Page 7 of Striking the Match (Redwood Bay Fire #3)

Cassius

“Why does nothing in this kitchen look like it’s been used?” my mom asks in a disapproving tone as she bangs her way through my cupboards.

I sigh fondly from where I’m lying on my side. I’m grateful for the shag pile rug I had imported, otherwise I’d be pretty uncomfortable on the wooden panels. “Because I’ve been here a day and a half, Mom. I’m still unpacking. I can’t even find the forks.”

“So you’ve been living off takeout, hmm?” She kisses her teeth. “That stuff will rot your guts.”

I laugh and shake my head. “After two decades working with some of the best nutritionists on the West Coast, I am perfectly aware of how to feed myself. Some maki rolls and burgers aren’t going to hurt for once.”

“You’re going to let me cook us dinner now, though, right?”

If she’d allow me to spoil her, I would. But her idea of a good time will be pottering around making us something ten times more delicious than I could ever order. I lean up and wink at her. “I wouldn’t dare try and stop you.”

“Good boy,” she says approvingly.

I lean back down to continue my staring contest with the angry cat currently camped out under my sofa. But the angle is awkward, and my shoulder fires a jolt of pain down my arm as I do. I can’t help but hiss and jerk my whole body with it.

Of course that spooks Kiki, who hisses in retaliation and backs another few feet away from me.

“Damn it,” I mutter. So much for building trust with her. I know it’s barely been twenty-four hours, but I feel like I’m failing her already.

“Are you quite all right down there?”

I blink and look up at Bryan’s upside-down face. “Yeah, Kiki’s under here.”

“Kiki?”

I give up and wiggle around until I’m standing in front of him, brushing my hands on my thighs to get rid of any lingering debris left by the movers. The pain is already fading, thankfully. “Her new name. I thought she looked like a tequila sunrise, so ‘Kiki’ for short.”

“Ahh,” my PA says approvingly with a nod, tilting his head to peer in the gap between the floor and the sofa, but Kiki is far too well hidden to be seen from this vantage point.

I squint at him. “Are you okay?” He returns his attention to me, and I gesture toward the scratches on his arms and hands.

“Oh, yeah, fine,” he says hastily. “Just…you know…putting furniture together. Hi, Mrs. Garda!”

I’m not sure why he’s being skittish with me, but my mom is already barreling over to throw her arms around my usually touch-averse PA.

“Bryan! You’re too skinny. You’ll stay for dinner, yes?”

“Oh, I couldn’t…” My mom narrows her eyes at him. “…say no to that!” he pivots fast. Sensible man. “You got the grocery delivery I organized, then?” he asks me.

“Yeah, dude. You’re a life saver. Thank you.”

He preens. “I know.”

For the time being, I concede defeat and leave Kiki to her hiding spot.

The staff at the shelter warned me it could take a good while to gain her trust and see any improvement.

She’s used to roaming wild and fighting her own battles.

I hope one day soon she’ll understand she doesn’t have to do that anymore.

She’s definitely confused by why she’s not allowed outside anymore.

My plan is to build her one of those catio things out back, and I want lots of bridges and perches on the walls inside so she can roam around her own private urban jungle.

However, she’s currently unimpressed at my attempts to protect both her and the local wildlife by keeping her indoors.

Sometimes doing what’s right makes us sad. Or in her case, cranky as hell. But I think about how Teddy Foster did the right thing by allowing me to adopt her, even though he clearly cares about her after their river adventure together.

My mom is chatting with Bryan, telling him all about what my younger sister and brother are up to at the moment.

He settles on one of the breakfast barstools, and I find myself wandering over to the coffeemaker to fix us some drinks.

If my mind is going to drag me back to thoughts of Teddy, it’ll be good to have something physical to do with my hands so I don’t end up daydreaming into space with other people around.

It’s crazy, I know. We barely spent ten minutes together yesterday at the shelter. And yet I find myself mesmerized by the memory of him. When a guy’s that cute, it’s not surprising, really. His round face was almost cherub-like, complete with a dimple on his left cheek when he smiled.

I liked making him smile.

I liked making him blush even more, and with his pale complexion, it was quite easy. Last night I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what I’d whisper in his ear to make him flush even harder. How I’d run my hands through his thick blond hair and grip his broad shoulders and…

The coffeemaker pings, saving me from my filthy thoughts. I clear my throat and set about fixing cups for my mom and Bryan the way I know they like it. But it doesn’t stop my mind from wandering, still, musing on the past.

In many ways, I was incredibly lucky and privileged during my time with the Seahawks. Being their golden boy gave me the security to come out while I was still playing. It was fucking terrifying, nonetheless, and some fans and pundits had some truly vile things to say about me.

But the team’s owner had my back and so did our coach. I knew how incredibly important it would be for queer representation in the game, and if I didn’t have the guts to do it, how could I expect anyone else to?

So I made an Instagram post. Simple as that.

I had to do two shots of vodka before jabbing the send button, then immediately wanted to throw up.

But I had several guys from the team with me, cheering me on.

They wouldn’t let me chicken out after I explained how much coming out meant to me, and I’m grateful they didn’t.

Yeah, the ‘tight end’ jokes came flying in thick and fast in the comments section.

Some people tried to drag our center into the drama, saying I had no right being between his legs despite that being where—you know—the ball was I had to throw down the field.

So many women took it as a challenge to try and ‘turn me straight again.’ There were countless memes and comedians talking about me on TV and sport journalists trying to trash my reputation retrospectively.

But then there was my team, who were cooler about it than I ever could have hoped for.

Countless fans who flooded me with support.

LGBT organizations from all over the world heralding me as a hero.

A couple of companies dropped me from their campaigns, but others jumped in to take their places, and I much preferred knowing I was working with people who weren’t bigoted.

Ultimately, none of it mattered. Because when all was said and done, I was still the absolute shit.

No one could throw like me, and I helped Seattle reach unfathomable heights.

I was their shining star for a decade, and once I came out, I was going to keep on doing all of that, but also proving football can be a space for the queer kids, too.

Then I blew my rotator cuff and dislocated my shoulder, and everything was gone in an instant.

Nowadays, I understand I didn’t lose ‘everything.’ But it damn well felt it at the time.

My gay, Black ass was supposed to spend the next few years changing hearts and minds, one victory on the field at a time.

But my spotlight was snatched away, just when I’d finally convinced myself to be vulnerable and set an example.

In my mind, it felt like a punishment. I didn’t get to go out on my terms with a Super Bowl ring on my finger, confetti falling from the sky.

Instead, I was stretchered off the grass in blinding pain, saying goodbye to my career with a whimper rather than a bang.

However…I wasn’t even out of hospital before my agent got an email from an uppity, determined PA claiming that if I didn’t want to fade into obscurity, I needed him more than I knew to get my life back on track.

As I sip my coffee, I grin fondly at Bryan from behind the mug, grateful every day for his outrageous audacity.

Gradually, my shoulder healed as best it could, and the pain faded. I’ll probably have to do physical therapy the rest of my life, and it’ll catch me out like it just did more times than I’ll ever know.

But with Bryan working with my agent, thrusting me into shooting a series of commercials and doing interviews left, right and center, I wasn’t allowed to wallow in self-pity. I was able to remind myself that I still had my family, my friends, and my reputation.

Oh, and I was still a millionaire. Kind of hard to get too down on life when I have the freedom and security to do pretty much whatever the hell I want.

While I was on this journey of self-discovery, though, it left little time to try and date now that I was finally out of the closet.

As soon as I went pro, I was far too afraid to ever try and hook up with anyone in secret.

I really don’t want to think about how long it’s been since I had sex with another human being.

So perhaps that’s why my brain is stuck on a fixated loop of thoughts of Teddy Foster. I’m like a parched man finding an oasis in the desert.

Except, he’s hardly the first gay man I’ve come into contact with over the past several months. Bryan certainly didn’t elicit this response in me. I shudder at the mere idea, then laugh to myself. I love him, sure. But in a completely platonic way.

The feelings that have stirred around Teddy have been anything other than platonic.

Since coming out, the percentage of gay men in my everyday life probably quadrupled, yet Teddy has been the only one to turn my head.

And when I suggested swapping numbers, he ran a mile.

I lean against my kitchen counter and chew on my lip, grateful that Bryan and my mom are entertaining themselves, chatting and chopping veggies while I brood.