Full Split (Forbidden Goals)

by Rebecca Rathe

He’s out for blood. Whose blood? I’m not sure. Maybe his own.

I’m hit with a memory of the forsaken sandwich incident.

What in the ever-loving sandwich-induced hallucination put me smack dab in the middle of an adult toy megastore?

I should have known that stopping at a sandwich shop for lunch was a bad sign. Sandwiches are clearly an omen of disaster. Sandwiches with Niles = bad things (and cum). Today’s sandwich came with extra jalapeños. Meaning whatever’s coming is going to burn. Why did I agree to this? Did I agree to this? How did we get here? Didn’t I drive?

I think I’m actually, fully, irrevocably in love. Because I don’t have it in me to tell him I’d rather French kiss the lit end of a pack of smokes than let this stranger help me pick out what cock he’s going to fuck me with later. Is that a douche kit in his basket?

I’m standing in the entryway of my home, holding four massive bags that are all labeled, in bright, unmistakable lettering: Straps & Shenanigans Superstore. I wish I was kidding. And Weston, my son who is supposed to be forty-five minutes away at his girlfriend’s apartment, is on the couch. Said girlfriend is there too. They’re curled up together, watching some rom-com on the living room TV. Just kill me now.

As soon as the door closes, I start stripping. “What, no hello?” “Hello. Get naked.” “Are you serious?” “Deadly.”

“Your son, I’m guessing?” The voice beside me makes me jump. I turn to see a man around my age, maybe a little older judging by the greys threading through his dark hair and scruff. He’s close to my build but it’s hard to tell since he’s wearing a jacket. There are tattoos peeking over the collar of his shirt. “He looks a lot like you,” he says, smiling like we’re already friends. His eyes crinkle at the edges like it's something he does often. “Uh, yeah,” I say awkwardly. Then I notice the logo on his jacket. Sports Unleashed. Great. The guy glances down at his jacket. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not here to do interviews or gather intelligence or anything. I’m a sports journalist, not that kind of journalist.” I blink at him and wonder if there’s any possibility of me getting a different seat. “I’m really just here to take some notes for a small piece on Olympic-bound LGBTQ+ athletes. I have no interest in private lives, I promise.” He holds up his hand to shake. “I’m Mik.” I accept the handshake reluctantly and turn my attention back to the floor where officials are doing a last safety check. I catch Niles’ gaze, and he smiles up at me. It’s not quite the same as his usual cocky confidence, but compared to the last few days, he looks almost normal. It’s not victorious, but not like he’s given up, either. There’s a spark of hope there that sends a surge of adrenaline through me. I jerk my attention away from making heart eyes at the athlete who is almost half my age, rem...

Mik Reinier-Sanders and his husband, Jason, who is actually hotter in real life. Damn. I’ve been following them for a while now, after an article was published about Jason in The Scene. We found Mik’s travel blog a while after that, which often highlights sporting events and safe travel spaces for the LGBTQ+ community. He has a pretty big following.

Jack Perry from the Carolina Panthers, most of these players have been accepted into the fold and treated normally.” “Yeah, after the media circus with that ex-girlfriend, no one really cared about anything other than him collecting Super Bowl rings,” Vickie says, nodding. “Why does that matter, though?” Brandon asks. “He’s like, the golden boy of the NFL.” “You’re proving my point,” Mik says, smiling. “Even in spaces that are considered to be the pinnacle of toxic masculinity, we were seeing a rise of acceptance and a push for more diversity everywhere.” “A few players have come out or even been drafted as out players, which is huge,” Weston adds. “Like who?” Brandon asks. “I don’t remember hearing anything about it.” “Again, proving my point. Because most people simply don’t care who athletes love or go home to, they just care that they’re good players in the end.” “But who, though?” Brandon asks. We all laugh. "Those guys that play for the Tampa Bay Rays, the catcher and pitcher, aren't they together?" Shane says. "They're not together," Rina answers. "Gabe Rodgers, the catcher, is married to the pitcher's brother. They're best friends though and are super precious. They do this cute little handshake before the games, like one of those super elaborate ones where they snap and bump hips at the end." "I dunno, that sounds pretty gay," Shane says. Vickie reaches over and smacks him. “What?” he mouths, rubbing his thigh. Vickie ignores him, her eyes closing, fingers snappin...

“Yeah,” Jace says. “If there’s a scrawny ginger gay boy out there who wants to play rugby, he has someone to look up to, because my uncle has a platform. A largely naked platform, mind you— Oof⁠—” We laugh as Jason wraps a beefy arm around Jace’s neck and gives him a noogie until Jace yells, “Uncle!”

“That’s nice. Fail to follow through on any of that, and I’ll bury you under the next new build my office brokers.”

Turns out, Mik and Jason have a bit of a sordid love story themselves, but theirs ended up working out alright. I have a lot of hope that we’ll get there, too.

Human rights are not politics.