Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Sometimes, I felt as if I owed my sanity as well as my undying gratitude to her. Sure, that sounded dramatic, but being a closeted gay athlete had been tougher than facing the league’s biggest, meanest defensive lines.
Amber had stepped in as my plus-one or my faux girlfriend or whatever the occasion called for more times than I’d like to admit.
“I don’t mind. You can return the favor,” she’d insisted. “I’ll be a celebrity with my family if you spend one Thanksgiving with the Petersons, and if you agree to sit next to my super obnoxious brother-in-law and my Uncle Carl—who’ll ask a hundred and fifty questions about the NFL—you’ll achieve rock-god status.”
I’d rolled my eyes. I mean, c’mon…I could discuss football all day long. What I couldn’t do was let the world know that I was gay. No chance. Hell, I’d done my best to ignore my queerness until I was in college and by then, my career had already been on a trajectory that surpassed my wildest dreams. And once I’d hopped on that ride, there was no turning back.
The way I’d seen it, the closet had been my only choice. I’d been freaked out of my mind worrying what my teammates would think if they knew. Guys like Mateo.
Jesus. I’d thought he was a solid dude in college and even though we hadn’t been friends, he’d seemed trustworthy—like the kind of guy who wouldn’t have ostracized me if he’d known my truth.
I was glad I’d listened to my gut and kept my secret to myself. It had been excruciating at times but the right choice for me. Now…I was finally ready to come out. My parents, sisters, and a few close friends knew. But Amber was the only person who’d known about me all along.
How? Well…that was an embarrassing story.
She’d sat in front of me in English Lit at Haverton College and used to lend me pens or give me a piece of paper…whatever I’d forgotten that day. Objectively speaking, Amber had always been a cute girl with a halo of curls, apple cheeks, and pink lipstick. She’d worn cardigans and jeans rolled at the hem. And best of all, she’d been bubbly and easy to talk to.
So when my teammate had reminded me that I’d needed a date for a banquet that very evening, I’d panic-asked her out.
It went something like: “I know you don’t know me very well, but will you go out with me? Not on a date-date. More of a friend-date.”
“A friend?” she’d repeated.
“Yeah.”
Amber had stared at me for an uncomfortably long time, sizing me up as our fellow students had weaved a path around us. “I get it.”
“Get…what?”
“You need a beard.”
I’d choked and stuttered through my denial, finally settling on, “I just need a friend.”
And that knucklehead had said “Yes” or “You got it” or “Don’t we all?”
After college, I’d been drafted to New York and by sheer chance, Amber had been offered a marketing job in Manhattan. And just like that, I’d started playing football at the highest level with a new team in the N-F-fucking-L. I’d had a cool apartment and access to anything my heart desired at the snap of my fingers—private jets, elite parties, quality drugs, beautiful willing women.
I’d liked the apartment, but the rest…not my thing. Having a friend nearby who knew my secret and got me had made all the difference in the world.
We’d weathered our fair share of storms—the meaningless hookups, my secret relationship with a “straight” politician, her secret affair with a married man who’d sworn he was separated from his wife, her miscarriage and the emotional aftermath.
When I’d been traded to Dallas, I’d talked Amber into moving with me. She’d needed a fresh start, and I’d selfishly wanted someone I could trust nearby. She’d moved again with me to LA, enrolled in cooking school, and a year later, we’d begun hatching a business plan. Something we could open in Haverton.
Personally, I’d gotten tired of packing my shit every other year, tired of nursing my battered body, and tired of hiding. The idea of returning to a simpler life in a Northern California seaside town where fishing, tourism, and the small private college on the hill were the main draws had always appealed to me. No New York City-style nightlife, no Dallas bling, no LA movie-star energy.
Haverton was a quintessential beach town. One turn off the freeway led to the boardwalk and a plethora of stores selling ocean-living accents, like picture frames embellished with seashells, sea-breeze-scented candles, and Haverton’s famous pier and fun zone emblazoned on tea towels, coasters, and welcome mats. There were a couple of bars, a fifties-inspired diner, two bistros, one “nice” restaurant that always used fancy tablecloths and served amazing surf and turf, a yogurt store, a market, a laundromat and dry cleaners, a coffee shop, a post office…oh, yeah, and a fucking pizza parlor.