Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
But as I head home in the opposite direction, I sweep those dangerous thoughts away.
I can’t focus on one guy.
I have a game to win this weekend and a city full of fans to woo.
7
SCRATCHING AN ITCH
Jason
I have a few free hours in New York on Saturday afternoon before our curfew at the team hotel that night.
There’s only one way to use that time—I plan to catch up with my brother first, then see some of our good friends for a behind-the-scenes TV set tour.
I’m stoked about both, but especially seeing Nolan. I’ve missed him, big time, since he moved to New York a year ago, settling into a new pad and a new life with his girlfriend, hosting a food show on Webflix. Before then, he’d lived with me in San Francisco, working his ass off trying to build up his YouTube show. Helping him out with a place to live when he needed it felt like I could finally say thanks for all he’d done for me in high school.
He’d been an awesome brother I felt comfortable coming out to at age fourteen, three years before I told anyone else. I’ve missed him more than usual in the last week, and I’m not entirely sure why.
This afternoon, I’m meeting him at a converted laundromat that peddles do-it-yourself quinoa bowls made on the fly in vending machines.
Only in New York.
As I head down the block in Hell’s Kitchen toward The Automat, I peer above the line of New Yorkers in front of me since I’m tall enough to get a peek.
I grab my phone to text Nolan when a hand lands on my shoulder. A Darth Vader-esque voice rumbles in my ear. “I see we meet again.”
I startle, ready to tackle whoever is breathing down my neck.
When . . . of course.
Brothers are such turkeys.
Nolan points at my expression, grinning like an evil six-year-old prankster. “Gotcha.”
“You’re such a dick,” I say, but I’m laughing too. Then I haul him in for a hug he doesn’t deserve.
Still, I don’t want to let go. “It’s good to see you, asshole,” I say when I finally separate.
“Aww, I love you too, shithead,” he says, and my heart expands.
He adjusts his askew glasses, then holds up a paper bag. “Already grabbed the food.”
We head to nearby Hell’s Kitchen Park and grab a picnic table. Nolan unpacks the bag, plunking my bowl in front of me. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Quinoa, beets, kale, pumpkin seeds, and tofu. Boom.”
“It’s like you read my food diary.”
“I might possibly, maybe, miss cooking for you,” he says a little sheepishly.
I can’t resist stretching an arm across to mess up his hair, then I open the bowl and take my first bite.
As we eat, we chat more about his girlfriend, Emerson, and the places they’re checking out for upcoming episodes. It’s like swinging in a hammock, chatting with my brother. But even as we shoot the breeze, I feel that itch again, like there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him. Or maybe it’s a question I want him to ask me. Met any guys lately?
I could tell Nolan about Beck. Not specifically, but generally.
But what would I tell him? There’s this guy, and I’m trying to play it cool with him and failing miserably. I’m still stuck on that first gym encounter and whether I handled the if you need guidance on your queer journey thing the best way I could.
Ugh. Probably not. I might have been too . . . poster boy.
I’m dying to ask Nolan’s advice, but I don’t want to reveal a shred of Beck’s identity. That’s not my story to tell.
So my brother and I talk more about his show and tomorrow’s football game, which he’ll come to.
When we finish eating, Nolan fixes me with a more serious stare. “How’s Dad doing? Will he be off the crutches soon?”
I sigh, still feeling like it’s my fault Dad broke his leg in the first place. “Supposedly, the doc says he can wear a walking boot in a couple weeks. But you know Dad. He’s working too hard. Trying to do it all. Not wanting anyone to help him.”
“So, the way he’s been since Mom left?”
“Gee, do you think the two events are connected?”
“Just a little,” Nolan says sarcastically, then his smile disappears. “He still thinks he has to do it all.”
After Mom took off when I was eight, moving to Florida with a new guy and becoming a summer-vacation-only parent, Dad worked damn hard to single-handedly provide for us. He started Mister Cookie, then grew it into a nationwide cookie franchise business. He wanted us to have everything we needed, from football equipment for me to pots and pans for Nolan. He’s basically Dad of the Year every day.
“He’s sixty-two. I want him to consider retirement a lot more seriously. But I’ve had no success convincing him,” I say, wishing our dad weren’t so stubborn. “I just want him to be happy.”