Page 4 of Something to Prove

What’s New, Smithton?was my show, and my name was all over it. If something was good or bad, it was my responsibility. I took the credit or the blame. I had a small staff who helped suss out fresh storylines, but I had final sign-off.

And on that one particular occasion of celebrating hearts, flowers, and all things lurv, I’d let something big slip through the cracks.

Sidebar with full-disclosure-slash-confession: Jett Erickson, a former Bears hockey player and Ty Czerniak’s bestie, had been accidentally outed on my channel. I know what you’re thinking and I accept your contempt. But trust me, as a gay man, I’d been mortified by the oversight that had led to a blurry photo of Jett kissing his boyfriend being published and shared with a few hundred thousand fans. Mortified.

I’d immediately removed the offending photo, publicly apologized, and privately groveled as well. Apparently, that wasn’t enough for Smithton’s hockey hero’s best friend. And that was life. Win some, lose some. Not everyone was your flavor of Cheerios. Some preferred plain or honey nut or they werecornflakes fans. Some people didn’t like cereal at all. This was why we had choices.

Obviously, I wasn’t Ty’s type of person and he held a mean grudge, which was his prerogative. I just wished?—

Arlo belched loudly in my ear, violently pulling me from my reverie.

I bit back my grimace of distaste like a pro. “Congrats on your win tonight, man. The fans were on fire tonight.”

Trying too hard? Yes, I heard myself. But give me a break…I was ad-libbing like a maniac. I didn’t know jock-speak, but I’d studied interviews with the veteran reporters on ESPN and had learned to throw in a “man” and a fist bump without coming across as a total dweeb. It usually worked.

Most of the jocks I’d met were sweet, uncomplicated guys who thought shoving each other on the field or ice was super fun. The tougher they seemed, the harder they took a loss. And they all loved to win.

“Dude, it was awesome,” Arlo drawled, affecting an impression of a California surfer. Since I knew for a fact that Arlo was from Scranton, I had no idea what that was about. However, I’d been known to adopt a questionable British accent after a few too many G and Ts, so no judgment here.

“Absolutely. Do you have anything to tell Smithton football fans?”

Arlo cocked his head thoughtfully. “Uh…I got a new tattoo.”

Eye roll checked and a tight smile fixed firmly in place, I inched closer. “Oh, that’s a cool…spider?”

“No, man, it’s a bear claw. Can’t you tell?” He lifted his arm, exposing his rather fragrant pit and gestured to the blob of black spidery inkwork.

“I see it,” I lied.

“Love this thing. I’m getting one for my ass too. On each cheek.” Of course, he stood and dropped his towel, mooning everyone in the vicinity.

Rude. But all things considered, it was a nice tush.

I averted my gaze quickly. Smithton was a progressive institution, but as an undersized gay man in a room full of testosterone-laden giants, I didn’t want to get caught staring at Arlo’s beefy buns.

The beast of a man at the neighboring locker smacked Arlo with his towel. If memory served, his name was Carson. He was as thick as his teammate all over, albeit much better looking—like Superman, but with dark-blond hair and blue eyes.

Carson growled in what I thought was a chivalrous attempt to admonish Arlo’s impetuous bare booty shake. However, he ruined his momentary good guy status by flexing his biceps and yelling, “Smithton Bears,rawr!”

I winced as one might when a giant roars in one’s face, and again when the entire team, in various forms of undress, joined in. The deafening noise reverberated off the lockers like an off-key battle cry.

I shared a glance with Robin, tilting my chin meaningfully. It was time to make an escape.

We backed out of the room stealthily and hightailed it down the corridor. Neither of us said a word until we reached the parking lot.

“You got roared on. I think I saw fangs.” Robin made a face and gave a theatrical shiver that sent his unruly hair into his eyes.

I blanched. “Did you get any good photos?”

“Naturally,” he bragged.

I didn’t doubt it. Robin was a fabulous photographer—like, truly amazing.

He was a tall wiry senior with floppy brown hair, freckles, and glasses. We’d met at orientation the summer we’d each committed to attending Smithton and had been the best of friends since.

Fun fact: Robin was my first “employee,” and along with my Aunt Kay, he was one of my biggest cheerleaders. He was also an unrepentant geek with a quirky sense of humor and a penchant for classic video games and photography.

I pulled my keys from my bag and aimed the fob at my Mini Cooper. “I’ll go through them tonight and come up with titillating commentary to complement the belching tattooed giant’s words of wisdom. Wish me luck. This may take every brain cell I have in my arsenal.”