Page 38 of Disarm
That stupid grin sticks to my face—relief cutting through all the noise for one small, golden second.
Until I hear it.
“Burton, the fuck!” Anderson’s voice cuts through and makes me lunge forward. “I didn’t know you sucked dick. Dude, I’ve showered next to you.”
My head jerks up.
He’s standing behind me, face twisted in this mix of disgust and performative shock. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough to make sure I can’t ignore it.
For a second, I just stare. My stomach drops, but something else—anger, sharp and familiar—rises right behind it. But it’s his eyes that give him away. Almost like he’s hurt.
It’s all an act. Someone’s still in the closet too, it seems.
I take a breath. Stand up.
This isn’t how I pictured “coming out” to the team. But maybe it’s time.
“You fuckheads know there are bigger problems in the world than men who kiss other men, right?” I say, loud and clear, meeting every pair of wide eyes in the room. “Or are you all Neanderthals whose frontal lobes never developed?”
The room goes still.
I’m gonna fucking puke.
“So yeah,” I keep going, voice steady even though my pulse is thundering, “I’m bi. And I just so happen to be in a relationship with a man.”
I pause and look Anderson dead in the eye. “And you’re definitely not my type, so you and your dick can chill.”
A few guys choke on their laughter, trying to hide it. Anderson’s ears go red.
“Yeah, okay,” he sneers, glancing around at his buddies for backup. “Fucking queer.”
Asshole.
“Yeah,” I say, my tone going stone cold, “and you don’t really fit mybig, thick cock with piercingscriteria. So you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
That gets the reaction I was going for.
Half the locker room bursts into laughter and a chorus of “Ohh shit!” echoes off the tile.
I slam my locker shut, grab my bag, and walk out before Anderson can spit something else out. My pulse is still hammering, and I feel like throwing up, but it had to happen.
The hallway’s quieter. The adrenaline starts to fade, replaced by exhaustion. My phone buzzes again—probably Miguel checking if I survived the game. But when I look down, it’s my dad.
Dad
Outside. Need to talk.
Fantastic.
He’s waiting by his car, arms crossed, posture perfect even when he’s annoyed. His breath fogs in the cool night air.
“Hey,” I say, stopping a few feet away. “You didn’t have to wait?—”
“Of course I did.” His voice is calm but clipped. “You played hard out there. Just… not your best night.”
Here we go.
“I know,” I mutter. “It happens.”
