Page 101 of Studs Up
But as we walked down the streets, we passed a floral shop, and I stopped. Diaz walked right into me.
“Dude,” he said. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t answer. In the window, in a pot, was blooming Jasmine.
“I’ll catch up,” I said.
…
“Nolan Fucking Reed,” Alice screamed across the pitch. The ripple of snickers through the team was not helpful. In fact, she radiated a red hot fire that displaced the air around her. Not even three-inch stilettos on turf was enough to slow her down.
“What the fuck did you do?” Coach Nelson asked as we watched her.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” she shouted. The field was big, and she had a long way to go before I was clearly going to be murdered.
We were holding a light practice in the Cincinnati stadium before tomorrow’s game. A place I thought I was safe. Apparently not, because about three dozen people were present to watch my death.
“Hi Alice,” I called and waved. From twenty yards away, I could see the rage blaze in her eyes.
“I have no idea,” I muttered back to Coach. He started backing cautiously away.
“Hey, where the fuck are you going?”
“Anywhere but here,” Coach said as he abandoned me.
Huffing and grinding her teeth, Alice got right in my face.
“If you are going to go off the fucking rails and attack some poor innocent man, I need to fucking know it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked, utterly confused.
“You don’t know?” She crossed her arms and threw a hip out to the side. A stance that screamed don’t fuck with me.
“No, I don’t.” It was the honest answer. Course, the last time she came at me, Holden had sent me money and thanked me for the night in a hotel. But I didn’t think he’d risk anything to make her this mad again.
She shoved her phone into my chest.
“Read it,” she scowled.
An article was pulled up on her phone. The headline of the article read: Seattle Guardian Nolan Reed Accosts Social Justice Volunteer.
I skimmed the article and frowned. Some key details were missing, and a few had been either extensively elaborated or wholly made up to fit a narrative to make me look bad. And they did a pretty good fucking job.
“That’s not what happened,” I said plainly.
“Then you better explain right fucking now!”
I did. I told her the whole story, and I had video evidence. A few years ago, I installed a door cam for her after several porch pirates stole packages from her. An investment that was paying off in spades since it was the only thing keeping me alive.
I pulled up the video from my app and showed her the entire confrontation. From the moment the asshole rang the doorbell to the minute I scared the pants off of him, and he bolted. It came with audio, and Alice watched the whole thing.
“What a fucking bastard,” she seethed. “Why the fuck can’t people just leave people alone.”
Before Holden kissed me all those months ago, I would have simply agreed with her on principle. But hearing that now meant a lot. More than a lot. I hadn’t realized the validation of acceptance was so important. It made a difference even though she didn’t know, and maybe especially because she didn’t.
Sexuality and queerness were the forbidden topics of discussion in a locker room. Conversations stuck to very masculine heteronormative topics like pussy.
I had never paid attention to it before, but over the last few months, I had noticed there wasn’t room for anything else.
