Wishbone #2: There’s got to be a Morning After, but Why?

Follow Casey Thompson, star quarterback for the Los Angeles Condors, as he struggles to come out of the closet and win - both on and off the field of play.

The phone was ringing, and Casey could see that there were over 20 messages on the machine.  He hadn’t even turned his cell phone on. God knows how many voice mails where on that…

Casey headed into the bathroom, and looked in the mirror.  Not a scratch on his face.  He took his shirt off, and he saw that he had huge bruises across his sides.  He couldn’t tell if they were from the game the day before – he had been sacked 3 times – if they were from the bar fight (some fight – he laid the guy out with one punch) or if they were from the cops when they arrested him (he had been “less than inclined” to go with them).  He turned on the shower, hot, and heard the phone ring again.  Might as well start answering it, he thought.

“Wishbone!”  It was Trish.  “Jesus Christ, why didn’t you call me from jail?  What the hell happened?”

“Look, Trish, I just got in.  I just got back from the cops…I want to take a shower, and lay down.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.  But that’s not how this is going to work, honey.  I’ll be over as soon as I can.”  Trish hung up before Casey could cut her off.  “See ya then, I guess…” he said, to no one.

Casey put the phone down and walked back into the bathroom.  As the shower heated up he went into his bedroom to take the rest of his clothes off, and noticed Greg Forman sitting on the chair next to his bed.

“FUCK!  You scared the shit out of me, Greg!”  Casey walked quickly back into the bathroom, turned off the shower, came back into the bedroom and dropped down on the bed, across from Greg.

“You gave me a key to the place, remember?  I tried calling you back last night, no answer.  Then, when I saw the morning news, I tried calling a dozen times, still no answer, so I just came over.  What the hell happened, Casey?”

Casey stood up.  “What happened?  Some idiot at a bar wanted to make a name for himself in front of his girlfriend.  That’s what happened.  And I wasn’t in the mood for it after yesterday’s game.”

“Casey, you’re in real trouble.  The media’s all over this.  Have you called Coach Commons, or the team?  Have you talked with Trish?”

“Ah, Trish.  Yeah, she’s on her way over in a while.  She can call the team.  In fact, I’m sure she’s doing that right now, actually.”

Casey walked towards Greg.  “Where were you last night, Greg?  I really wanted to see you.”

“Casey, I told you a couple weeks ago that I can’t keep this up”

Casey walked back over to the bed, sat down, placed his head into his hands, with his elbows on his knees.  “Greg.  I am exhausted.  I just got out of jail.  They’re gonna bench me, - the Condors are gonna fucking bench me - I know it.  Can we just lie down, together, and get a little rest?  Please.”

Casey stood up and dropped his pants.  He pulled back the bed sheets, and laid down naked, face up on the bed.  Greg came over to the bed, pulled his shirt of, dropped his pants, and climbed on top of Casey.

_____

About an hour later, Casey rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom, talking to Greg as he went.

“Greg, do you remember, back in college, when we would come home after a long practice, or a game, make love, order a pizza, then just sit around the dorm room until the early morning, talking about football?  Just making up plays, talking about defenses, how to exploit them, ways to beat them?  Why can’t we just do that?  Why can’t we have that now?”

Greg rolled out of bed and pulled up his pants.  “Are you serious?  Are you serious, Casey?  I don’t want that.  I don’t want to be holed up in a closet with you anymore, hiding myself, pretending that the world doesn’t exist.  You look back at that and see that as a happy time?  Jesus Christ!  I look back at that and see that as horrible, scared…ashamed.  That’s over for me, man.  Why isn’t it over for you?”

“Why, Greg?  Are you fucking kidding me?  WHY?  Turn on ESPN!  Turn on CNN!  Turn on any news show!  That’s ME that they are talking about.  Not you.  ME!  You never made it to the pros, so you have no fucking idea what I have to deal with!”

Greg reached down to the floor, grabbed his shirt, put it on, and headed out of the bedroom, towards the front door.  As he reached the door, he stopped, and turned to Casey.  “No, Casey, I guess I don’t know what you have to deal with.  But I can clearly see what you are doing, and I can tell you that it ain’t working.  It ain’t working for me, and I can tell you that it sure as hell ain’t working for you.  I can’t see you anymore, not like this.  I can’t live in the shadows anymore.”

Greg turned to the door, and opened it.

“Oh, Greg!  How are you?”  Trish was at the door, coming in as Greg was leaving.

“I’ve been better, Trish.  Nice to see you.”  Greg left, headed to the elevator, and was gone.

Trish entered into the living room, opened up her case, and dug out her cell phone.  “Wishbone?  Where are you?  Can we talk?”

Casey came out of the bedroom, his shirt still off, and sat on the couch, across from where Trish was sitting.  He flipped on the TV and laid back.

“Jesus, Casey.  Nice bruises.  From the bar?”

“No, I don’t think so.  From the game.  Shit, chose one.  Does it matter?”

Casey flipped around the channels, and landed on Sports Center, just in time to catch the news on him.

“God.  Mute this.”

“No.  Why don’t you leave it on, Casey.  Take a good, long look.  This isn’t just today’s story – this is going to be a story for a long time.  I talked with the D.A.’s office this morning, and they have every intent of prosecuting you for assault.  They said that they have witnesses.  I also talked with Elston’s office, and they are pissed royal.”

Elston was Vincent Elston, III, the owner of the California Condors, and a prick.   He had built a media empire, owned several southern California TV stations, radio stations, and half a dozen newspapers across the country.

“Oh, and more good news.  I got a call from coach Ocasek, and they want you in Coach Commons’ office by 1 pm today.  Can I get you a nice latte to go with your morning bullshit, sweetie?”

Casey muted the TV, stood up, and started to walk around the room in a circle.  “How are they going to prosecute me?  That asshole came up to me, started talking shit, and grabbed me first.  Just ask anyone in there.”

“Well, I hope that you hit him hard enough that he doesn’t remember your conversation, because that’s what the lead is going to be in the news from here on out if he does.” Trish was smiling as she said this.

“What are you talking about, Trish?”

“I’m talking about your very, very overheard, and very, very remembered statement – at the top of your lungs – to the guy that you hit that you are, indeed, ‘a faggot’ and that ‘this faggot is gonna kick your ass’.  That’s what I am referring to.”

“Trish, I ain’t in the mood for this conversation.  Just make this go away.  I’ll pay some fine, do some public service, whatever.  Why don’t you call Johnny Cochrane?  He seems to have a little experience with football players…”

“Ah, very funny.  I did call Tom Selvy.  He’s now your defense counsel.”  Trish grabbed the remote and turned the TV volume back up to an audible level.

“Wishbone.  Seriously.  Listen to the TV.  And listen to me.  This is not going away.  On any level.  You are facing a trial.  And, if convicted, you could face jail time.  Even if you are not convicted, if this thing keeps rolling, you can kiss goodbye your endorsement deals with Wheaties, Sears, Nike…all of them have moral turpitude clauses in their contracts with you and I would be stunned if all of them aren’t preparing to call me later today to tell you thanks, but no thanks.  Is this starting to get through to you?”

“Yeah, Trish.  I get it. I been getting it since I had my ass in county lockup last night until 5 this morning.  I been getting it for a lot longer than you.”

“Oh, Wishbone, I really doubt that.  I been getting you since college.  I been getting you and Greg since college.  I been getting that you are one sweet, kind, talented and totally lost son of a bitch since college.”

“Trish.  What am I supposed to do?”

Trish stood up, walked over to Casey, and put her arms around him.  “Well, you could always call a press conference today and announce to the world that you are the Queerest thing to hit football since the Tight End position was so named.”

Casey laughed, and Trish hugged him deeper.

“Look.  Get dressed, and let’s get you over to Coach Commons.  Let’s see what he has to say, then let’s go back to my office, and talk all this shit through, calmly, and come up with a strategy for moving forward.  OK?”

Casey headed back to the bedroom to get dressed.  He would rather, he thought to himself, hold that press conference this morning than go and deal with Coach Commons right now.

____

To be continued...

A Cubs and Northwestern fan, Joe Moag is a major sports junkie, and although he still runs, he hasn't been able to dunk anything more than a donut for decades.

Comments

[Queeroes.com]

Okay, now this is much better! Drama...suspense...and a nice execution of what Casey has to deal with. I'm looking forward to the next installment. Poor Greg, dating a closet case is hard...dating a closet case in the public spotlight must be 100 times worse.