Winter Ball (21 page)

They were gathered around the cooler for a break when McAlister strode across the field in his waffle-stompers and Day-Glo orange vest, looking fit to kill.

“Mac?” Owens called out. “Where’s your gear? Man, you can’t play wearing that!”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ play for this team anymore!” McAlister shouted. His face was red with exertion and apparently anger, and he strode down across the field straight to Skipper. “I’m not gonna play for a fuckin’ fairy, asshole. You all better get the fuck out of here too, or he’ll make you fuckin’ gay just like he did to Scoggins!”

Skip had never really felt his jaw drop before. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah—you think nobody fuckin’ saw you after the last practice, but you’re
wrong
, faggot. My
dad
saw you, and we started talking over Thanksgiving about where my team practiced, and he told me about two guys going at it, fucking disgusting, a redheaded guy and a blond guy, tongues down each other’s throats and everything. I heard your voice on the line this morning reminding us about practice and I about
puked
.”

He really hammered the word “puked,” complete with spittle, and Skipper shivered under the chilly November sun, looking back at the faces of the team he’d assembled through goodwill and good sportsmanship alone.

“So is it true?” Jefferson asked into the silence. “You and Scoggins hooking up?”

Skip swallowed and wished for Richie so hard he was surprised he didn’t hear Richie’s voice in his head. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Since right before Halloween. We’re….” Oh please, Richie, let this be true. “I’m hoping he’ll move in with me soon.”

“Good for you!” Jefferson clapped his back hard enough to tingle.

“Yeah, man—good for you!” The chorus of well wishes made his knees weak, and he gave a watery smile to his team surrounding him on the field.

“Hey!” Owens said, and for a moment Skip’s heart stalled. Oh God, no, let this not be the other shoe. “Is this why Scoggins didn’t call us in to take care of you when you were sick? Was he afraid you’d say something?”

“Oh my God!” Carpenter shook his head. “Did you guys know he fucking
babbles
when he’s sick!”

“Well, uh, yeah,” Menendez said. “That’s how we knew Skip sort of crushed on Richie in the first place.”

“I did
not
know that,” Jimenez said, shrugging. “But that’s okay, because my little brother is gay, and I just can’t hate, you know?”

“Oh God,” Skip moaned good-naturedly. “Really? You all knew? ’Cause it took the two of us by surprise!”

Catcalls and hollers met that announcement, Thomas and Cooper joining in, and for a moment, riding the glow of good wishes, Skip forgot McAlister and his concentrated venom, even though the big Irishman was standing right in front of him.

“So that’s it?” Mac interrupted, obviously floundering. “You guys find out our captain’s a fag and you just… just congratulate him?”

“That’s not a very nice word,” Singh said, his diction precise. “What’s the matter, McAlister—does it offend your manhood that a gay man is a better player than you?”

“What
offends
me,” McAlister snarled, his face contorted and ugly in a way that Skip found truly frightening, “is that this cocksucker and his little butt-buddy have run this team into the ground like it’s some sort of blow job buffet! Jesus, Keith, your little
boy
friend can’t play for shit, and you just keep putting him on the front line like he can blow us into first place again!”

They had to pull Skipper off of him.

One moment he was standing there, letting all of that irrational hatred roll off his back, and seriously wondering when rec league soccer, a sport made up of guys playing after work to let off steam, became a contender for more than a round of beers after the game.

The next minute McAlister was on the ground hitting Skip’s fists with his face and the entire team was hauling Skip off and telling him that it wasn’t fucking worth it. Carpenter and Owens each held one of Skip’s arms as Jefferson and Menendez pulled McAlister out of the mud.

“He beat you fair and square,” Thomas said over their shoulders. He was a tall guy, all elbows, and he sounded like a schoolteacher should as he lectured. “You tell the police, and we all tell them that you let a gay man pound your nose until it broke.”

Cooper—their shortest player besides Richie—stepped forward and stood in his face. “We’re done here, Mac,” he said seriously. “The rest of the team doesn’t give a shit—and you’ve said too goddamned much. If you ever want to play with
us
again, we’re going to need a big fucking apology. Otherwise you need to get the fuck off our field.”

Skip watched him slump forward suddenly, like it had never occurred to him that he could lose his team, lose his friends, his peer group, his recreation after work, by buying into the same prejudice his father did. For a moment Skip felt sorry for him—Skip had
known
what was at risk. He’d been ready to lose all his people.

McAlister had never thought that would happen to him.

“Really?” he asked, sounding puzzled and lost. “Seriously? You’re going to pick a f—”

“You say the F-word again and we will fucking hurt you,” Jimenez snarled, and unlike Menendez, Jimenez actually knew what it was like to live in the not-wonderful part of town. He’d had to fight for his law degree.

“The world has fucking changed,” McAlister muttered. “And not for the better.”

He turned around and stalked off the field, leaving the team breathing hard with adrenaline and excitement.

“Oh holy fucking wow,” Skipper said into the sudden quiet. “You guys—I mean, I sort of hoped you wouldn’t all hate me, but I just never expected that.”

“Well yeah, Skipper,” Galvan and Owens said in tandem. Then Owens continued, although usually he let Galvan do the talking. “I mean, six years we’ve had each other’s backs. We’re not going to let that go because
that
asshole suddenly buys a clue. You’re, you know. You and Scoggins are our friends.”

Skip grinned shyly back, and then Thomas snagged a practice ball and started showboating, and Menendez had him pass it over. Carpenter gave Skipper a couple of clean towels so he could wrap his knuckles—and wipe the blood off his cheek, since McAlister had gotten his own blows in—and by the time Skipper had cleaned up, the guys were heavily invested in a game of Hot Potato, the kind where everybody got to play and the only rule was don’t drop the fucking ball.

For the last half hour as the light died and winter took over their little corner of the world, Skipper got to play with his team. When he’d been a little kid hiding in his room, dreaming of a better future and friends, this moment here, friends calling his name and laughing and cheering him on,
this
moment was the one he’d been dreaming of.

When it was over and everybody had moved to their cars, volunteers helping with the snack table and the ice chest, Skipper stood by his car and looked out over the field as the lights clicked on and the next team started.

Carpenter stood at his elbow, ready to hop in his own car and—his words—go soak in a hot bath and dream of girls with nice pert breasts. “Whatcha thinkin’, Skip?”

Skip turned to him and smiled a little. “I’m thinking this was a really awesome day. I’m going to go share it with Richie.”

Carpenter grinned. “That’s my boy.”

Skip didn’t even go home to change.

THE WORLD
was full dark by the time Skip turned left on Grant Line. He was very careful not to make the left-hand turn into the scrap yard, and instead drove another half a mile and turned down the long driveway to the house.

In the summer the house was a green oasis of a copse of trees—watered, of course—and a lawn, all in the middle of long grasses that were usually mown as hay. This time of year, if there’d been any rain at all, the hay was still long green grass over star thistle skeletons. The house itself—yellow, two stories, with the little apartment over the garage—was set at an off angle from the road. Anyone coming in could park in a little dirt-and-gravel area by the trees and then circle around to the front walk, which looked south at a ninety-degree angle from the east/west running road. Skip had no idea why anyone would design a house like this—unless it was to be able to ignore the traffic and the vast expanse of nothing that this area still was—but as he parked by the trees, he realized the design had its uses.

Nobody watched him drive up. Nobody watched him park his car right behind Richie’s, one of maybe seven cars in the full little parking area. Skip was a secret, a surprise, and if he was lucky, he could see Richie before anybody else saw him.

As he walked around the copse, staying to the shadows, he smelled tobacco and heard a voice swear “Gross!” on the exhale.

Oh God. Skip really
was
the luckiest man on the planet.

“That shit’s really bad for you,” he said, rounding the corner. Richie was leaning against a tree, glaring at the house and smoking. He was dressed nicely in jeans and a sweater, but the jeans slid around a waist that was a bit stringier than it had been, even since Sunday, and his face was sawtooth lean. He’d shaved recently, but in the light from the porch, Skip could see he’d missed patches. Well, he didn’t have anyone to look nice for, maybe.

He saw Skip and he dropped the butt onto the wet earth at the tree’s roots and ground it out, his face lighting up in excitement.

“Skip! Oh my God! Holy shit! What are you doing….” His expression fell and he slowed his gallop into what should have been Skip’s arms. “Skip, you have to go home, man, my dad cannot
catch
you here—”

“Come home with me.”

Richie stopped talking and stared at him. Skip took that last step into Richie’s space. He smelled more heavily of tobacco than he ever had, and Skip reckoned part of his reluctance to come by was that Skip would realize how much he’d been smoking lately.

Who cared? Skip would take him, nicotine and all.

Skip looked down and seized his battered, yellowing fingers in his own.

“Skip?” Richie said, uncertain, and Skip caught his eyes and smiled tentatively.

“We… we were outed to the team today. I mean, you weren’t there, but McAlister’s dad saw us, I guess, and Mac showed up all ready to be a jerk and a bully and….”

Richie’s shaking hand found the cut at Skip’s cheekbone. “I’ll fucking kill him,” he said, voice crumbling.

Skip caught the hand near his cheek and held it there. “You don’t have to.” He smiled, the memory still sweet. “The whole team just sort of shut him down. Told him to get the fuck out of there, they didn’t need him if he was going to be an asshole.”

“They did what?” Oh, his disbelief was precious. It was, very nearly, Skipper’s own.

“They chose us, Richie. They would rather play with us, out and proud, than line up behind McAlister, a big asshole, any day. They
chose us
. We’re their friends. It was that fucking simple.”

Richie shook his head and held his free hand to his mouth. “It’s not that fucking simple,” he said. “You know it, Skip. It’s not simple.”

“No,” Skip said, leaning forward, kissing his temple, hushing what seemed to be roiling through him. Well, Skip could sympathize. “It’s not simple. But it’s huge. Come home with me. We have friends. We can be family. I mean, I met Carpenter’s family, Richie—and they weren’t perfect. They weren’t. They make Carpenter feel like shit even when they’re not trying, and I swear, if I ever eat anything called ‘tofurkey’ again, shoot me before I swallow. But other than their whole vegan thing and pushing out mostly perfect spawn—except for Carpenter, thank God—they were really nice people. But they weren’t perfect. And you and me? We’re really nice people. We can have a really nice family, even if it’s not perfect and what everyone wants it to be, you know?”

Richie gave him a wobbly smile. “You sound really fucking wise, Skipper. You know that?”

“Please?” Skip’s voice cracked. “Please? For me, Richie? I mean, you might be able to live this way, but… man, I fucking miss you when you’re not at my place. It
hurts
, and I thought I was used to being alone. It’s like a few weekends and I’m spoiled—I need you there or my feelings are all messy and bleeding—”

He was going to lose it, start crying like a complete asshole, but Richie cupped his face in his rough hands and kissed him. Oh God, tobacco or no tobacco, Skip had needed the taste of him so badly! Richie deepened the kiss, and Skipper wrapped his arms around Richie’s shoulders and gathered him in, taking his tongue and then giving back, needing that ebb and flow, that perilous shift between who was giving and who was getting. Needing it more than water, more than food, more than breath.

Richie moaned and broke away, burying his face in Skip’s shoulder.

“Please?” Skip begged again.

“You’d better fucking mean it,” Richie threatened, his voice as raw as Skip’s.

“Never meant anything more,” Skip said, his heart almost breaking with relief.

“C’mon,” Richie ordered, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the back entrance of the garage. “Let’s go get my clothes.”

They’d taken five, maybe six steps toward the big yellow house when Richie’s dad burst out of the front door.

“Richie!” he yelled. “Richie! Dammit, who’s out here with you?”

“It’s Skipper, Dad,” Richie said back. He stopped and clutched Skip’s hand so tightly, Skipper wouldn’t have dreamed of letting go.

“Skip—what in the hell!” Richie’s dad rounded the corner, and Skip could see that the strain of the past few weeks hadn’t been kind. His ginger hair was now mostly gray, and there was a lot less of it. Like Richie, he’d lost a little bit of weight, but Ike had lost it in his neck and cheeks. Suddenly Ike Scoggins didn’t look like a junkyard bulldog anymore. Suddenly he looked like an old man.

Oh God. Richie must be so torn.

“Hi, Mr. Scoggins,” Skip said weakly. Richie was clutching his left hand, so Skip held out his right hand to shake.