Chapter 19: Trial By Media
The morning sun cut through Dre’s dusty windows, painting stripes across Dante’s bare back as he slept. Dre watched him, tracing the familiar slope of his shoulder, the new definition of muscle earned in a league Dre had left behind. A single notification buzzed on Dante’s discarded phone, then another, the screen flooding with a violence of light.
By noon, the storm had broken. They stood frozen in Dre’s studio, staring at the grainy, intimate photos splashed across a sports gossip site—photos of them in that alley, of Dante kneeling between Dre’s legs in the dim apartment. “How?” Dre whispered, the word crumbling. Dante just scrolled, his face hardening into a mask Dre didn’t recognize, the digital glare reflecting in his eyes. “Someone was in the alley,” he finally said, his voice flat and cold.
The team’s publicist demanded damage control, her tone brittle over the speakerphone. So now Dante stood at the podium, the sterile light washing him out, his jaw set against the barrage. “Dante, how do you respond to claims this relationship is a detriment to team chemistry?” a reporter shouted. Coach Henderson stepped forward, his body a shield. “We focus on football here,” he growled, but the room’s energy was a hungry thing, unsatisfied.
Another voice, slick and taunting, cut from the back. “How’s your boyfriend handling the distraction?” All eyes and cameras swiveled to Dre, who stood against the wall looking like he wanted to vanish or set the room on fire. Dante’s grip on the podium tightened, his knuckles bleaching bone-white, but his posture never slumped. He locked eyes with that specific reporter, a man with a smug grin, and leaned into the microphone.
“You all are worried about the wrong things.” The room hushed. Dante’s voice was low, clear, and carried a promised violence. “Worry about how I’m going to make your fav QB’s look like the rookie, when I step!”
A stunned silence followed, broken only by the frantic whir of camera shutters. Dante held the reporter’s gaze, letting the challenge hang in the air-conditioned chill. He then leaned closer to the cluster of microphones, his voice dropping into a smoother, more deliberate register.
“Worry about my record as being number one in middle school, high school, college and in the NFL draft.” He let each accomplishment land like a hammer blow. “I’m sure when my team drafted me,” he said, looking at his coach and the PR director, who both gave him a firm nod to continue, “they didn’t draft me because of my love for my partner.” He paused, letting the room absorb the word ‘partner.’ “It was because my body of work showed my love of the game.”
He scanned the crowd, a new, unshakeable calm in his eyes. “Before anyone else asks, yes I am in love and in a committed relationship.” A collective breath seemed to be held. “But so are half of the players in the league, so I’d like to keep the questions more interesting.” He winked, then put on his megawatt smile, the same one that sold jerseys and broke hearts. From the sidelines, Dre watched Dante’s mask perfectly fuse with the man beneath, beautiful and terrifying. His own clenched fists slowly unfurled, the sharp press of his nails fading from his palms.
His own clenched fists slowly unfurled, the sharp press of his nails fading from his palms. The fluorescent lights hummed like a swarm of angry bees as Dante shoved back from the podium, the screech of his chair legs cutting through the murmured shock. He didn’t look back at the coach’s sputtering face or the sea of raised phones capturing his exit.
He drove to his penthouse in a blurred silence, the city’s noise just static. When he entered he saw Dre, who stood frozen by the large window that overlooked the lake, his expression a shattered mosaic of pride and pure terror. Dante grabbed his wrist, and pulled his focus away from the endless view of Lake Michigan, Navy Pier and the people who looked like ants from this height-muting the chaos to a dull roar.
“What the hell was that, Tay?” Dre whispered, his voice trembling as he wrenched his arm free. Dante backed him against the cool wall, caging him in with his body. “The truth.” Dre’s eyes searched his face. “You just outed us to the entire world during your first press conference.” “You outed yourself in the NFL.” “They had pictures, Dre,” Dante shot back, his breath coming fast. “Pictures of us leaving your apartment that morning. There was no ‘us’ to out anymore.” He saw the fear in Dre’s eyes, the old instinct to run and hide. “This was always going to happen.” “I’m just scared for you Tay, some of those men can be very homophobic and disgusting.” “Dre, I grew up with you as the only white boy most times, you know I can protect myself.” Dre chuckled, the sound wet and relieved as it dissolved into the quiet space between them. Dante leaned his forehead against Dre’s. “I love you Dre, and if people can’t look past that, hopefully they’ll be able to see when that ball goes flying past their eyes.”
Later that day, Dre cooked gumbo for dinner, using Ma’s recipe. The rich scent of andouille, thyme, and the holy trinity of vegetables curled through the penthouse, a tangible comfort. Dante watched him move around the kitchen, the simple domesticity a silent anchor after the day’s seismic shifts.
They ate at the island, shoulders brushing, not needing to fill the space with words. After washing the bowls, Dre turned, drying his hands on a towel. “So, I was thinking,” he began, his tone overly casual as he walked over to massage Dante’s shoulders.
Dante leaned into the touch, then smirked. “You only give shoulder rubs when you want something, Dre.” Dre’s hands stilled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Always has been.” Dante turned on the stool to face him. “What is it, Dre?”
Dre took a steadying breath, his artist’s gaze turning assessing. “Well, I wanted to know... could I use your body as a canvas?” Dante sat up quickly, his eyes bright. “Absolutely you can.”
“That doesn’t mean fucking you, Dante,” Dre clarified, a flush creeping up his neck. “I just need you to pose. I’ll take a few pictures and then I’ll choose the ones to draw.” He met Dante’s gaze, his request clear and serious. “I’d like you to pose naked.”
Dante’s smirk vanished, replaced by a slow, deliberate stillness. The request hung between them, far heavier than the playful demand for a shoulder rub. His breath hitched, a tiny fracture in his usual composure. An old, familiar voice, sharp with his father’s disappointment, whispered weak in the back of his mind.
He pushed it down, focusing on the trust in Dre’s eyes. “Just pictures?” Dante finally asked, his voice softer than he intended.
“Just pictures,” Dre confirmed, his thumb gently stroking the tense line of Dante’s jaw. “For me. For my art.” This was the challenge his therapist had circled back to constantly: true vulnerability wasn’t for cameras or crowds, but for the person who held your soul. The podium was easy compared to this silent, sunlit room. He stood up, the stool scraping softly. His hands went to the hem of his shirt, then hesitated. He met Dre’s gaze, letting all his performed confidence fall away. “I’m not just the quarterback right now,” he stated, the admission feeling dangerously raw.
“I know,” Dre whispered, lifting his camera. “That’s what I’m trying to see.”
Dante nervously chuckled, a short, breathy sound that held none of his usual assurance. He pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric whispering against his skin before he let it fall to the polished concrete floor. His fingers trembled slightly as he worked the button of his jeans, the slide of the zipper loud in the quiet room.
Dre sat behind his camera, his eye pressed to the viewfinder, the lens a black pupil staring back. He noticed how erotic the sight looked but he didn’t say it aloud, his own breath catching at the vulnerable display of trust. Dante’s body was sculpted like a Greek statue, every muscle defined from years of relentless training, a map of power and discipline, but he still couldn’t see it.
He stood there completely exposed, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the window. “Just… tell me what to do,” Dante muttered, his voice thick. Dre finally lowered the camera, his expression softening. “Just be still, Tay,” he said gently. “Just be you.”
“Ok” Dante said, a flicker of his old defensiveness surfacing. “It’s just me” Dre affirmed, raising the camera again. The afternoon light caught the sweat drying on Dante’s collarbone, etching him in gold and shadow. Dre’s shutter clicked, a soft, rhythmic sound like a steadying heartbeat.
Dre’s shutter clicked, a soft, rhythmic sound like a steadying heartbeat. He adjusted the lens, focusing on the way the evening light wrapped around the tension in Dante’s shoulders. “Okay, now look at me,” Dre said, his voice a low murmur from behind the camera.
Dante’s eyes, wide and dark with unspoken fear, slowly lifted to meet the lens. “This feels weirder than being sacked by three linebackers,” he muttered, shifting his weight. Dre chuckled, the sound warm. “Just breathe, Tay. You’re doing great.”
He watched Dante’s chest rise and fall, the defensive rigidity in his stance beginning to soften under the quiet focus of the room. “Remember that time in your basement, listening to The Miseducation on repeat?” Dre asked, clicking the shutter again. A ghost of a smile touched Dante’s lips. “You ruined my reputation. All my boys thought I was soft.”
“You are soft,” Dre said, lowering the camera for a moment, his expression open. “That’s your power.” He saw Dante absorb the words, the truth of them loosening something deep. Dante’s hands, which had been clenched at his sides, relaxed.
He let his head fall back, exposing the long line of his throat, a gesture of surrender so complete it stole Dre’s breath. The camera found the scar on his rib, the fading bruise on his hip, a biography written on skin. HE TRUSTS.
The soft click of the camera being set aside on the counter was the only sound. Dre approached slowly. The space between them, charged with artistic scrutiny, collapsed into something warmer and more familiar.
He stopped just inches away, his gaze traveling over Dante’s face instead of through a lens. “See?” Dre murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t touch him yet, letting the nearness speak first.
“I see you looking,” Dante said, a slight tremor in his low chuckle. “Feels different without the plastic and glass in the way.” Dre finally reached out, his fingertips skimming the taut line of Dante’s shoulder.
His touch was a cool contrast to Dante’s flushed skin. “You were perfect,” Dre said, his hand settling firmly. “And not just the body, Tay. The way you held your breath right before the shutter clicked.”
“I was scared,” Dante admitted, the confession leaving him in a rush. Dre’s other hand came up to cradle his jaw. “I know,” he said. “That’s what made it real.”
He leaned in, closing the last sliver of distance, and kissed him. It was nothing like the desperate clash in the supply closet or the alley; this was slow, a silent conversation. Dante melted into it, his hands finding Dre’s waist as if pulling him into anchor.
When they parted, Dante rested his forehead against Dre’s. “So what now, artist? You got your reference shots.” Dre smiled, his thumbs stroking Dante’s cheeks. “Now,” he said, “I draw the truth.”
He glanced toward the camera on the counter, then back at Dante’s bare shoulders. “But first, put some clothes on before you catch a cold.” Dante snorted, a real, unguarded laugh. “You just want me for my mind now?”
“Always have,” Dre said, stepping back to fetch Dante’s discarded shirt from the floor. He tossed it to him, the soft cotton landing against Dante’s chest. “The body was just a very, very compelling bonus.”
Dante pulled the shirt over his head, the fabric carrying the faint, safe scent of Dre’s detergent. “Speaking of bonuses,” Dre said, checking his phone, “we’re meeting Huang and Scott at that steakhouse in an hour.” “The one you booked the private room for?” Dante asked, his voice tightening. “Yeah. Figured you could use a night without phones in your face.”
Dante finished buttoning his jeans, his movements deliberate. “How much was that room, Dre?” Dre waved a hand, turning away to grab his own jacket. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” “Dre.” The single word was a closed door. “How much?” Dre sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s my graduation dinner, Tay. Let me do this.”
“You saved that money for your studio space,” Dante said, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “I’m not letting you blow it on one dinner.” Dre’s jaw set, a flicker of old stubbornness in his eyes. “I can handle my own finances. I wanted to give you a normal night.” “Then let me pay for it,” Dante insisted, his voice softening. “You’re more important to me than money.”
He reached out, tilting Dre’s chin up gently. “I owe half of this to you. I really do.” Dre searched his face, the resistance melting into a slow, reluctant nod. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, superstar.” The drive downtown was a quiet negotiation of tangled fingers on the console, the city lights streaking past the windshield.
The restaurant’s façade was all dark wood and muted gold, a fortress of quiet expense. A hostess led them through the main dining room, past other diners whose gazes snagged and lingered, a low murmur following in their wake. The private room was a wood-paneled cocoon, already set with polished silver and a single rose. “See?” Dre said, his shoulder brushing Dante’s as they entered the empty space. “No one will ruin this.”
“No one will ruin this.” The heavy door shut behind them, muffling the restaurant’s clatter into a distant murmur. They had ten minutes of quiet, just the two of them in the wood-paneled stillness, before the knock came.
Huang and Scott arrived together, their entrance flooding the room with a different kind of energy. Handshakes and backslaps exchanged, their greetings were just a fraction too careful, their eyes flicking between Dante and Dre with a familiar curiosity now tinged with new awareness. The reunion was definitely bittersweet.
They ordered drinks, the ice clinking a nervous rhythm as they navigated the first awkward minutes. “So, the draft, man,” Scott said, shaking his head with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Number one. You really did it.” Huang chimed in, detailing the brutal hours of his first year of medical school, the cadaver lab smell he couldn’t wash out. Scott, smoother now in a tailored suit, talked market volatility and the surreal, sleepless haze of having a newborn with his wife.
Dre laughed in all the right places, nodding along, but his fingers traced the condensation on his glass. Dante watched him quietly retreat behind his eyes, a slight withdrawal as Huang detailed a groundbreaking surgery he’d witnessed. Dre had confided in Dante about how he felt he wasn’t doing as much in life as everyone he knew. Dante could see it at the table as his friends talked, Dre shrinking incrementally with each of their milestones.
"So, what's next for you, Dre?" Huang asked, genuinely meaning well. "Back to New York for more gallery shows?"
Dre opened his mouth, a modest deflection ready on his tongue, but Dante’s voice, calm and firm, cut through first. "He's deciding which offer to take," Dante said, leaning forward. "The solo exhibition in Chelsea wasn't a fluke. Three major collectors are bidding on that central sculpture right now." He looked right at Dre, ignoring the others’ surprised glances. "The one everyone’s calling a masterpiece. That's his."
Huang’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “Wait, the Entwined piece? That viral thing?” Scott leaned in, his analyst’s composure slipping. “No way. My wife sent me the link. That was all over my curated news feed this morning.” A stunned, respectful silence settled over the table, the kind usually reserved for discussing championships or hedge fund wins. “Dre, that’s… hell, man. That’s legitimate.” Dre stared at his plate, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “It’s just a piece I worked on for a while,” he mumbled, pushing a piece of asparagus with his fork. “The lighting in that gallery does a lot of the work.”
“Stop it,” Dante said, his voice soft but insistent, his leg pressing firmly against Dre’s under the table. “You mined copper and aluminum for the composite. You taught yourself how to weld for the armature.” He listed the facts like plays, each one a brick in a fortress of proof. “That’s not just a piece. It’s a year of your life.” Huang let out a low whistle. “And now it’s the talk of the art world. I saw some critic from the Times called it ‘a raw testament to concealed intimacy.’” Scott nodded vigorously. “Exactly! My boss even mentioned it at the water cooler, talking about market value for emerging artists.” He looked at Dre with newfound awe. “You’re an emerging artist, bro.”
Dre shifted in his seat, the weight of their gazes making his shoulders tense. “It got shared a lot, I guess. The algorithm picked it up.” He offered a small, self-deprecating shrug. “It’s just a weird fluke.” Dante watched him diminish his own light, that old, frustrating habit. He felt a protectiveness surge, hot and fierce. “It’s not a fluke,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. The waiter arrived with their steaks, the sizzle breaking the moment, but the atmosphere in the room had fundamentally changed.
The waiter arrived with their steaks, the sizzle breaking the moment, but the atmosphere in the room had fundamentally changed. Huang carefully cut into his ribeye, the knife scraping the plate. “A fluke doesn’t get a standing ovation from critics who eat narcissists for breakfast, Dre.” Scott pointed his fork. “He’s right. You built that thing from scrap. That’s not luck, that’s a degree they don’t teach.” Dre finally looked up, meeting Dante’s steady gaze across the table. A silent thanks passed between them, solid as a handshake.
They all ate, the conversation loosening into easier channels of shared memory and whiskey. Laughter echoed against the paneled walls, real this time, as Scott recounted a disastrous prom date Huang insisted on forgetting. They shared drinks, a second round of expensive bourbon that warmed the lingering awkwardness from their bones. They ended their night with a clumsy group hug by the valet stand, the city night cool on their flushed faces, scheduling another dinner in a few months before Scott’s family vacation.