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Trent was sitting in the cafeteria, eating one-handed while he scrolled through his phone, when the clattering of a tray on the table broke his concentration. “Oy, sorry, boyo, didn’t mean to startle you,” Colin said as he slid into the seat next to Trent. “What’cha reading?”
Trent smiled and put his phone face-down on the table and allowed himself to enjoy looking at Colin while the other man was focused on cutting up his chicken breast. “An old colleague asked me to read through a draft of an article and give my opinion.”
“And what is it?” Colin asked, looking up to meet Trent’s gaze as he popped a bite of chicken in his mouth. When Trent frowned, he quickly swallowed and added, “I mean, what’s your opinion?”
“Ah. Well, it’s a good article, well-researched, but I don’t think she’ll find any takers at any of the big papers. Maybe one of the online magazines will publish it, but they won’t pay nearly what it’s worth.” He shrugged. “But that’s modern journalism for you.”
Colin nodded along, but it was clear from his expression that he didn’t really understand. They ate in silence for a few minutes, though Colin was wasn’t able to sit still and kept looking at Trent only to quickly glance away. Eventually, Trent removed his glasses and tucked them carefully into his breast pocket. “Did you have something you wanted to talk to me about, Colin?”
Colin startled. “How’d you know I wanted to talk about something?”
Trent bit back a smile at Colin’s confused expression. He knew Colin was hardly the least intelligent member of the Richmond team, and his emotional maturity outstripped most men his age, let alone most footballers, but take him off the pitch and he played right into the stereotype of a handsome but rather thick athlete. As someone who’d spent most of his career around footballers of varying levels of intelligence, Trent had long ago lost patience for most of them, but for reasons he didn’t care to examine too closely, he found Colin charming. He tapped his temple meaningfully. “Holmesian powers of journalistic deduction, remember?"
Colin’s expression turned rueful before he threw his head back and laughed, exposing the long line of his throat. “Isaac, Dani, and Jamie are all staring at us, aren't they?”
“They are, indeed,” Trent admitted, glancing over to the men in question, who suddenly seemed very, very interested in their lunches.
“Can’t take them anywhere.” He shook his head, then his expression turned serious. “So listen, this weekend’s the last game of the season, yeah? And well—” At that he paused, took a deep breath as if to steady himself, then deliberately met Trent’s gaze. Trent was struck both by how green eyes were and the resolve in them. “Remember what we talked about in Amsterdam?”
A strange fluttering feeling took up space behind Trent’s ribcage, something that a younger, less experienced man might call ‘butterflies.’ “We talked about a lot of things in Amsterdam,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, we did,” Colin said, his smile soft and secretive, and that feeling in Trent’s chest intensified. His smile faded as he continued. “But I mean, the bit about, uh, kissing my fella. When all the boys kiss their girls.”
Trent nodded slowly, trying to ignore the way his stomach fluttered. “I remember.”
Colin took a deep breath. “So, me and Michael—my fella, well my ex fella,” he corrected with a grimace.
Before he said anything more, Trent reached across the table to lay a hand on his wrist in comfort. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered.
“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” Colin continued quickly. “I mean, it is, but it was mutual. With his job and my job, and all the travel and the secrecy… well, you know.” He shrugged, shooting Trent a slightly shaky smile. “It wasn’t like he was the love of my life or anything. It just didn’t work out.”
“I’m still sorry,” Trent said, squeezing Colin’s forearm before pulling his hand back, pointedly ignoring how cold his palm felt in contrast to the warmth of Colin’s skin. “Even when it’s for the best, ending a relationship is hard,” he added ruefully.
“Thanks,” Colin said, voice soft. “This is the first time I’ve been able to talk about a breakup with my friends, you know? And it helped.” He chuckled. “Richard suggested going taking me to a strip club to cheer me up, then panicked when he realized the strippers would all be blokes.”
Trent chuckled. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“Bumbercatch was up for it,” Colin said with a laugh. “He said something about praxis and, dunno, solidarity with sex workers or something, but I let ‘em off the hook and said I’d rather stay in and play FIFA.”
“It’s not the cover of Oprah’s magazine, but they’re good lads,” Trent said, ignoring the tiny part of him that was jealous of how easily acceptance had come for Colin. It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it, but it made Trent wish he’d had Colin’s courage to be himself when he was the this age, instead of spending years trying to shove himself in a mold that didn’t fit. .
Colin laughed again, the sound happy and free in a way that lit up his whole face, and that jealousy was quickly subsumed by something even his extensive vocabulary couldn’t put a name to. He swallowed and pushed the feeling away, retreating back behind his professional mask before he made a fool of himself. “So, what can I do to help? I’m afraid one of the consequences of spending most of my life in the closet means I don’t have a roster of young, single gay men to offer up as replacements.”
“Oh, that’s all right, I was actually thinking, well…” He trailed off and glanced over to the table where Isaac, Dani, and Jamie were pretending—very badly—not to be still watching their conversation. As if on cue, Isaac gave him a sharp nod, Dani grinned widely and gave him a thumbs up, and Jamie smirked and shot him a wink. Trent felt a strange, fluttering panic start behind his ribs. He knew what Colin was about to ask, and he realized suddenly that he couldn’t pretend to be something he wanted to be for real. He had no problem coming out to millions of football fans on televisions across the country, but he wasn’t willing to do so simply because he was the only single gay man in the vicinity.
Trent steeled himself as Colin turned back. “Trent would you—”
“Colin, I can’t—” Trent began.
“—go to dinner with me?”
Shocked, Trent gaped. “Wait, what?”
Colin’s expression had gone from hopeful to disappointed. “Right, well—”
Trent’s hand shot out to grab Colin’s wrist before he had a chance to stand up. “No, wait, Colin. I’m sorry, I thought you were—” He paused and took a breath, ignoring the three death glares being aimed his way from the table across the way. “As a date?”
His expression still was guarded but he didn’t pull his hand away. He nodded. “As a date.”
Trent felt his own face break into a helpless smile. “Colin, I would love to go to dinner with you. As a date.”
Colin’s smile was bright and wide, and he gently twisted his arm until they were palm-to-palm, almost but not quite holding hands. “Right, uh, tonight? I’ll pick you up, or we could meet somewhere.”
Images of Colin trying and failing to reverse out of the parking lot in his expensive and flashy car flashed before Trent’s eyes and he grimaced. “I’ll meet you,” he said, causing Colin to laugh.
“I suppose I earned that,” he said. “I’m thinking of trading it in, get something with a little less…”
He trailed off, and Trent arched his brows. “Horsepower?” he offered.
"I was going to say 'fuckboy energy,' but I think that's pretty much the same thing." Colin chuckled. “When I bought it, I thought, ‘No one will peg the guy who drives this car as gay.’ But, now…” He shrugged. “I still don’t want to be a spokesperson. But some things are worth it,” he said, and squeezed Trent’s hand. “Don’t you think?”
Trent swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yes. Yes, I do.”