The Blueprint, page 18
He didn’t bother with a preamble. “You’re going out on a date?”
“It’s not a date. And what would it matter to you if I did?”
“You… you said that you love me,” he finally blurted.
“Thanks for throwing that back in my face. I’d almost finished the stitches on my aorta.”
“It’s just that… I guess I thought we were… you know.”
“We were what?”
“Working on things,” Blue said, clearly aggrieved. “I’m trying to understand how that translates into you seeing other people.”
“I’m not ‘seeing other people,’” I said firmly. “But if I were, it certainly wouldn’t concern you. You’re not ready to be anything other than ‘blow job in the dark’ guy.”
“You want it on the fifty-yard line?” he snapped.
“You know what I mean. Closets are for clothes and shoes, Blue. I’m not interested in making room for me.”
“So what, you want me to—”
“I don’t want you to do anything,” I said hurriedly. No one should be harassed about their sexuality or forced to come out, if that’s what he really felt. He had to figure things out in his own time. “That’s just not what I want for my life.”
“Well good,” he said finally. “Guess I can stop all the soul-searching.”
“Don’t try to make me feel guilty.”
“I’m not.”
Then why do I feel guilty? “Good luck out there, Blue.”
“Enjoy your date.”
“For Pete’s sake, it’s not a—” He hung up without responding, and Sheryl flooded the silence again. “Date,” I finished to no one at all.
Well. Our first post-argument phone call had certainly turned out spectacularly well. I gripped my phone for a second and debated whether throwing it at the wall would make me feel as good as I thought it might. Then I thought about costs and fees and transferring all my contacts and got a fucking grip. I stuffed it in my pocket and turned off the speakers.
Thoroughly done with being productive, I stuffed the stack of exams in my shoulder bag and flipped off the light. I would finish them later—I was pretty sure a couple cold beers would make my grading skills extra awesome.
I left my office and headed down the hall. At least I had a night of dynamite nachos and good company to look forward to. In the elevator I ran through all the things I had to do, but the smell of fresh air as I stepped out of the building did wonders to chase away the stress.
People bustled about the campus with an energy that spoke of plans and fun and relaxation. A group of students played a Frisbee-golf hybrid thing on the thick green grass in the middle of the quad. Several students were studying, sitting on all sorts of items not meant to be sat on—a decorative wall, a tree stump, and the rim of a fountain.
I hustled over to the Language Arts building and headed up the stairs toward Connor’s office. His light was still on, and the door was ajar, so I didn’t bother to knock before I stuck my head in the door.
He was behind his desk, his brow furrowed as he read a handwritten essay in a bluebook. There was a stack by his elbow, and I winced. From the looks of that leaning tower, he was in for it. I cleared my throat, and he glanced up.
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Are you clearing out?”
“Yeah. I can’t believe you have that many left.”
“My TA has some of them, but yeah, I like to do this part myself.” He made another quick note on the essay and then looked up at me again. “What’re you still doing here? I thought you physics professors used the excuse of independent study to get out of grading things.”
“Every now and again, an exam pops up.” I shrugged. “Otherwise our system works perfectly.”
He grinned. “So says you.”
“So what are the brilliant young minds expounding upon now?” I picked up one of the bluebooks from the pile and scanned the first few lines. I winced and eased it back on the pile. Youch. I was no expert on literature, but that paper looked like a D to me.
“Robert Frost.” Connor shook his head. “These wastrels have no idea of the man’s brilliance.”
“And you’re here to change all that?”
“Of course.” He smiled. “That’s my reason for living.”
“Maybe they’re just more into Emerson. Believe it or not, everyone does not worship at the altar of Frost.”
I really had no opinion on the subject one way or another. Literature wasn’t my thing. Give me science any day. But I did like to needle Connor when the occasion presented itself. Fortunately for me, it presented itself a lot.
“People who don’t love Frost don’t understand Frost,” Connor said staunchly. “But they will.” His eyes gleamed with scary enthusiasm. “They will.”
“I wonder if he ever regretted taking the road less traveled.”
“Probably not. But even if you do, who’re you going to tell? I’m pretty sure there’s no cell service on the road less traveled.”
“So take the road less traveled and end up on a milk carton?” I arched a skeptical eyebrow. “No wonder you have so many transfers.”
I ducked as he threw an eraser at me, and it bounced off the doorframe.
“On that very mature note, what time are you thinking about heading down to Schmitty’s?” I picked up the eraser and tossed it on his desk. “Maybe we can ride down together.”
“I’m going to be tied up here for a while. But I’m going to try to make it a little later.”
“Try to make it?” I arched my eyebrows. “This was your idea.”
He gestured at the teetering stack of bluebooks with an eyebrow raise of his own. “What do you want me to do?”
I sighed. “I get it. Trust me. I just… I just wanted to unwind a little. Raincheck?”
“You should still go,” he said hurriedly. “My friend Graham is still going to be there.”
I made a face. “No offense to Graham, but I think I’ll just go home.”
“And leave him hanging?”
My spidey senses tingled. Blue’s intuition had always been more finely tuned than mine. Maybe this was nothing more than a fix-up. I squinted at him. “Connor.”
“What?”
“Connor.”
His face was a little red as he demanded again, “What?”
“Connor,” I said firmly.
He squirmed a little in his seat as I fixed him with my sternest glare. Finally he threw up his hands. “Stop giving me the hoodoo stare. I confess. He saw you on TV from the Heat game. When I told him that I knew you and that things hadn’t worked out with Robert, he asked if you were available.”
“And you said no,” I said, my voice steely, so it was very clear what that answer should be.
“And I said… I’d set something up.”
“Connor!” I should’ve known he was lying to me. Mostly because Bel Biv Devoe had it right—never trust a big butt and a smile.
“I’m sorry. But you can’t just keep moping over Blue. It’s just too pitiful to watch.”
I gritted my teeth, mostly because he was right. “I can’t believe you,” I finally said.
“I’m weak,” he whined. “When he kept pestering me about it, I caved. But he is a really nice guy.”
“I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
“That’ll be okay too. He knows not to expect anything. But he is gay,” he added with a meaningful eyebrow lift. “If that means anything to you.”
I wanted to be mad, but I knew he was just trying to help… in a very ham-fisted way, but still. What I felt for Blue wouldn’t be vaporized by a date with anyone—not even a nice guy who apparently thought I was cute.
“He’s a veterinarian,” Connor said hopefully. “You like animals.”
I sighed. “I do like animals.”
“He wears glasses. You said you liked guys who wore glasses because it makes them look smart. And he wears a lot of argyle. You like argyle too.”
“I do,” I agreed begrudgingly. Exhibit A, the gray-and-black argyle socks I was wearing at that very moment. Sensing my capitulation Connor waggled his eyebrows. “You’ll call him and let him know this is just two people hanging out. Nothing more.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, C. This is not romantic.”
“Got it.” He nodded.
I eyed him suspiciously. “This is just a favor to you.”
“Agreed.”
“Say it back to me,” I instructed.
“You’re doing me a favor, and this is definitely not a date,” he repeated obediently. Then he smiled. “You should get out of here so you can get ready.”
I guess I should. But I had absolutely no idea how much time I needed to prepare for my nondate with a sweet, bespectacled, argyle-wearing veterinarian.
A HALF hour after I arrived at the bar, I’d accomplished several things. I acquired two three-dollar beers and downed one of them. I used my charm and a little elbow to get stools for Graham and myself in a prime location at the bar. Lastly I also decided how I was going to kill Connor, and I had a plausible place to dispose of his body.
Professor Cannon. In the library. With a lead pipe.
I will admit that at least Connor, that Frost-loving Judas, had good taste. Graham was neat and put-together from his head to his toes. I liked his argyle sweater vest and the frameless glasses he kept pushing up on his nose and the way he’d combed his chestnut hair neatly on either side of his head with a smooth straight part. He was a little shorter and a little rounder than me, but I kind of liked that too.
Before our “date,” I couldn’t have imagined anyone more awkward than me in a sports bar. But then there was Graham. He knew absolutely nothing about sports, and every time he squinted up at the TV screen above our head, I knew he was just doing it to be polite, and he had no idea what was going on. His eyes would look a little confused and spacey—they were clear and green as sea glass.
I liked that too.
Now if I could just stop watching the game, maybe I could make a good impression. It was always a bit of a pleasure/pain to watch Blue play. I wanted him to do well, and he was good at what he did. But I didn’t like watching him use his body like a crash test dummy. Hell, I think even the crash test dummy would’ve stalked off the field by then. Fuck you guys. I get paid better at Volvo.
My knuckles were almost white as I gripped my drink. Blue’s powerful body moved with precision and economy as he jumped in the air—two parts lean, powerful machine, one part graceful ballerina. He came down one-handed with the ball and ran out of bounds into the other team’s sidelines to avoid a hit. The other team ejected him fairly quickly—a sea of red jerseys “helped” him back on the field. I slammed down my glass, and beer sloshed over my wrist as the announcers and the crowd went crazy. I could tell he was fired up after he scored. I grinned.
And then a flag dropped on the field, and everyone groaned. Holding. Number fifty-six. Five yards. A lot of booing ensued, and the camera zeroed in on number fifty-six, who looked like he was about to implode. Blue patted him on the back—whacked him, really—and then jogged off the field.
He pushed his helmet back on his head, not all the way off but not obscuring his face either. He looked like a marauding Viking, with his sweaty blond hair and golden skin. It was kind of hard to look away.
Graham’s voice next to my ear made me jump. “He’s almost enough to make me start watching football.”
“Hmm?” I smiled absently. “Yes. Me too, I mean.”
When I glanced back up, someone had handed Blue a bottle of water, and he was drinking from it thirstily. Looked like he was getting more on his jersey than in his mouth, and maybe that was purposeful. The coach was talking to him, and from the look on his face, it wasn’t anything pleasant. In fact the coach looked like he wanted to break his own headset over his knee. For no possible reason I could discern, the announcer began to recount Blue’s history of injuries, listing the litany in a manner that was damned near gleeful.
I scowled.
The analysis wasn’t quite accurate. His last huge injury was all the way back in his rookie season. It wasn’t even on the football field. He was thrown from his Suzuki GSX-R750 into a guardrail. For most people, that kind of injury was a painful experience and a huge inconvenience. For Blue it was all that plus the added caveat of losing two million in incentive bonuses. The injury kept him sidelined for the remainder of the year, but two operations and a lot of physical therapy later, he was back in the game, proving all the naysayers wrong.
Two years later, in a devastating tackle, he suffered another injury to that same area. He sustained a torn anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee, and they placed him back on the “physically unable to perform” list for the next season. He caught a lot of flak for that. So did the organization. They dubbed him the most injured player in the league and jeered at the Outlaws’ management team for signing him for a multimillion-dollar contract for six years, most of which he spent on the fucking bench.
In true Blue fashion, the next training camp, he was ready to play. The team doctor cautiously cleared Blue and told him he should be prepared to be only 90 percent of what he’d been. Turned out that still made him better than any tight end in the league. His next three seasons were the most successful the club ever had.
I couldn’t help but feel like he’d done his time. He helped bring the city several championships. Maybe it was time to mend.
I sighed. Now if only I could get him to believe that.
When I looked back, Graham was watching me with raised eyebrows. “Connor didn’t mention you were so into sports.”
“I used to play soccer,” I said glibly. That was my story, and I was sticking with it. “But that’s ancient history. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
“Like what?”
“Like whatever you want to tell me.” I shrugged. “Why’d you become a vet?”
“Well, that’s easy.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “I’ve always been better with animals than people. I guess that’s fairly obvious.”
“You seem to be doing just fine to me.”
“Still. There’s just something that speaks to me when it comes to taking care of animals, especially since they can’t speak for themselves. I actually started my career at a nonprofit based on the preservation and protection of endangered animals.”
“That sounds like something really worthwhile.”
“It was. I got to work with these incredible animals that most people never even get to see, let alone come in contact with. At one point I actually interned at a refuge in Chengdu.”
“If you tell me you held a baby panda, I just may melt into a puddle of envy.”
He grinned. “Prepare to melt.”
“Please tell me they’re not as cute as they look. Just tell me that, and I can live another day.”
“They’re actually more adorable than I pictured.” Graham grinned at my piteous groan. “One of them held on to my pant leg when I tried to leave his cage. Now, yes, I think he just thought of me as a walking, talking enrichment toy his handlers had put in there for him to play with, but it was still cute.”
We chatted for a little while about nothing in particular—weather, movies, music—and I was impressed. If that was any indication of Connor’s matchmaking skills, he was so good it was scary. He set me up with a man who’d held a panda, for crying out loud.
I fucking loved pandas.
Graham and I worked on paper. We’d be perfect together, us and our—I racked my brain for how many pets he said he had—three golden retrievers, two cats, six rabbits, two turtles, a couple of fish, and a one-winged pigeon named Chester.
All right, maybe I’d have to get stern with him about bringing home animals from work, but that just showed how big his heart was. From the looks of his attire, I would at least double my argyle wardrobe. He would be perfect for me. He’d probably even like Blue too. We could all vacation together and have dinner together, and everything would be hunky-dory.
But you didn’t always want the person who’d be perfect for you. I lifted my eyes again to the game on TV, and I realized I was looking for Blue. Sometimes the heart just wanted what the heart wanted, and to hell with the consequences.
I could only track him by the back of his jersey as he ran down the field with a hulking lineman so close that he might as well have been Blue’s shadow. Blue turned on a dime at the last minute, and the ball landed in his hands as though he’d planned it that way. I had a half second to enjoy his completion when suddenly a blur came across the screen, and another lineman slammed into his side. They went down in a heap of tangled limbs. The ball popped up, the players scrambled, and one of the Outlaws dove on it. A whistle sounded.
Fuck. It looked bad. Even to my untrained eye, it looked like a dirty fucking hit. The pileup started to clear as players got to their feet. And there Blue was on the bottom. In an audible whoosh, I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding. As I watched with my fingers gripping the edge of the bar, he started to move. He slowly rolled onto his side and brought his knee up to his chest.
Jesus.
They replayed it twice, and the announcer detailed the hit in slow motion in a way that made my stomach flip.
When they flashed back to the field, several trainers dressed in black and wearing Outlaws caps and Gatorade fanny packs made a complete circle around him, so I could only see one of his cleats with neon-blue soles.
Several players on the Outlaws’ team seemed to take exception to the hit and were face-to-face with some of the opposing team. Two refs crowded between the groups to keep the peace, but they failed. There was a lot of aggressive shoving and pushing, and it took a little bit to get the teams separated. The speaker crackled, and the ref called out the fouls. He called out so many players’ numbers that it sounded like they were playing NFL Bingo.
My brain finally kicked into gear, and I slid off my bar stool. It wasn’t even a question that I needed to go. That minute.
I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair and shrugged into it. Then I dug out my wallet and tossed a few bills on the bar. It was probably a lot more than what I’d ordered, but since I was ending the date like that, it was the least I could do. “I’m so sorry, but I really have to go.”
