Of course, he’s heard about my wife leaving and my daughter’s personal life. That doesn’t surprise me at all. But there’s a real secret—one I’ve held onto for so long—one no one else knows, and I’m terrified they’ll find out somehow.
That’s why this conversation feels dangerous.
I don’t care about them talking about my divorce. I hate that they talk about my daughter, but I know there’s nothing I can do about it except shut it down when I hear it. But being bisexual? That can’t get out.
It just can’t.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I say in answer to his question. According to the state of Kansas, he didn’t break any laws, and even if I don’t agree with it, it’s not my place to judge.
I just want this conversation over before I do or say something stupid.
Like he may be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. That his eyes often distract me, not only because of the unique color but the spark they seem to have. That his smile—even when he’s being an arrogant shithead—seems to make my heart do this weird flutter thing.
I run every single morning before school. I eat fairly healthy. My heart should be in top-notch shape—but still, it flutters.
“I know I don’t have to,” he says stubbornly, baiting me as usual. “But I’m asking if you want to hear my side. If you’ll listen to it.”
There’s a harsh vulnerability in his expression. It’s almost like he’s pleading with me to hear him out, like maybe no one else has, and it’s a heady feeling. “Okay,” I say quietly but firmly with a head nod to encourage him to tell me.
Even though I’m afraid to hear it, for some reason.
“There was a new kid at Big Bend who started his freshmen year. He was quiet. Really quiet. Withdrawn.” I swallow hard, bile threatening because who is this man? He fully admits this kid was shy or possibly had other issues going on—and he took advantage of that. But I remain quiet and listen. “He tried out for football, which was pretty surprising, but he was damn good. He made the team, but he was still always really quiet. Didn’t seem to fit in or didn’t want to fit in with the rest of the team.”
I nod, feeling sick but needing to know more.
“Anyway, I just had a feeling about him.”
“A feeling?” My voice is gruff, and I have to fight off making a fist with both hands.
“Yeah. I don’t know how to describe it, but I was drawn to the kid. I wanted to help him.”
“Help him?” I say a little too loudly, and he flinches.
“Just. Listen,” he says patiently, but I’m having a hard time hanging on for this story. I have a daughter who’s older than this kid we’re talking about, for Christ’s sake.
“Go on,” I barely manage.
“I held him back after practice one night—” When he says this, I stand up, the rage starting to course through my body.
“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “I can’t take this. You’re a goddamn coach. They trusted you.”
“Yeah.” He stands too and faces me head-on, not looking the least bit guilty, which only serves to piss me off more. “They did, and they should have. I didn’t touch that kid. I would never do that.”
He’s seething, and so am I. We’re both breathing heavily. “You didn’t?”
He looks so damn hurt that I’d think he did. But from his story, it sounds like something happened. And he was fired.
“Tell me the rest.” I try my best to stay calm, but my voice still holds the fury I feel. Still, he let me tell my story, which can be made quite colorful around here. There’s more to his story, and I need to hear him out. “Please,” I add.
He slowly sits back down on the couch, looking dazed as I do the same. His head swivels in my direction. “We talked after practice. I could tell the kid was struggling, and turns out, I was right. It’s not my story to tell, but he needed someone to talk to.”
I nod in understanding because as coaches and teachers, we have a certain obligation to watch out for these kids. The ones who need help. The ones being abused. The ones being bullied. It’s part of the job.
“He was so damn broken, Noah.”
Damn it. The use of my real name shoots through me, putting every single nerve on high alert. I normally tell him to call me Coach or Coach Asher, but I don’t bother with it now. It’s not the time.
“What happened?”
His full lips purse, and he looks distraught. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” His voice sounds strained. “We talked, and I told him that I’d be there for him to talk to. That he could trust me, and I swear to God, he could have.”
Dread twists in my stomach for an entirely new reason, but if something really bad happened to the kid, surely I’d have heard about it. “Chance.” My voice is a broken whisper. “What happened?” I ask again.
He shakes his head slowly from side to side, and I can feel his sadness. “I never hid that I was gay. But I didn’t come out either. I didn’t feel like it was anyone else’s business. But . . .”
“But?” I prod.
“There weren’t a lot of places to hookup in Big Bend,” he starts, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips. I feel too momentarily lost in the motion to recognize the burning feeling churning in my gut at thinking about Chance hooking up, no matter how illogical it is.
I don’t like it.
“I didn’t know any other openly gay men there, and there was no way I was going to chance it, even if I had a feeling they were into me. So I drove about an hour to the nearest gay bar when I wanted to hook up.”
Again, I have to stop the weirdly possessive growl threatening to slip out and try like hell to focus on his story.
“One night, when I was there, I saw the kid. The one I was trying to help. The one I had a sneaking suspicion was fighting with his sexuality but hadn’t outright asked because it didn’t matter. I wanted to help him, no matter what was causing him to withdraw and look so damn sad all the time.”
“He’s only sixteen. How the hell was he there?” It’s all I can think to ask.
He just shakes his head, looking so damn lost and unlike the man I’m only starting to get to know.
“I don’t know. He must have had a fake ID or something. He wouldn’t tell me. I made him leave when I saw him. I drove him home because I couldn’t just leave him there or leave it in his hands to get home safely. The kid took a bus to the town. A bus.”
He looks downright distraught, and I can see how much he cared.
“Nothing happened, Noah. Nothing.”
“I know,” I say and place a hand on his denim-covered thigh. I nearly jolt off the couch at the electricity in the brief contact, despite there being no bare skin. It doesn’t matter. I feel it, and I think he does too when his breathing seems to pick up and his intense eyes meet mine, shining with something I can’t quite place. But I also realize I meant what I said. I do know deep down, nothing sinister happened.
Nothing. He was trying to help this kid and nothing else.
He’s not a predator. He’s a caretaker.
I awkwardly remove my hand, and he clears his throat, continuing with his story, “We talked on the ride back to town, and I told him to hang on. That he could make it through high school and leave the town behind. He could be himself. I recognized a piece of myself in him.”