Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (3 page)

“
Be sensitive, dude,” the cougar says. “Miss Vix here just got dumped on national TV. You want a shoulder to cry on, sweetie?”

“
I’m fine.” I sigh. I don’t really need to give it that dramatic little touch, but they’re being really attentive, and I’m a sensitive vixen. On the outside. “It’ll just be hard. Watching him on TV, now.”

“
Won’t have to worry too long,” the leopard says. “Corcoran’s a real Family Values guy. Miski’ll be traded in a week. Probably to Yerba, or Port City. Somewhere liberal, anyway.” He laughs harshly.

“
Dunno,” the cougar says. “Might wait ’til Mitchell comes back.”

Corey Mitchell is the cougar who plays Dev’s position. When he was injured, Dev took over the starting role. I think he’ll be back in three or four weeks—another thing to worry about. I play up a naïve smile. “Traded?” I say.

The cougar turns to me with a big smile. “John Corcoran is the owner of the Firebirds, sweetheart. We think he might not like a fag—a homosexual on his team.”

I’m framing a sweet answer that doesn’t let on that of course I know who John Corcoran is, but I don’t get the chance to say anything. “Hey,” the leopard calls to my left. “Hal, you know Corcoran. One week or six?”

I follow his look. The short swift fox is sitting sideways, looking at me. He’s got on a tan blazer over a t-shirt, his scent so strong on them that I know he hasn’t washed them in a while. His jeans are frayed at the cuffs over his brown-furred feet. The jeans aren’t dirty, so I assume the brown is his natural fur color. He doesn’t smell dirty, either, just strong, a familiar farm country smell with overtones of scotch. I can practically tell the make of his father’s tractor.

He shrugs. “Don’t know that he’ll be traded at all.”

“
C’mon!” The leopard laughs. “Fuckin’ Republican douchebag like Corcoran?”

“
I know what you think of him,” Hal says. “I don’t think he’ll trade Miski.”

“
Oh, like you’d know.” The leopard turns back to the cougar. “Twenty bucks says he’s gone in a month.”

The cougar slaps his paw. “You’re on, pal.”

They shake. While the leopard hefts his bag over his shoulder, the cougar turns and leans down to me. “You sure I can’t buy ya dinner or something?”

I put on a narrow-eyed, polite smile. “Thanks,” I say. “I think I’ll just go home.”

He holds out a card. “Case you change your mind. Don’t like the idea of a sweet gal like you cryin’ alone.”

My fingers brush his as I take it. I get a little thrill from playing with him, but it’s not worth taking it any further. “Thanks,” I say.

When he’s gone, I compose myself in my best ladylike manner, smoothing my dress over my knees. The room is almost empty now, save for a couple reporters two rows up, and the swift fox still sitting to my left. I consider him.

He knows the Firebirds’ owner. He doesn’t think Dev will be traded, or let go. Why not? Also, he’s looking at me sideways and trying really hard not to be obvious about it.

So I lean over and say, “Hal, was it?”

He looks up without a start, and smiles. “That’s right, miss.”

“
I didn’t mean it,” I say.

His ears flick in curiosity. I go on. “About seeing him on the field. I love to watch him play. And he loves it so much. It’d kill him to leave. I hope he’s a Firebird for a long time.”

His smile broadens. His voice is buttery smooth. “Long as he keeps pickin’ off passes, I’m with you,” he says.

“
Do you really know Corcoran?”

The smile dims. He shrugs. “In a manner of speakin’.”

I sit back and sigh. I don’t want to see Dev lose the friends he’s made on the Firebirds, especially now. But if I let on how important it is to me, Hal might clam up about it. “I see.”

“
Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. I know when you go through somethin’ like this, you just wanna talk about anything else.”

“
You don’t know what this is like.” I’m sure he feels the raw scorn there, even if he doesn’t understand all the levels on which I mean it. I just know it, though. If he had someone as special as Dev, he’d be running home to her. Or him.

“
Sweetheart,” he says. “Maybe my ex didn’t call a press conference to dump me. But that’s only ’cause she didn’t think of it.”

“
I’m not your sweetheart,” I say.

“
Whoa, whoa.” He holds up a paw. “I’m just bein’ friendly.”

I look down at my phone, to hide my little grin. He’s friendly, he’s interested. I ignore the blinking alert of new messages and drop the phone into my purse. “I do appreciate that. And I’m sorry about your ex.” I get up, putting on my sad smile to give him, ears down: a cast-off vixen putting on a brave face. He’d only be able to resist it if he’s gay.

“
Hey.” His ears are down, but he’s trying his best to smile. “Don’t s’pose you’d let me buy you a cup of coffee?”

Guess he’s not gay. I look down at his notepad. “Don’t you need to write up your story?”

He shrugs. “All the big guys have theirs already going out. I don’t have a deadline that can’t wait for a lovely lady who needs an ear.”

“
What paper extends deadlines for their reporters to flirt?”

His ears fold back. “I’m freelance,” he says. “As of two weeks ago.”

I sit back in the chair. “Sorry to hear that.”

“
Yeah,” he says, “real kick in the teeth. First the wife, then the job. Banner fu—friggin’ year.”

“
Just you, or did the whole paper go under?” I say.

“
Whole paper. The Chevali Standard,” he says. “Guess you ain’t from here.”

He’s sharp. I change the subject, risk another nudge at his relationship with the owner. “So Corcoran lets you come in here? Can’t he get you a regular job?”

His ears droop another inch. “Lots of guys outta work. You know how he made his money? Furniture stores. I don’t wanna sell couches.” He makes a visible effort to be cheerful. “So how about that coffee?”

I sigh. A little more reluctance. Give him some play. “I’m not sure I’m up for it, honestly.”

“
If it makes you feel better,” he says, “whoever he’s with, it won’t last.”

I tilt my head. “What?”

He gestures toward the podium with his thin muzzle. “That spotted skunk out there was going on about the truth. Musta had something on him—pictures, e-mail logs, something like that—and threatened to out him, only Miski one-upped him. Did you know?”

The spotted skunk is Brian. I remember him sitting in a restaurant, telling me how good it’ll be for gay rights when he outs my boyfriend. I see him snarling at Fisher to give back his camcorder with the picture of me and Dev kissing, when he caught us in the Firebirds’ locker room. I don’t look at my phone, where his final message to me is still stored in memory. “No,” I say. “Not really.”

“
Well, you don’t just decide to come out, just like that. So you gotta figure this boyfriend of his...” He stops at my raised eyebrows. “If he ain’t got a boyfriend, how’s he bein’ blackmailed? Takes two to make a picture you can blackmail someone with. Plus, he skated real nice ’round those questions. You can tell.”

“
You
can,” I say.

“
Reporter’s instinct.” He taps his nose. “But that’s what I’m wonderin’. Where’s the boyfriend? Might not want to be up on stage, but he oughta be here. Either it’s some guy on the team or it’s some other guy, right?”

I wonder how many other people are drawing those conclusions. My paw straightens my dress. “That does seem to cover all the possibilities.”

“
You don’t have any idea who...?” Before I can answer, he shakes his head. “Nah, sorry I asked. I still don’t wanna think about the guy who’s fu—” He looks away, out a window or maybe at something I can’t see. “Who’s with my ex,” he mumbles.

I give him a moment. “It is still rather raw,” I say softly.

“
Look,” he says. “I know when I got dumped, my buds were useless. They’re all like, ‘you’re better off without her’ and ‘she’s a bitch,’ and...” He trails off.

I nod, slowly. “But you still love her. You can’t just turn it off.”

His ears lift a bit, his smile curling up at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah.”

I’ve got him hooked. He’s hoping to catch a girl on the rebound, either for a quickie or, well, probably just for a quickie. Be careful, I remind myself in Dev’s voice. I can take care of myself, I remind myself in mine. “Let me see if my ride is here.”

I take out the phone again. There’s a text from Dev:
3:55 pm. Luv u 3
. The ‘3’ is either a typo or his attempt to say he loves me more than usual. Either way, it’s adorable. I type in quickly,
Busy?

While I’m waiting for the answer, I flip through the rest of my missed messages. A call from my college friend Salim, and a call from my father. Two texts from Salim, the first saying simply,
OMG
, which is funny because Salim never uses netspeak, and the second saying,
did you ask him to do this?
The last is a call from Morty, the head of collegiate scouting over at the Hilltown Dragons. My boss.

Shit. I should’ve expected that. The Dragons drafted Dev on my advice, a year and a half ago, before trading him to Chevali. So Morty knows I know Dev, but he doesn’t know we’re dating. He doesn’t even know I’m gay. I mean, I’ve never told him. I did tell him to stop calling people ‘queer’ and ‘faggot,’ but I also told him to stop telling ethnic jokes. Just because I never go to strip clubs with him...or talk about a girlfriend...well, some guys, you can do everything but kiss your boyfriend in front of them and they won’t pick up on it. Others just know. I don’t know if Morty ‘just knows,’ but I do know that you don’t get to be a head of scouting by being bad at judging people.

I can’t listen to the voicemail right now. The reporter’s sharp ears would pick up anything Morty said. But it’s okay, right? He can’t fire me for being gay. Work would be a little uncomfortable, working with all those ex-jocks. I can deal with that, though. And now Dev’s out, if I want us to be able to go out together, I’ll have to come out too.

I’ll go to Morty’s office tomorrow, lay it out for him. Hey, maybe he’ll call a press conference.

My reverie comes to a jarring halt when the phone buzzes again, with a message from Dev:
Coach.

So that could be a little while, or it could be five minutes. Samuelson doesn’t go in for long discussions, but this isn’t a usual situation. I look again at Hal, who’s checking his phone, but his eyes are unfocused and I’m sure he’s just doing it to look busy.

I really want to go with him for coffee. It’s because he knows Corcoran, I say to myself. I could really be giving Dev an edge. Plus, he is or was in the media. He’s chummy with reporters. Maybe he could get us some good press coverage. And if you ignore the tractor smell, he’s kind of cute, too. The fact that I probably shouldn’t talk to him any more has nothing to do with it.

Ping me when you’re free,
I write to Dev, and then close the phone. “I have a few minutes,” I say. “Know a good place?”

He perks up. “Course I do. Lived here thirty years.” He holds out a paw, waiting. “Hal Kinnel.”

“
Lee,” I say, taking his daintily in mine. “Lee White.” I have a couple fake names that I use from time to time. I hope he doesn’t ask for ID or anything like that.

“
Pleasure to meet you, Miss White.” I almost expect him to bring the fingers to his muzzle, but he just clasps my paw in his warm pads and shakes it, then releases it.

He takes me three blocks down Redbird Ave., giving me some of the standard post-breakup spiel along the way: it’s not about you, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, and so on, right out of “Chicken Soup For The Dumped.” I stay demure, keeping my tail curled down, but his swings back and forth, close to me. I make sure it doesn’t touch my tail or my leg. Don’t want to lead him on.

We stop at a place called “Common Grounds,” with an artsy coffee cup in the logo, and a chalkboard menu that dominates the dim, grungy interior as we walk in. I let my eyes adjust to the light, lifting my nose even though coffee overwhelms the initial scents. The little shop is filled with grunge-kitsch: art from the nearby Chevali University, framed pictures of old writers, posters from seventy-year-old theaters. In one corner, a take-a-book-leave-a-book shelf explains the smell of old paper, and all around, college students hunch over laptops and books, just like they probably still do in Kitteridge’s back home in Hilltown. “Interesting place.”

“
They have wireless,” he says, and raises a paw to the mink behind the counter. “Medium latte,” he says, “and, uh, whatever the lady wants.”

All the drink names have flourishes on the letters, written in different-colored chalk, but the menu is standard. “Vanilla latte,” I say. “Small. Nonfat.”

He pays and leads me to two overstuffed chairs, an old steamer trunk between them serving as a coffee table. I sweep my tail daintily around my hip and sit down, remembering my upright ladylike posture.

Hal sits across from me. The faint smell of scotch and fox reaches me through the coffee-haze of the small café as he leans forward. “Really,” he says earnestly, “this coming out, it’s not about you.”

“
I know,” I say. Fittingly, because I know that Dev’s speech
was
about me, I have to rub my eyes. Hal, of course, takes that the wrong way.