Chapter 18: The Reunion
The kitchen clock ticked loud in the silence after Dante’s confession. Ma reached over and covered his hand with hers, her touch warm and grounding. “Baby, you can’t live half a life,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering. “Not for football, not for fans, not for anyone.” Marcus leaned back, his chair creaking. “He didn’t invite you to that fancy New York exhibit tomorrow ’cause he was trying to protect your focus, Tay. He’s always trying to protect you from himself.” Dante looked up, the pain raw in his eyes. “I wish he’d stop making decisions on my behalf,” he muttered, the resentment fresh. “Then you make sure you tell him that,” Marcus stated, his gaze level. “Tomorrow. You go to New York, you stand in his world, and you say your piece.”
Dante still hadn’t noticed him, so he used this time to really examine the sculpture. Two people intertwined, in obvious passion, their private parts only shielded by the other's embrace. He’d never seen anything more erotic, even down to the mouth and face clearly in a throw of passion.
“Dante.” A whispered voice spoke. He turned around and his heart paused for a second. He hadn’t seen Dre in person for so long.
His hair dreadlocks were much longer now, his jaw more chiseled with a well-trimmed beard, and he’d clearly been keeping up with his calisthenic routine, his lips as full as ever. Dante needed to focus. “What are you doing here, ain’t you supposed to be at training camp.”
“We have a week break, since preseason starts next week so I thought I’d pay my best friend a visit,” Dante said, the casual words feeling heavy. “And by the way, the sculpture looks fucking incredible, Dre.” Dre’s eyes flickered, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “Well it wasn’t just me, it was….”
He trailed off, swallowing hard as his gaze dropped to Dante’s mouth. The gallery’s ambient noise faded into a dull roar. Dre took a half-step closer, the scent of him—linseed oil and cloves—washing over Dante.
Dre took a half-step closer, the scent of him—linseed oil and cloves—washing over Dante. Dante’s hand shot out, catching Dre’s wrist before it could touch his face. “Don’t do that, Dre.”
“Do what, Tay?” Dre whispered, his thumb brushing Dante’s pounding pulse.
“Downplay what you’ve done.” Dante’s gaze flicked to the towering, entangled figures of the sculpture. “That’s us.” The fluorescent tubes above buzzed like trapped insects. “When you’re finished here, I’ll treat you to dinner. My treat.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Dre breathed, but it sounded like a plea.
“Why?”
But his question was soon answered by another man who walked up to Dre, wrapping his arm around his shoulder and kissing his temple. “Hey, you. The critics are gone and they loved it.” The man—tall, wiry, with sharp glasses—then noticed Dante. “Holy shit,” the man said, “you’re Dante Petuli. The number one pick.” He reached his hand out to shake Dante’s, who with a rehearsed smile remained humble.
The annoying man wanted a photo so he obliged for a few selfies. Afterwards, the man tells Dre he has to go and kisses his cheeks like a granny. Dre doesn’t meet Dante’s eyes. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Dante said, the words tasting like broken glass.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” Dre replied, finally looking at him.
“So does your man mind if I take you out to eat, or can you not have guy friends?” Dre’s nostrils flared, a flash of the old fire in his eyes. “Shut up, Tay,” he muttered, snatching his leather jacket from a stool. “And you’re driving.”
They walked to Dante’s rented car in a thick, charged silence, the humid New York night pressing in around them. Dre slid into the passenger seat, his body angled toward the window, a solid line of tension. Dante drove without a destination, his knuckles pale on the wheel, until Dre muttered an address in Little Italy. The pizzeria was a narrow slice of red-checkered tables and garish neon, secluded in the back. The air smelled of garlic and burnt crust. Dre picked a decent pizzeria, it wasn’t Chicago good, but good enough, a little hole in the wall nestled in New York’s Little Italy neighborhood, secluded enough. They sat, ordered waters, and the silence stretched until Dante leaned forward, his voice deliberately casual. “So you and Clark Kent, how long have yall been fucking.” Dre practically spits out his water at the joke. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, wiping his mouth, his eyes flashing. “How do you assume we’re not in love?” “Because he kissed you like a granny.” Dante held his gaze, a challenge. “It’s safe to assume he probably fucked you like one, as well.” Dre’s face went perfectly still. “We haven’t fucked, Tay.” “Why?” Dre shoved his chair back, the legs screeching on the tile. “You know what, enough with prying in my love life.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “What about you and Michelle? You’re a number one draft pick, Tay. She’s going to expect a ring and naturally a baby soon.” Silence pooled between them, heavy and dark. Dante looked down at his hands. “We’re not together anymore.” Dre’s anger evaporated, replaced by stunned concern. “I’m so sorry, Dante.” “It’s cool.” Dre didn’t look away. “What happened?” Dante knew that question would come up eventually. After calming himself down he explained what happened, leaving Dre quiet.
After calming himself down he explained what happened, leaving Dre quiet. The pizzeria’s noise—clattering plates, loud laughter—seemed to recede into a distant hum. Dre stared at him, his eyes searching Dante’s face as if decoding a familiar script written in a foreign language. “She read your journal,” Dre finally said, his voice low and flat, not a question but a confirmation of a shared crime. Dante nodded, his throat tight. Dre leaned forward, his forearms on the red-checkered cloth, his voice dropping to a raw, pained whisper. “Why would you write about that in a notebook, Tay?” Dre waited with bated breath. The question hung in the garlic-scented air, stripping away every defense Dante had left. Dante looked at his best friend’s face, at the faint scar above his brow from a long-ago game, and told the simple, devastating truth. “Because I needed to see it outside of my head,” he said, his own voice rough. “To prove it was real.” He held Dre’s gaze, unwavering. “To prove we were.” Dre’s breath hitched, a sharp intake that echoed in the space between them. He looked down at his hands, then back up, his dark eyes shimmering under the cheap neon light. Without a word, he threw a crumpled bill onto the table and stood up, the chair legs scraping violently against the floor. “We’re leaving.” He stalked out of the pizzeria into the humid night, Dante scrambling to follow him into the crowded, neon-drenched street.
He stalked out of the pizzeria into the humid night, Dante scrambling to follow him into the crowded, neon-drenched street. Dante followed Dre hastily into a narrow, neon-lit alleyway away from prying eyes, the air thick with the smell of wet garbage and distant traffic. “I told you I was paying, Dre,” Dante called out, his voice bouncing off the brickwork.
“Stop, Tay!” Dre whirled around, his back hitting a graffitied wall. “You’re supposed to be focusing on the NFL, starting a family with that blonde white woman and not allowing distractions.” His words came in a frantic, pained rush. “You need to apologize to her, and make up.”
“No!”
“WTF do you mean no, Tay.”
“No. I don’t want that.” Dante stepped closer, crowding him against the wall. “I never loved Michelle, Dre.” The admission hung naked between them. “She was safe, she was a distraction from my truth, and sadly she was my cover because I was selfish.” His voice cracked. “And stop with the ‘you’re doing what’s best for me’ bullshit. I’m a grown-ass man and can make my own sound decisions, Dre.”
Dre stared, his chest heaving.
“Because do you know what I want, Dre?” Dante whispered, his mouth inches from Dre’s. “I want you. I need you. All that other shit, doesn’t matter.” He let the most painful truth spill out. “Every single time I fucked Michelle I imagined it was you. That journal was manifested destiny, because I felt so free when she left me.”
Dre’s eyes were wide, glistening in the pink neon.
“Right now, Dre, I want to sink my cock so far into your ass, a branding reminder of how you made me feel.” The raw need in his voice was terrifying. “Right now all I have is an aching heart and a hard cock. I’ve missed you so much it physically hurts.” He exhaled, his forehead nearly touching Dre’s. “I’m sorry that I’m laying all of this on you, but I have to.”
Then, silence, broken only by a dripping pipe.
Dre’s hand came up, his thumb brushing Dante’s lower lip. “I have to be honest, Tay,” he breathed, the words a ragged sigh of surrender. “I’m not sorry you and Michelle broke up.”
A shuddering relief broke through Dante. “I know.”
Dante’s breath caught. “Dre, I’m going to kiss yo—”
But Dre pulled him in before he could even finish, a rough, desperate yank that slammed their bodies together. And oh my god, five years apart from this.
They both groaned as soon as their tongues touched, a raw, starving sound lost in the city’s hum. The kiss was nothing like the careful ones from before; this was a claiming, a messy collision of heat and garlic and grief. Dante fisted his hands in the back of Dre’s jacket, holding on as the world tilted, his back hitting the opposite brick wall. Dre’s mouth was just as he remembered, just as devastating, but harder now, more sure. A low, relentless ache unfolded in Dante’s gut, spreading heat through his limbs. He could feel the hard line of Dre’s cock against his hip, a mirror of his own strained urgency. Dre’s hands were everywhere—in his hair, clutching his shoulders, sliding down to grip his ass through his jeans with a possessiveness that made Dante whimper. He broke the kiss, gasping for air, his forehead pressed to Dre’s. “Not here,” Dante managed, his voice shredded. “Your place. Now.” Dre just nodded, his own breathing ragged, and grabbed Dante’s hand, pulling him back toward the streetlights and the waiting car.
Dre just nodded, his own breathing ragged, and grabbed Dante’s hand, pulling him back toward the streetlights and the waiting car. The drive to Dre’s apartment was a blur of stoplights and stolen glances, the city lights smearing past the windows in a nervous neon streak. Dante’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his entire body humming with a desperate, electric need. As soon as they entered, Dante had Dre pinned up against the door. The slam reverberated through the dim entryway, a final period to their silence. “Tell me you want this,” Dante growled, his forehead pressed hard to Dre’s, his hands caging Dre’s face. “Tell me you missed me, too.” Dre’s answer was a raw, open-mouthed kiss, his hands fisting in Dante’s shirt, pulling him closer until no light could pass between them. “Every damn day,” Dre breathed against his mouth, the words shaking. Dante’s knee pushed between Dre’s thighs, a delicious pressure that drew a sharp, ragged gasp. He could taste the ghost of cheap pizza and a longing so deep it felt ancestral. Dre’s hips rolled forward, a slow, grinding answer that made Dante see stars behind his clenched eyelids. “I wrote your name in that journal,” Dante whispered, dragging his lips along Dre’s stubbled jaw. “Over and over.” He nipped at Dre’s earlobe, feeling the full-body shudder it provoked. “It was the only truth I had left.” Dre’s hands slid under Dante’s shirt, his palms hot and possessive on Dante’s lower back. “Shut up and show me,” Dre murmured, his voice thick and dark with want.
“Shut up and show me,” Dre murmured, his voice thick and dark with want.
Dante didn’t need another invitation. He shoved Dre backward, guiding him through the dim clutter of the studio apartment until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. With a controlled push, Dante threw Dre onto the bed, the springs protesting beneath them. He followed him down, their bodies colliding with a familiar, breath-stealing weight as he sealed their mouths together again. “I need to see you,” Dante gasped against his lips, his hands already pulling at Dre’s shirt. The fabric gave way with a soft tear, revealing the smooth, dark plane of his stomach Dante had traced in a thousand memories. Dante scrambled off the bed, his own clothes becoming a frustrating barrier, and knelt on the floor between Dre’s legs. He grabbed Dre’s thighs, his grip firm and claiming, and pushed them apart. He leaned in, his breath hot, and pressed his mouth not to Dre’s cock but lower, to the tight, fluttering hole he’d ached for. The kiss there was soft, a shocking contrast to everything before, a reverent press of lips that made Dre cry out, his back arching off the sheets. Dante did it again, slower, feeling the muscle tense and yield under his mouth, a silent language more honest than any journal entry. “Tay,” Dre choked out, the name a fractured plea, his fingers twisting in Dante’s hair.
He dragged his tongue there as well, getting Dre nice and lined before he would sink into him. The sound Dre made was fractured, a sharp intake of breath that broke into a groan, his hips lifting off the sheets in a silent plea for more. As he sank into Dre, he was welcomed by the memory of his suctioning heat, a tight, perfect familiarity that made his vision blur at the edges. He whimpered like some bitch, but he didn’t care, burying his face in the sweat-damp hollow of Dre’s throat. “Dre, I’m going to last two minutes tops,” Dante gasped, the confession torn from him. They both laughed, a breathless, shaky sound that held years of missed connections. Dre cradled Dante’s face, his thumbs rough on his cheekbones. “Just focus on me, Tay.” Dante pistoned into him, his now much more sculpted, muscular body feeling foreign under Dre’s exploring hands. “Yes, fuck, just like that, Tay,” Dre breathed, his voice a ragged scrape. “I’ve missed the way you feel inside of me.” Then he kissed him, deep and claiming, as Dante’s hips started to stutter, fighting for his life trying to hold back his ball’s need to explode. “What’s the matter, the big bad football player can’t hold his nut?” Dre teased, his own breathing erratic. “I can’t, Dre, not with you, not like this after so long,” he whimpered in a strained, lower voice, every muscle corded tight with the effort. “Then cum inside me, Tay,” Dre whispered, pulling him closer, his legs locking around Dante’s back. “You don’t need to hold back anymore. I’m yours. Always have been.” He kissed Dante again, soft against his trembling lips. “I love you, Tay.”
Those words—the ones he’d ached for since that creaking porch swing—shattered the last of his control. A choked sob ripped from Dante’s throat as his hips drove forward one final, desperate time, his body seizing as he spilled deep inside Dre. Every muscle locked, then melted, a wave of pure, obliterating release washing through him until he was boneless, gasping into the salt-damp skin of Dre’s shoulder. DANTE SURRENDERED TO THE PLEASURE, to the truth of it, to the terrifying freedom of being fully known.
He went limp, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor as they both struggled to breathe. Dre’s arms tightened around him, holding him together as he shuddered through the aftershocks. “I love you, too,” Dante finally whispered, the words muffled but clear. “Always have.” They lay tangled in the silence, the city’ distant groan their only soundtrack.
Dre’s hand moved slowly up and down Dante’s sweat-slicked spine. “So what now, superstar?” Dre asked, his voice raspy with exhaustion and emotion. Dante didn’t lift his head. “Now you stop deciding what’s best for me,” he said. “We figure it out together.” He finally pushed up on his elbows, looking down at Dre’s face—the softness in his eyes, the relaxed set of his mouth. “Starting with you moving back to Chicago after you graduate.” Dre’s brow furrowed. “Your career…” “Will survive,” Dante interrupted, his voice firm. “I play better when I’m not fucking miserable.” A slow smile spread across Dre’s face, real and unguarded. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” Dante lowered his head to kiss him again, softer now, a promise.