“Oh, I am quite aware of that, no thanks to you,” I grumble, maybe still a little salty from hearing the news from my then-agent as opposed to my then-coach of four years.
Mathis shrugs unapologetically. “Nothing personal, just the name of the game. Standard procedures and all that—which this isn’t, by the way. Why are you here?”
I toss my arm over Kit’s much shorter shoulders and pull him in close. “Moral support.”
The Rubies’ coach eyes our entourage and considers my words before gesturing to the door beside him. “I guess we should have this conversation in my office?”
“Probably for the best.”
Kit and I follow Mathis into his office, Hendrix and Aleks in our wake. With only two chairs in front of the cluttered desk, I instruct Kit to sit and take a stance behind him with my hands resting comfortingly on his shoulders. Aleks takes the other seat, and Hendrix leans his back against the closed door, arms crossed and scowling.
After the game on Saturday, we’d asked—more like insisted—for Kit to come to my house, where we convinced him to tell us about Larson. The truth was . . . shocking, and none of us were sure what the best course of action would be. We’d ultimately decided to confide in Mathis as soon as possible. I’d suggested first thing Monday, but Kit wanted me to come, so we’d settled on our off day since Mathis is always here.
“I have to say, guys,” Mathis begins, his brow furrowed and eyes on my hands comforting my friend. He looks from Kit to Aleks to me. “This is rather concerning.”
I raise an eyebrow in question.
Mathis clears his throat before continuing, still looking at us. “Three queer players showing up in my office—”
“Four.”
We all glance over at Hendrix’s gruff word, each of us wide-eyed. I hadn’t known he was planning to out himself to his coach, much less while stuffed in a small office with the rest of us. The temperature in the room rises, either due to the amount of bodies inside or the tension growing bigger the longer we sit here.
“Huh.” Mathis gives Hendrix a once-over, head to toe. “Didn’t see that coming.” And then he points at Kit and me. “Or this. You two together or something?”
“No—”
“Would it be a problem if we were?” I interrupt Kit with the challenging question.
The Rubies’ coach gives me a meaningful look. “Uh, yes? A defensive player dating an offensive player on another team? The league would be a laughingstock. There might be riots. Fans boycotting and protesting. Two words: PR nightmare.”
“Good thing they aren’t dating,” Aleks jumps in, casting a glare in my direction. “We’re here about something else. Kit, go ahead.”
Kit’s knee starts bouncing like mad, and he gnaws on a fingernail so harshly the entire office is full of the sound. I give his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, urging him to begin. “Um, okay,” he whispers. “Right. My turn. I-uh . . . I have been in a . . . relationship since last year. Well, until this summer, actually. Really, it only lasted a few months—”
“Kit,” Hendrix rumbles from the door to urge him back on track.
“Okay, okay,” Kit hisses, then sighs in defeat. His next words come out more clearly, even if his other knee begins to bounce just as fast as the first one. “I’ve been having relations with Larson Richards.”
Mathis stares unblinkingly. “The judge?”
“Yes.”
“The one who kept throwing flags on Saturday?” By the reddened of his face, I assume Mathis already knows the answer.
“Yes.”
“Because you two were dating and are now broken up,” he rages.
Kit winces. “Yes.”
“I need to report this.” Mathis reaches for the phone on his desk, but a chorus of “No!” from all of us has him pausing, hand still in the air. “What do you mean ‘no’?” He eyes each of us.
This next part is why we are all here to back Kit up—because he is vulnerable, and Larson is a complete and total douche canoe. It’s also why we aren’t sure how to handle this situation. There are delicate matters at hand.
“He has . . . pictures a-and videos of me.” Kit sniffs softly. “In compromising—”
Mathis holds up his hand. “I get it. He’s blackmailing you. We’ll contact the police.”
Kit wrings his hands in his lap, legs bouncing harder. “I can’t do that either. This stuff . . . It will ruin me if it gets out. If the police investigate, those pictures are going to get leaked.” He looks at Aleks. “We all know what the press will do with gossip like that.”
“O-kay.” Their coach raises his hands in defeat. “Last option. Kit Alexander, you have violated the terms of your contract by engaging in relations with a league official. This is grounds for termination—”
“You . . . can’t do that either,” Kit butts in.
The look Mathis gives him is all annoyed disbelief. “And why not?”
Kit goes quiet now, his nerves and embarrassment striking him mute, so I fill in the rest. “Some of the pictures Kit sent Larson had incriminating backgrounds. Things the Rubies don’t want getting out.”
“Like what?”
“Like drinking on the team plane. Like hired girls in the players’ suites at away games. Players gambling on games. Stuff we all know goes on but that we all keep quiet about. You think the league would scandalize players in a relationship? See how badly this will go.”
Mathis rubs his eyes wearily. “Why would you send those things in a picture, Kit?”
“I’m sorry,” my friend whispers brokenly. I squeeze his shoulder to remind him that I’m here for him.
“So, what are we doing here, boys?” Mathis asks. “You have tied my hands.”
