Page 7 of The Last Person
And if it’ll make Brian happier and breathe easier, I would literally do anything.
“Overconfident, as usual.”
“Is it really overconfidence if I always nail the play?”
“Such humility.”
“Fuck off. Just trust me to get the ball rolling, okay?”
“I do. Thank you.”
We sit in silence for a moment, then I force myself off the couch. “Well, I’ll give you some space so you can settle in and decompress.”
He stands too, and even though I don’t turn back, I feel his eyes on me.
“Stay.”
I stop and spin halfway around. “Are you sure? I know you’ve had enough people-ing.”
A little laugh slips out, then he shakes his head. “You don’t count as people.” He grabs the remote and tosses it at me, then pulls his phone out. “Find where we left off onLove Island. I’ll order some food.”
I sit back down next to him and find the episode we left off on, trying to keep my breathing even.
It shouldn’t be a big deal that he asked me to stay—that even after five days with me, he doesn’t want me to go. So why is my heart beating like I just caught the perfect pass, had a breakaway run down the field, and scored a touchdown?
“Hey, Mama,”I say as I walk in the back door of my parents’ house, just outside of Linden, New Jersey.
We had a light practice today, and my mom invited Brian and me over for dinner.
“Hi, baby.”
I smile at the lingering French accent when she says the word. My mother grew up in France until she was six years old. Though her accent has mostly faded over the years, there are still a few words where I hear the traces of it. My whole life, whenever she’d call me her baby, it was always with the softest French accent. It’s a tiny bit of comfort.
I peek into the living room, surprised by the silence. Normally, my parents’ house is loud. Filled with the warmth of family and laughter. That’s when I notice some jazz playing softly in the background, which means my mother is here alone, enjoying some peace while she cooks.
“Where are Dad and Auntie V?”
“Your father ran to the store to look for some limited-edition ice cream flavor he saw on TV.” She shakes her head like she doesn’t know what to do with him. “And your aunt Vic will be back soon. She’s getting the neighbor’s kids off the bus and waiting with them until their mom gets home.”
Smiling at the many family photos lining the wall along the far side of the kitchen, I take a seat at the round kitchen table. It’s big enough for four, though we usually squeezed six in there when I was a teenager because my aunt and my cousin lived with us too.
I tried to buy my family a bigger home when I signed my contract with the Bandits, but they wouldn’t let me. This was the first home they owned, not rented, and it’s the home my parents see as the center of our small family. My aunt still lives with them, and it’s where we congregate for meals with my sister, her husband, and her kids—and when she’s in town for a minute, my cousin Christy, too.
Family has always been the center of our lives, and this home is the embodiment of that.
My mother looks at the closed back door. “Where’s Brian?”
“Of course, you’re concerned with him, not me. Maybe this is why none of my friendships stuck when I was young. I knew you’d like them better than me.”
Even though I know that’s not true. I’ve always been the friendly kid, the loudest one in the room, which meant people were drawn to me, but unfortunately, most of them liked me for the brightness that shone on them while I was around—not for who I actually am. I’ve had lots of “friends” over the years, but other than my cousin Christy, Brian is the first one who ever stuck—who wanted to know the real me.
I’m a lot, and I make no apologies for that. It’s how I was raised to be. To be unapologetically myself, to love what I love, embrace all the beautiful things about myself, and be me—loudly. I’ve always been completely comfortable with who I am. Sometimes it can be at odds with the traditional masculine identity men in sports—or men in general—are taught to uphold because I don’t shy away from showing affection, I love the color pink, and I like listening to boy bands as much as I like Kendrick Lamar. But I was also taught the dangers of fragile and toxic masculinity, and it’s something I refuse to subscribe to. I’m me, and if physical touch, a love of pop music, and a slight fashion obsession are too much for people, then they can move on and miss out.
“Stop it. You know I love you, but we all love Brian too. And I promised his mother I’d look after him. She’s all the way in the Midwest, and he needs a motherly figure here to support him. So, where is he?”
“He’s home, taking care of himself. He needed some time alone. I tried to convince him to come, but after a wedding, traveling, and getting back into practice, Brian needs fewer people, not more.”
My mother nods in understanding. “All right, then. I’ll just have to send lots of food back with you.”
