He and I are the hottest couple at the restaurant, but we don’t advertise it. Being able to love each other openly means we often don’t. I’m not sure I would’ve predicted that when we were so busy hiding. I think maybe he’s taught me how to live without needing an audience. Or maybe I’m finally old enough to have figured out how to stop caring, all on my own. Either way, my hand is pressed to the small of Mateo’s back as we follow the hostess toward our table,but I’m not touching him when the four of us listen to the specials and order a bottle of wine.
A kiss could’ve made our point, but I fumble through an explanation instead. A lot about how much Mateo and I love each other. Very little about how much we fucked up along the way. My dad’s fist clenches around a fork he doesn’t need yet when he finds out we’re living together. My mom narrows her eyes when I tell them I moved back home just to make that possible. They warn me about the potential consequences—about how many people who've said they love me could hate me instead. Mateo very gently suggests they not become the first two on that list. At the end of an awkward meal, they say goodnight to me and shake the hand of myfriend.
Spending so much time with the Zavalas before and after that dinner should hurt somehow. The comparison between our families is striking when I watch Mateo be embraced by such unconditional love. But grieving the loss of something I’ve never had is impossible when his family turns and welcomes me with that same unfamiliar thing. I'm adored through cookies and carols, a church I only know through its carnival and funerals, and gifts that mean more than most of what I’ve been given before.
I overhear Logan’s name once. Somehow, I don’t feel any less loved.
Then, just days after my parents first met Mateo, and after almost 36 hours straight with his family, we go to Christmas dinner at my childhood home. Harper and Simon meet us there, as does a pretty blonde woman I don’t know. I really hope she’s not joining us for the reason I think she is. Then it becomes pretty clear pretty quickly that hope is a foolish thing for me to have brought to my parents’ house. She and I are introduced smoothly and seated next to each other. Mateo's across from me and next to my daughter. The woman’s a flirt, and my mom encourages it. Simon redirects her attentionwhenever he can. Mateo stays quiet because he won't fight this battle for me. My dad also stays quiet, but his fork is clutched as tightly as it had been a week ago. I’m trying to get through one bite after another because it feels like the best way to survive.
Harper, however, has had enough.
“What is going on here, grandma? Grandpa?” she asks. “Why would you do this? Why would you invite a stranger—no offense—to Christmas dinner, as if you didn’t already know my dad and Mateo would be here together? Did last week freak you out so much that you had to make some weird attempt at damage control for something that isn’t damaged?”
I open my mouth, but Mateo subtly shakes his head. She’s not a little girl anymore.
“Oh, dear, there’s nothing freaking us out,” my mom says. “We understand your dad has a new friend, but it would be a great idea for him to have one more. A friend who won’t undo everything he worked hard for his entire life.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “Nothing is being undone. Nobody’s going to scratch his name off the Cup or kick him out of the Hall of Fame.”
“But the press—”
“Fuck the press,” Harper spits. “No offense—again—but dad and Mateo have been in love since I was 14, and this is our first Christmas as a family, and Ihatethat. I hate that we haven’t already done this for years. But we’re here now, and you’re going to keep calling them friends because you’re worried that—what? The hockey world will turn on him when they find out he’s queer, and you’ll realize you wasted decades not getting to know your own son off the goddamn ice? Because I think you could still get to know him now, but you’ll need to get to know Mateo, too. He’s not going anywhere.”
My mom says nothing. My dad continues to say nothing. Theflirty blonde excuses herself soon after that. Harper, Simon, Mateo, and I excuse ourselves soon afterthat. The four of us end up back at our house for a little bit of hot chocolate and a lot of Bailey's before we all crash. Harper helps Mateo out with soccer practice the next afternoon. We don’t see Harper and Simon again until my birthday.
Everything changes about a month after that.
Mateo and I have continued to live weightlessly. I’ve never completely forgotten the morning I choked down a breakfast sandwich made by my best friend, so I try hard to give myself credit for how far I’ve come. I try hard to celebrate the distance we've put between us and the secrets we used to keep.
We still hang out with Kai and Sophie, but we don’t sneak away for dates up and down the coast. We enjoy local concerts and dinners and movies without a foot of space between us. I show up at some high school soccer games. He shows up for some youth hockey. I’m sure plenty of people assume we’re a couple. Outside of my job, I’m not sure anyone’s noticed I’m me, and our respective seasons come to uneventful ends.
In hindsight, it’s probably why we got stupid. Or just complacent, I guess. Or, no. We’re stupid.
It’s fine because we’ve known for almost six months that a headline about us would only require one person whispering into the ear of one person who cares. Ultimately, we don’t keep it anywhere near that simple, outing ourselves at the arena where my jersey number hangs from the rafters. It’s the first time we’ve been here together since Harper’s senior year. We hold hands on the walk from the parking lot without thinking twice, nobody paying much attention outside. The concession line should make us more cautious, but we stand too close to each other, our fingers resting low on each other’s backs. While watching the game, we do little to draw attention, except for the times we lean in to talk to each other. Then we end upwith hands on each other’s thighs, thumbs brushing across denim pulled tight. At some point—I still don’t remember when—I have something to tell Mateo. I don’t pull away without kissing the gray in his stubble first.
It’s soft and sweet, and pretty damn sexy. I know that because I’ve been able to see it from several slightly different angles, social media humming before more official gossip sites throw together a few sentences about it.
I hadn’t been sure how loudly anyone would react. All logic and emotion collided when I could hear decades of slurs amid the absence of cheers. Jameson Sinclair comes out as bisexual? Huge news if I were still splashed across billboards to sell jockstraps and vodka. Far less interesting if I’ve finally become the thing I tried to use as a mantra once.
Nobody.
But then the calls, emails, texts, and DMs come in. I’m not proud of myself for considering, even for a moment, how I might be able to lie my way out of this, or at least run to that flirty blonde for help. A deep breath steadies me before I respond the first time. Every official request for information is met with the same simple statement.
His name is Mateo, he’s the love of my life, and we appreciate everyone’s respect for our relationship. We have no further comment at this time.
After a conversation with Mateo that I could’ve had back in August, I decide there are two important exceptions to make. When I hear from one of the longtime broadcasters for L.A.—a guy I sat next to for most of my guest commentator gigs—I meet his immediate support with the agreement to sit down for an on-air interview during the intermission of an upcoming home game. I only ask that he be honest with me in advance if he hears any rumblings from other members of the broadcast team who have a problem with it.
Then I reach out to a favorite sports journalist, already confident that he’ll have my back. I offer him a lengthier exclusive with both Mateo and me. In turn, he mentions the name of a photographer I’ve adored for years, and tells me they’ll work together on this. It’ll almost certainly be the cover story of a magazine. My face is likely to be on display in countless supermarket checkout lines among tabloids with their candids and alleged insider information.
It’s nice to bring balance to the moments of this that will hurt.
Speaking of hurt, Mateo, Harper, Simon, Kai, Sophie, Crissy, and Isa make me swear I won’t read the comments left by internet trolls. Taylor calls me just long enough to say, “Fuck ‘em,” and then he’s gone again. In interviews, he replies with a more professional, “I will not talk about what I know, nor how long I’ve known it. Iwillsay that Jameson Sinclair has been in my life for almost 30 years, first as a foe, then as a friend. If anyone had to break my single-season records, I’m glad it was him. For what it’s worth, I’m also glad the career records are still mine. I’ve had the pleasure of welcoming Mateo into my home, and I’ve enjoyed his company very much. You all know I’m not in the habit of being anything less than blunt with you, much like Sinclair himself, so believe me when I tell you I’m happy for them both.”
“He really said all that,” I murmur, my mouth against Mateo’s. “About both of us.”
“He really did. But you can’t be that surprised. Not after the last few years.”
“No, but I think I’m still surprised by some others, both good and bad.”