Page 31 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

I went stock-still. Dusty tried to use that moment to hit me, but I punched away his pole with my fist in a flagrant regulatory violation. “What are you talking about?”

“One of my ex-girlfriends liked to bring in another guy sometimes.” Dusty looked around to ensure no kids were in earshot. “For some two-on-one stuff. And lines blurred.”

“Lines blurred?”

“Lines blurred. Only once or twice.”

What the hell did that mean? Was he on top or bottom, or did it go that far?

Dusty tried to use my confusion to smack me, but as he pulled back for the kill shot, I jammed my pole into his stomach (a legal move!), sending him flying.

I was a good sport and helped him back on his feet, but my mind was swirling with questions.

“We’re tied,” Dusty said, squirming with a flash of pain as he stood. We might’ve been too old for this shit.

“One more,” I uttered with grisled determination and an edge that took Dusty by surprise.

We got into position. On the count of three, I lunged for him with my pole.

“Whoa, Leo. Easy there.”

“So you’ve been with men, and you never told me?”

“I mean, I didn’t set out to be with them. It happened. Randomly.” Dusty fought back with equal force. “Are you angry?”

That was a good question, something I was trying to figure out, too.

“You never told me this. We tell each other everything. And this was a big thing you could’ve told me.” I heaved my pole back and forth, Dusty escaping my hits.

“I guess I was embarrassed.” He made a direct hit on my side, but I turned to stone, not budging from the impact.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because of anyone, I would’ve understood.”

“It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.”

“Why?” I slammed my pole into his arm, anger still rising in me despite having no reason to. I was usually much better about holding in my emotions, but the thought of another man putting his hands on Dusty made me as bright red as the gym mats.

“I don’t know, man. Who cares? It’s in the past. Why do you care so much?” Sweat beaded at Dusty’s forehead.

Why? That was the million-dollar question. The frustration boiled over within me—that he’d been with a guy and didn’t tell me, that I was finding out years later at a children’s birthday party, and worst of all, that it hadn’t been me.

I launched my pole at him as if it were a javelin, clearly breaking the rules of the game. It barreled Dusty in the chest and sent him flying.

“Dusty!” I climbed off the pedestal and ran to him. He was on his back on the mats, the full wear of his age coming to him.

There was something in his eyes, like begging to make this water under the bridge. He was confused, and I was, too.

“Want to go three out of five?” I asked.

“No, I’m done for the day. You win.” He sat up and rubbed his back.

“I think you win. My move wasn’t a regulation move.” I took over back rubbing duties, massaging the muscle corded across his broad frame. By the sharp winces he let out, I could tell it was quite a fall.

“I’m really sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

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