Page 95 of The Switched-Up Playbook
Xander is wandering around in my room, pointedly inspecting my shelves and desk. It’s pretty tidy, which stems mostly from the fact that I don’t hoard a lot of stuff. I’m neither into books nor movies. I always lacked the stamina to finish a whole TV series or video game. My biggest hobby is hockey—and it shows.
“Are you trying to subtly gather information?” I snort, when he’s so obviously fishing for my number of ex-partners.
“Can you blame me? You’re so closed off about your sexuality, but then you’re on Grindr and all your roommates know,” Xander trails off as he’s leaning forward to inspect the small collection of medals hanging from a shelf.
I wander over to him, hands buried in my sweatpants as I watch him turn them around in his fingers, the shiny material catching the beams of my overhead lights and reflecting them.
“I wanted to be out in college,” I tell him as I bring my hand up to his back, slowly tracing the crease between his shoulder blades. “But I also wasn’t sure which...label would fit me.”
“Okay?” Xander hums. He has let go of the medals but not turned around.
“Well, I only figured out I was into guys, too, at the end of high school. So when I came here, I was curious and ready to...experiment, I guess. But...I’m not big on going out and stuff. I told a handful of guys on the team, met up with a few people. And then the Pride Night disaster happened right before the draft.”
Xander’s shoulders stiffen under my hands when I remind him about the charity event that was overshadowed by the nasty statement of the Rebels’ former star player.
“Did that scare you?”
I put my arms around Xander’s waist, leaning my forehead against his muscular back as I silently bounce his question around in my head. I breathe in deeply through my nose, inhaling the citrusy smell that my brain automatically associates with so many memories of him.
“I want to say no,” I tell him as he turns around in my arms.
“It’s okay, I was scared, too. When I saw that clip–”
“Where Resnikoff and Jameson called McCoy afucking disgrace on hockeyfor organizing the Pride night?”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I honestly debated pulling out of the draft because of it.”
“You did?!” I pull back to get a better look at him. Xander’s face is grim, his lips pressed together in a tight line as he gives me a subtle nod, his hands reaching to pull me back against his body.
“I wasn’t sure what would be worse. Playingagainstthem or being stuck on a teamwithone of them,” I say bitterly. I remember hovering over my cell phone with Nate, watching the clip of two grown men carelessly degrading an entire group of people over and over again, until my brother turned it off.
Xander laughs, his voice shaking. “Yeah, same.”
“But you didn’t pull out.”
“No, and I’m glad I didn’t. The Rebels dropped Resnikoff a week later, after all,” Xander reminds me, and I nod as I suck my lower lip between my teeth. It’s reassuring to know that jerk was never able to play on a professional team again. Still, Resnikoff doesn’t hesitate to scream his head off about what he calls a “witch hunt” whenever he gets the chance.
A year later, Jameson’s team just didn’t renew his contract.
I’m not naive enough to believe the problem is taken care of, though. If the two hadn’t been recorded during a private party, the public would have been absolutely clueless. Jameson was even scheduled to participate in the charity event. Hell, Resnikoff could have still been playing for the Rebels then, becoming Xander’s and maybe my own teammate next season.
The thought has me shivering, which Xander must mistake for feeling cold, because he wraps his arms tighter around me, his hand rubbing over my back.
“Don’t you feel like the Rebels...sacrificed you?” I never thought I would actually ask that question after our horrible interview, but I just have to know what persuaded Xander to help them out after a big fuck-up like that.
By the way he’s frowning down at me, I’m not sure he understands where I’m coming from.
“I’m not saying you got drafted because you’re gay,” I hurry to point out. I’ve never meant to say that, not then and definitely not now. But I’m also horrible with words, and I’m fumbling again. Contrary to three years ago, there’s no host and no live audience. Instead, Xander gives me the time to explain myself, his hand keeping up the constant stroke on my back.
“What I mean is, they put a target on your back, Xan. Everyone knows Resnikoff and Jameson couldn’t have been the only douchebags in the league, but they pushed you out there on their campaign to save the team’s image. They took advantage of a young player.”
“I don’t feel like that,” Xander objects. His forehead has smoothed out again, and he’s jutting out his chin to try and put it onto my head.
“Hey!” I protest. “Don’t do that. I’m not fucking short.”
But he cups the back of my head, guiding it down to rest on his chest, and somehow we fit together perfectly.
“I never meant to hide my sexuality, and while the whole thing was a shock, I also knew before that there would be assholes. That’s just life. When the Rebels approached me, they gave me a chance to tell my story first and amplify my voice instead of having others speak for me.”
