It's hard to find a shady hotel in some parts of New York City; they're too busy trying to pander to the tourists. But they had persevered, and finally there was one that was already infamous as the site of clandestine liaisons between two men. They knew it to be perfect. This had become their meeting place.
After one time, the Yankee says, "This would really kill all the female fans, wouldn't it? If they knew we were here, doing this with each other."
"We're supposed to hate each other," the Met agrees. "Besides, all the rumormongers say I'm going out with the ABC weatherman anyway."
"Oh, I know you have better taste than that."
The Met grins. "Besides, I think you know I prefer brunets. Gentlemen may prefer blonds-"
"But you're no gentleman, are you?" the Yankee interrupts, pressing his lips to those of the Met to avoid the inevitable response.
When the kiss, rough and foul-smelling, is finished, the Met cracks a grin. "You should talk, interrupting a man in the middle of his speech. At least they suspect me. What about you? No one believes that you'd ever do this. You could put your career on the line."
"No, I can't. I make sure they see me with foxy ladies. Don't think it matters, though. So many of them believe in me. I could be seen with Weatherboy and they'd come up with some excuse. Almost none of them believe I could be gay. Of course some of them do, but, you know, there are people who believe every one of us is gay, in some combination. The things I hear about my teammates..." The Yankee smiles, a photogenic grin that has stolen the hearts of untold numbers of women. "It makes us look tame."
"Like that could ever happen. Do you wonder what would happen if someone were to find out?" The Met's question is tense. It looks like he's thought about this for a long time. While waiting for the Yankee to answer, he seizes his glass and splashes Scotch out of the nearby bottle into it. There is a strain in his dark eyes as he turns back to regard his secret lover.
The Yankee looks back at him with green eyes too serious for his years. "I'm not going to lie. I wouldn't lie for you.Ó
"Oh, thanks."
"I'll challenge them. If they ask me the question, I'll answer it honestly." Again the Yankee smiles. "It's kind of like 'don't ask, don't tell'."
"Reassuring," the Met says sarcastically. Without waiting to be asked, he pours a glass and passes it to the Yankee.
The Yankee takes a sip, wincing at the rough taste. "Damn, this stuff's worse than your bristles."
"No making fun of the facial hair, pretty boy."
"Can't you imagine what they would say if they saw us? Here we are, somewhere in Godforsaken Queens, naked and drinking Scotch." The Yankee affects a journalist's attitude and takes the hairbrush as a microphone. Pretending to interview himself, he asks, "Mr. Jeter, is it true that you are in fact having a torrid affair with the star player from your crosstown rivals?"
As himself, he says, "To that question, I would have to say-" He doesn't get the chance to finish the joke; the Met's insisting mouth forces him into a no comment. They fall back to the bed. Their secret is still theirs alone.