Boys Will Be Boys (v.2)

epilogue - interview

*double-update* read "chapter-thirty — basketball court" before reading this chapter

epilogue — 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.