“She’s really disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, Boogie. Crap, what do you want me to do?”

Boogaloo stared at him. Easy to see the answer to that question.
Throw over whoever else you’ve got in mind and go for my sister.
“So this new girl must be hot shit, right?”

“I like her.”

“So you bringing her to the after-game party tonight?”

“Uh, no.”
What the fuck?

“So you coming by yourself?”

“No.”

Matoa looked over from his locker. “You gotta go, man. It’s, you know, mandatory.”

“I didn’t know.”

Boogie looked up and yelled, “Hey, Jet. Tell your rook here that he has to come to the first game party, man.”

West yelled back, “Jones, you gotta come.”

Well, shit
. He looked at Boogaloo. “What time?”

“Starts at eight. Food, drinks, music. All the press gets invited so wear your pearlies, a’ight?” He narrowed his eyes. “So you bringing her?”

“Maybe. I have to ask.” He turned back to his locker.

“You better, ’cause I want to meet the diva that assed out my sistah.”

Jamal shook his head but didn’t turn around. “Come on, Boogie.”
Mother of crap
. His first real date with Trevor, and he had to ask to take him to a party full of NFL dudes who’d be examining Trixie like a prize cow. Plus, the fucking three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spherical assholes of the press too. Jesus, he couldn’t ask him to do that. But otherwise Jamal had to break the date. Would Trevor forgive it? He’d already asked the guy to pretend he was a woman just to be with Jamal. Shit, he’d been so excited about tonight.

He grabbed his phone and started a text to Trevor. He got as far as “party” before the locker room door opened.

The coach walked in wearing a suit. Yep, he thought it was basketball. “Okay, gather round.”

Jamal hit Send. Crap, that should totally confuse Trevor.

Arondel strolled in and positioned himself beside Hartford. The whole team stood a little straighter.

Jamal joined the gathering. Man, his heart beat so hard it could escape his chest. This was it. Just minutes until the realization of his dreams and fantasies.
Wow
.

Arondel surveyed the team. “Mr. Johnson, will you lead us in a prayer?”

ZZ Ross stood next to Jamal. The guy tensed when Arondel asked that. Yeah, likely a violation of people’s civil rights, but who the fuck was going to tell the team owner that?

Boogie bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, watch over us out there. We play for you and in your name. And if you happen to want to give us a win, well, we won’t complain at all.” The guys chuckled, and some of the discomfort lessened.

Arondel nodded and smiled. “I’m very proud of all of you. I’m sure you’ll be a credit to this team—both on and off the field.” ZZ’s hands clasped, and Jamal had to force his not to. “I know those picketers out there are a bother to you, but sadly there’s nothing we can do since they aren’t violating any laws.”
Shit
. Was the man inciting? Boogie and a couple of other guys grumbled under their breath. “But take that anger and express it on the field. Give us our first win. It may not count in the record books, but it will announce the presence of the Diablos.”

Boogie yelled, “Go Diablos!” The whole group cheered.

Hartford took over and gave them some more specific advice about how they could beat Oakland.

Jamal listened closely, but he couldn’t get the unsettled feeling out of his gut. Not just butterflies, but that “off” anxiety. He really wanted to be happy.

Ten minutes later, he stood at the head of the tunnel. Somewhere out there his mother, sister, and brother were sitting. His dad would be on the sidelines, ready to tend the field.

The words echoed through the stadium. “And now, your new starting center for the Los Angeles Diablos, Jamal Jones.” Thousands of people cheered.

Chills ran up his spine. Finally, everything felt good.

Chapter 8

T
REVOR
STARED
at his phone.
Party
. Hmm. What the heck did that mean? Jamal said they’d go out for a nice dinner. Oh well. He was ready for most anything with the big guy. Funny. He hadn’t been quite this “ready” with anybody for a while. Or maybe ever.

He crossed to his boxy TV set, circa 1996, and flipped it on, then took the two steps to the tiny closet. Behind the small collection of boy clothes, he surveyed Trixie’s wardrobe. Poor girl. She didn’t have much in the way of casual clothes, and even a party wouldn’t call for her performance gowns. A little shiver made him smile. The idea of going out in the real world dressed as Trixie kind of did it for him. He wasn’t really a cross-dresser, and he didn’t completely understand why he loved to perform as Trixie. Sure, a psychologist would say his mother always loved him as a girl, so he craved to be one. Not so. He didn’t feel female, whatever that was. He liked being male, but wearing women’s clothes made him feel—sexy. No, that wasn’t it. Hell, he’d tried to explain it to himself a million times.