*double-update* read "chapter-thirty â basketball court" before reading this chapter
epilogue â interview
KIERAN MOGAN-SCHMITT WAS SITTING IN MY CHAIR. Normally, I had the chair to the right, but seeing him sprawled out and comfortable made me switch to the one on the left. It was a small difference, mundane enough that a few viewers would probably get upset and critique us for it, but this interview was bound to attract far more critics than chair placement was. That's how interviews usually went: controversy and negativity following them like a dark cloud.
I hoped Kieran's would be different.
"You ready Mr. Mogan-Schmitt?"
Kieran jumped in his chair, laughing at himself sheepishly as I apologized with a smile. He still acted young despite the way he looked, all big and built. He'd grown something insane the summers after he'd been signed to UCLA and strong muscles corded his arms, visible through his blue suit. His story was new, inspiring, controversial to some, and getting this interview had been nothing short of a miracle.
"Ah, you don't need to call me that," Kieran smiled, a little nervous thing that looked out of place on his normally scowling face. The press called it his default, tried to find the ugly in him only to fail miserably when he played ball.
"Professionalism." I offered as an answer and he accepted it, feet tapping on the ground absentmindedly.
It looked like he hadn't quite grown into himself yet, but confidence emanated from him in almost nauseating waves. I wondered dimly how he'd found it in him to grow, flourish when until his sophomore year in college he'd never once smiled for the cameras. I asked him, in kinder words, once we'd gotten the basic introductions out of the way and the camera was rolling.
"I was stressed," Kieran sighed, looking at me intently as if there weren't a camera, crew, and millions over the globe watching as an audience. Kieran had always had a way of talking to people like they were important, even when they weren't.
"I was still short," He added with a chuckle, wringing his hands, "And I was alone."
"For some time, it didn't feel like I had much to smile about."
I nodded, almost forgetting to follow up with a question. My supervisor held up a board from the corner of my eye, but I ignored it, more focused on the conversation than the answers the media so desperately craved.
"How did you get past it? The slump?" I asked carefully, unsure if I could throw a word as big as depression into the mix when men's sports were already so fragile.
"Good support from my team," Kieran grinned for a second and it hit like a sunbeam, warm.
"Not my college team," He clarified, one hand messily sweeping through his hair though the stylist had explicitly told him not to.
"My home team. My mom, high school coach, high school friends," He listed them all fondly, describing each with enough heart to paint a picture. His descriptions were strange, about how they tied their shoes or what class they skipped regularly, but it made him smile and that made it good.
"And Lukas." He finished, voice soft. He'd unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled them back and I'd done the same, mirroring him.
"Your husband?" I nodded, looking at his left hand. There was no ring, just well-calloused fingers, and the slight discoloration of bruises, well-earned.
"Yeah," Kieran smiled again, goofy and shy now. His face flushed pink and he fished his chain from behind his shirt, letting a platinum ring fall solidly against his chest in a proud gesture.
"I had to get a new jersey 'cause of the name change," He laughed, looking down at the ring with a silly look and then up at me, young and happy.
"Pricey, though."
"Mogan-Schmitt," I echoed, unable to stop the smile that pulled across my face. Kieran didn't smile for the camera, but he did smile for his husband, teeth blindingly white as he fiddled with his ring on a chain around his neck.
"Why the hyphenation?"
"We tied at rock-paper-scissors," He smiled, one corner pulling up higher than the rest as he lounged back into his chair.
"But I won best of three, so my name's first."
"It had nothing to do with your brand then?" I hummed, letting my head tip to one side. Kieran mimicked me, maybe it was subconscious, and it was endearing to see a man who'd become larger than life screw his face into a childish grimace.
"I don't have a brand," Kieran sighed, "I'm just here to play basketball and spread love."
He didn't meet my eyes as he mumbled the last part, face red as he spread his arms wide. His wingspan was big, imposing, but it looked a little like a kid asking for a hug and I just played along, unable to stop a grin from crawling across my face.
"Thank you for what you're doing."
He looked startled, hands fiddling again, pulling at the chain and looping it around his individual fingers carefully.
Kieran had a habit of being honest, always had, according to the people he was closest with. People liked it. He had a diverse audience, people from all across the world watched him, loved him, not because Kieran was a great motivational speaker but because he was real, and talked like he was. I'd been part of the press following sports for a while, but it had been years since I'd seen a storm like him.
"In a world where gay is still a slur in locker rooms, you're someone kids can look at for inspiration."
"I'm glad." Kieran relented, chewing on the inside of his mouth, "And I want those kids to know that I've been there. College ball, the NBAâassholes are always gonna be there. You just have to realize that, when you're on the court, you let the ball speak for you and let their ignorance speak for them."
"Have you run into homophobia in the NBA?" I leaned forward, grabbing onto the gossip as my boss jerked their whiteboard again, violent.
"Good players have bigger things to be upset about." Kieran smiled coolly, eyes flickering over to my boss with an annoyed look. His lips formed his trademark scowl, body broad and comfortable in his chair.
"Good people know it's just love."
And the conversation went easy from there. It was weird, chatting formally because it was official, but stopping giggles every other sentence because it was intimate. I'd done interviews before, would do them again, but I savored every second with Kieran like someone was keeping a tally of the words we were allowed to exchange.
"Your husband is currently a professor at Boston University, right?"
"Professor Mogan-Schmitt," Kieran looked smug, "He teaches dynamics."
And you could tell he'd practiced the word for hours.
"Sounds awful," I twirled my pen in my hand, "That's a lot of calculus."
"I think he's a masochist." Kieran nodded, serious, and I choked on air, telling him again that there were certain guidelines to being on-air. Can't say masochist.
Why not? And I didn't have a good answer.
Too soon, the minutes blurred by and I got the signal to wrap up. We'd talked about everything, caught up like friends who hadn't seen each other in twenty-nine years. I'd bothered Kieran about every topic: basketball, his friends, his love, his plans. I was hungry for all of it, and each answer had filled something inside me that had gone hollow years before.
"That's a wrap!" My boss clapped their hands together, loud, as the microphones cut their noise. The camera stayed on for a little longer, panning away from Kieran and me slowly as we both stretched across the table.
"Iâ"
"Iâ"
We both flushed, shy because we were practically strangers.
"You first," Kieran nodded, focusing on me even as others came up to him, impatiently waiting at his side for their chance to talk to him. Maybe grab an autograph. Should I ask for an autograph?
"Thanks for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Mogan-Schmitt."
"You don't have to call me that," Kieran's eyebrows screwed together, petulant, and it was an expression that hadn't changed since he was five.
"Fine," I breathed, "Can I have your autograph, Keke?"
Kieran's eyes lit up, the color of robin eggs. Suddenly I was seeing him, gap-toothed and grinning up at me twenty years before, a blade of grass pulled tight in his hands.
Has anyone told you, you look like a stick bug?
"Sure," He breathed, and the illusion was gone, but I could still see his smile, the same as it had been then.
"Make it out to Matthew Martin."
THE END.
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1430 words
Matthew Martin gets his autograph and meets with Kieran and Lukas whenever they're both in town. He's to be their first kid's godfather, but he doesn't know it yet.
*Just a reminder that Matthew Martin is the older-brother figure from the "summer camp" Kieran went to as a kid. Read "chapter twenty-five â nostalgia" for a better recap."
THE END.
Woah, this is it. I've been working on Boys Will Be Boys, planning, writing, editing, restarting, editing, writing, ... for almost four years now. And that's insane to me. So much has passed in that time, in my life, and for my writing, and BWBB has been there, growing with me.
I'm so so so unbelievably happy and flattered that so many have found this book and loved this story. To be able to write and get such amazing feedback and praise from all of you has given me motivation over the tougher times, and I can't thank you all enough for your kind words.
What did you think of the story?
I hope it made you happy <3 Thank you all for sticking with me throughout this weird, irregularly-updating journey! Enjoy your lives and stay safe!
And be on the lookout for a sequel focused on DJ and Marco's story :)