Winter Ball (17 page)

Skip pulled back after a few moments, knowing his cock was swollen but feeling the weight of being a grown-up. “After Thanksgiving,” he said, while Richie blinked around like he was trying to figure out which day it was.

“What?”

“After Thanksgiving. We’ve got practice Friday afternoon. I’ll tell everyone then. I’ll just tell ’em I’m gay if you want. If they get ugly, I’ll leave you out of—”

“Oh fuck
that
, Skipper,” Richie snapped, shaking his head. “You think I don’t know what you’re risking? You’re risking your… your family unit here—”

“And so are you,” Skip said gently. Richie’s hair was growing long too, and Skip wound a sweaty ringlet around his finger. “Your dad already—”

“You know the saddest thing about my dad right now?” Richie said, voice hard.

“What?”

“He doesn’t have anything to hold over me, Skip. He doesn’t have a single thing I want. There is nothing he can threaten me with that will make me change what I feel when I’m with you.”

Skip smiled, a sort of serenity seeping through his chest. “Okay, then,” he said, dropping a kiss on Richie’s forehead. “We’re the family we each need. That’s… that’s something I can live with.”

It felt good then, right? Felt hopeful.

The next morning Richie called Skip from work to say the junkyard had been completely vandalized. Cars had been torched, their best stock had been put into the masher—it was a mess, and Richie’s dad had everybody working overtime until they had a quote for the insurance people.

So no Richie that weekend, no sex, no warmth, and definitely no plans for coming out.

Skip just had to buckle down for a long, lonely weekend and look forward to Thanksgiving with Carpenter’s parents instead.

CARPENTER WASN’T
having any of that bullshit.

“Not for the whole weekend?” he said when Skip explained it to him at lunch. Carpenter was moving much more quickly now, so they actually had more time to talk during lunch. Skip didn’t know if it was okay to say how proud he was, but it was true. His friend had really taken to the soccer thing, had been working out on his own since Halloween—at least Skip suspected so.

“It’s his dad’s livelihood,” Skipper said glumly. He’d gotten soup today, but it did not seem to be doing its job in comforting him. “And Richie’s starting to suspect that it’s more than just vandalism.” Richie’d texted right before lunch, saying he was pretty sure all of the prime parts of their best stock had been missing before the car bodies had been crushed. “It was like all the valuable stuff had been taken out before it got destroyed. And the alarms hadn’t gone off, and they should have been working.”

“So this is a really big deal,” Carpenter said, sounding relieved.

Skip glanced up and smiled wanly. “Yeah, he’s not just trying to ditch me.”

“You sound worried.”

“His dad….”

“Yeah—I saw he showed up at the game. Didn’t seem….”

“Warm,” Skipper said. That was the operative word right there. Richie’s family wasn’t warm. “And he hates my suddenly gay ass like you can’t believe.” Was that getting easier to say? Skip thought that maybe since he and Richie were both saying it, it felt like it fit. A little part of him wondered,
Is this why I didn’t say it before? Is this why Richie didn’t? Because we were afraid of saying it alone?

“I caught that,” Carpenter said, furry eyebrows raised dryly. “Nice move, throwing up on the field, by the way. I think all gay men should use that to avoid coming out of the closet.”

Skipper covered his eyes with his palm. “Yeah. That was classy, right? Way for Skip to be a stand-up guy.”

“Hey, Richie wasn’t ready.
I
could see it. And nobody wants to say something personal on the soccer field. It’s why men bond over sports, for Christ’s sake.”

Skip nodded and straightened in his seat, trying to concentrate on his soup. “Still. Richie keeps saying he can do it all himself, but….” Skip slurped meditatively and swallowed. His chest was still a little raw, and the liquid soothed.

“But….”

“But I thought I was okay when I was sick,” Skip said, still sort of embarrassed. “But I was lucky that cough medicine didn’t kick in when I was driving. And if you and Richie hadn’t taken care of me, I’d probably be dead and Hazel would be eating my face right now.”

With a look of disgust, Carpenter put down the rest of his turkey avocado sandwich. “That’s awesome. It’s not bad enough you’ve got me playing soccer and working out and eating healthy, now you want me to
hate
food too?”

“No—forget the part about the cat. The point is that I needed people. I needed you and Richie, and maybe I should have admitted it sooner, but I’m admitting it now. But I wouldn’t have if Richie hadn’t tried to get me to promise I’d never try to curl up and die on my own again.”

“He’s a good boyfriend,” Carpenter said, going back to the turkey avocado with gusto. “And your point is?”

“That he might need a little help with talking to his dad. Not this weekend, though. This weekend, he’s busy.” And Skip was back to feeling glum and cheated.

“Oh hell no.” Carpenter threw the last of the sandwich in his mouth. “If you’ve got nothing to do this weekend, you
owe
me.”

“Owe you….” Skip eyed him suspiciously. “What do you need?”

“I need a golfing buddy,” Carpenter said. “Seriously. Couple of times a year my high school gang goes golfing and compares conquered worlds. I go. I hate it. And I always have nothing to say. I mean, they’ve all graduated from college—”

“As have you,” Skip felt compelled to point out. Unlike Skip, Carpenter had a bachelor’s degree in computer science and not a tech certificate. Skip got the feeling that Carpenter was teching his way through Tesko because it was easy and nobody expected anything from him, which was demoralizing in its way. Having a job with benefits had been Skip’s
dream
. Well, until he’d kissed Richie—now he had another one.

“Yeah, well, they’re doing something with their degrees, they’re making lots of money doing it, and they’re smug bastards about it.”

This sounded like so much fun Skip would rather be sick. “And you want me to come because….”

“Because you’re the most interesting thing that I’ve got in my life.”

Skip gaped at him in horror. “Oh, Carpenter….”

“Yeah, I know. Pathetic. But also true. You can come and be a gay soccer coach—I’ll get to fly my liberal flag, because most of them are as conservative as the diamonds shoved up their asses, and you and I can talk about whether or not
Assassin’s Creed Syndicate
actually redeemed the shitty last version.”

“Mn,” Skip hedged, because he hadn’t been convinced, but all the gamer magazines were saying it was the next best thing.

“Yeah, right? I mean we could spend the whole day talking about that. And Skip….” Carpenter smiled like he was enticing a kid with a piece of candy. “Ski-ip… it’s
voluntary exercise
.”

Skip laughed a little. “You’ve been exercising off the soccer field—you can’t fool me. You’re looking real good.”

“Yeah, well, that was because I thought I was gonna die after that first practice. I can’t promise it will stick, though. So yeah? Since you and Richie don’t have the weekend together, I get to have you for golf?”

Well, what could he say? The guy had just helped nurse him back to health.

“Yeah, but I warn you. Richie gets jealous—this whole thing better suck and we need to bitch loudly about it, or he’s gonna wanna take you out.”

Carpenter laughed then—a real laugh—and Skip felt marginally better. Richie had been right about everybody needing people. He was glad to be one of Carpenter’s people.

CARPENTER’S FRIENDS
were everything Carpenter was not. They showed up to the course in Fair Oaks in designer golfwear plaid pants and pastel polos, which Skip tried not to smirk at. He and Carpenter were in khakis and hooded sweatshirts—in Carpenter’s case, khaki cargo shorts, in spite of the brisk wind. Skip had asked about dress codes, but Carpenter had just smirked and showed his ID and they hadn’t gotten more than a look as they’d entered the club.

Carpenter’s friends talked about their stock portfolios, how they were getting their MBAs in marketing or their law degrees to facilitate their next promotion, and how they were spending their Thanksgiving weekend going to fundraisers their parents were sponsoring.

Oh. And whether Corfu was a better vacation spot than Santorini.

Austen Mathers, the queen bee—erm, primary captain of the universe—did his condescending best to pull Skip into the conversation right when he was fixing to swing at the ball.

“So, uhm,
Skip
, where’s
your
favorite place to vacation?”

“Disneyland,” Skip said promptly. What had it been—two years ago? Skip, Richie, Jefferson, and Thomas had all gone down to Anaheim and roomed in the Tropicana. A five-star resort? No. But it had been
across the street
from Disneyland, and they’d gotten the three-day pass. For three days Skip had ridden all the rides, shaken hands with all the characters, waved at all the happy children, and basically relived a part of his crappy childhood but did it better. He still had the autograph book with pictures of him and the guys with as many characters as they could find. Jefferson had been on board with the character worship, but Richie? Richie had been right next to Skip in the front of the line. Thomas had humored the three of them—they knew that—but Skip and Richie? Skip had looked through that book a couple of times since then. Jefferson had looked happy, Thomas had looked long-suffering—but that look on his and Richie’s faces was as enchanted as any child’s. That book, that time, that was important to them.

“Disneyland.” Austen smirked and Skip nodded seriously.

“Swear to God, it’s the happiest place on earth. Now hang on here, I gotta swing.” This was the first time Skip had played golf—Carpenter had brought him his dad’s set of clubs so he didn’t have to rent any, claiming it was a fair swap for the soccer equipment Skip had lent him. He’d been five over par on the first hole—he wasn’t sure if that was called a bogey or a booger or a giant fucking dump—but he’d spent the round studying Carpenter’s friends and their swings, and their approach to the ball and the stick and the hole. He was pretty coordinated, and good at watching and learning and applying. Hell, it was how he’d faked a social life since the sixth grade.

Okay, back straight, knees bent, arms not locked, club as a giant lever, applying force right….

There.

Skip and Carpenter watched in awe as the ball arched, arched, arched, and fell, about four feet from the cup.

“Holy shit,” Carpenter breathed. “Skip, are you serious?”

“Apparently so,” Skip said, grinning at him. “Now all I gotta do is figure out how to punt.”

“Putt,” Carpenter smirked.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Austen—who had
barely
done better than Skip at the last hole—was glaring at him with a locked jaw. “That was pretty lucky,” he said through gritted teeth. “Good luck doing that again.”

To Carpenter’s delight, he did. And to Skip’s surprise, Carpenter was pretty damned good too.

“I get it now,” Skip said as the two of them were walking ahead of the group to the next hole.

“Get what?” Carpenter said innocently before taking a swig of his flavored water.

“I was wondering—why would my good buddy Carpenter, who’s sort of awesome, be hanging out with those pricks every year.”

“Yeah?” Oh, that smirk through all that fuzz on his cheeks did
not
get any less charming. Skip could totally see why Carpenter could get women, extra weight and slacking notwithstanding. Not that Richie had anything to worry about, but it made Skip root for his friend.

“You wipe the fucking floor with them—”

“And my dad’s the one who gets us the tee time,” Carpenter gloated.

“Oh dear Lord.” They were coming up to the next group of people playing the hole, and they propped their bags up at a polite distance and talked companionably.

“Dear Lord what?” Carpenter asked.

“This is just mean. You didn’t even
need
me—you could have lorded your superiority over them without me.”

Carpenter’s laughter was low and cruel. “Yeah, but you make it even
better
. You’re good-looking, you’re gay, and you just
totally
destroyed them in a game they’ve gotten lessons in for years.”

Skip grunted. “You didn’t know I was going to do that,” he pointed out uncomfortably. “What if I’d sucked?”

Carpenter shrugged. “See, in the first place, I didn’t see that happening. And in the second place, it would have been good too, because you and me could be talking about things like gay rights and marriage equality while we were right in the middle of them. It would have been
great
.”

“I feel a little used,” Skip said, although from a snarky bastard perspective, that could have been fun.

“Yeah, well, don’t. I’m just as happy we got to play through. You’re better company.”

Skip shook his head. “Well, that’s surprisingly gallant coming from a prick who dragged me here to fuck with people he should have ditched years ago. And you totally lucked out, because I am brand-new gay and don’t know
shit
about gay issues. For all I know, I voted for the biggest gaycist in Washington.”

Carpenter’s chuckle was pure evil. “Now
that
would be a discussion worth having.”

So they proceeded to have it, quibbling companionably while they watched the two guys in front of them struggle. Two holes later they were in the middle of a similar discussion about Gamergate when Skip laughed—loudly—at Carpenter’s suggestion as to what should happen to one of the trolls responsible for hounding the women who had first dared to mention that misogyny was alive and well. At that point one of the men—a real looker, probably in his late thirties, with silvering brown hair and deep laugh lines around dark brown eyes—turned to look at them.