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And strange. Meaningless sex with a willing partner was the only sex I’d had in years. Until now. Until Rob.

I couldn’t decide if this was complicated or not. I’d always been an expert at deflecting curiosity about my private life. I had to be. My family was nosy as fuck. Before I came out, everyone in my family had someone they thought I should meet. I used to go along with the charade, feigning interest to get them off my back.

But I hadn’t had to do that in years. Not since Sal had caught me making out with a barista the year I’d been sent home from the pros and gotten dumped by my two-timing lover. He hadn’t said a word—he’d just given me a quizzical look. I’d nodded, he’d nodded, and that had been it. I was out. My cousins officially knew.

And they’d kept my secret for years. I hadn’t even considered coming out to my parents. But then my father died and the opportunity was gone.

I’d shared the story of how I’d blurted, “I’m gay” at Sunday dinner with Rob. I couldn’t say why I’d done it, but my working theory was that I’d bottled up the truth for too long and it couldn’t be contained any longer.

My mom and aunt had hugged me, my cousin, Lucia had wanted to set me up with a doctor in her practice. End of story.

I’d gained my family’s support with very little fanfare, and I was grateful. Sure, Ma had still asked if I’d met anyone nice, but she wouldn’t want to hear about guys I met on Grindr, so that was an easy no. But Rob…yeah, she definitely wanted to know all about him.

Ma began showing up at the bagel shop with a bejeweled Aunt Sylvie dressed from head to toe in her signature leopard print, timing their visits to bump into me. If I wasn’t there, they’d come by the pizzeria and gush about the nice young man next door. And of course, they’d voted for our “bake-off” samples each week, and gave their two cents.

Aunt Sylvie, honest to a fault: “Your bagel is doughy, Mateo. I don’t like it.”

Ma, also honest, but with a lighter touch: “It’s not bad. It’s just…I think it’s maybe not your strength, honey. But your marinara is far superior.”

Aunt Sylvie: “Not even a contest.”

According to Amber, after six weeks, we were tied at three wins each. If it hadn’t been for the posters all over town, promoting our support for the Big H Hawks, we might have forgotten that we’d started this hating each other. This silly contest I’d sworn I’d win hands down didn’t seem so important anymore. It was good for the community, good for the football team, good for…us.

But there was one more event. The finale.

The first Saturday in December also happened to be a big home game for the Hawks. Alumni had flown in from across the country along with a hoard of football fans and social media sycophants who’d been following Amber’s campaign from the beginning.

Amber chose seven judges: Great H’s current hotshot QB, Coach Malveney, three food bloggers, and two random fans from the audience gathered at Haverton Park for a parade-slash-holiday-boutique and yes…the championship installment of the Pizza-Bagel Battle.

Our online audience had set the challenge for each of us to make our version of the perfect pizza bagel. Great H Bagels and Boardwalk Pizza provided samples to feed the crowd that had shown up, but the pizza bagels the judges would taste had been made by us.

Let’s keep it real: Rob’s bagel was better, but my toppings were far superior. If combined, we’d have made the perfect pizza bagel, but separately, it was up to the judge’s palates.

“I like this one,” Coach stated, pushing the plate forward.

The QB milked his off-field moment in the spotlight, biting into one, lifting his brows to the delight of the audience, then frowning and moving on to the next plate before ultimately choosing one. “Yo, this one.”

The crowd went wild.

Our two locals weighed in next.

“I think you’re gonna win,” Rob whispered, sidling close to me.

“For sure.”

“Asshole.” He nudged my shoulder and laughed, sobering a second later. “The truth is that no matter whose name they call, I’m the winner.”

I huffed. “How does that math work?”

“I’m with you,” he replied, clapping as the locals finished judging.

The three bloggers were next. Their spiel about consistency, flavor, and texture was nothing but static. There was something so raw and earnest in Rob’s tone, and I couldn’t ignore it.

“What do you mean?”

He turned to me, his eyes bright and filled with something that looked a lot like affection and…hope.

“I mean…I’m grateful to have you in my life, to know you, to be with you. If you hadn’t instigated a damn pizza war, this might never have happened. I don’t care about bagels or pizza. I just want you, Mateo.”