Keith

12 Months Earlier

“And that’s why you don’t mess with the future champ!” I screamed as I started doing a poorly choreographed victory dance. I’d just slayed a flipper called… Well, Flipper. It looked like a dolphin, and the bottlenose was used to… You get the idea. And it was piloted by these guys from San Diego who had been jeering at me the entirety of the match. 

It was my first match in the pros. I was surprised to have won. But not nearly as surprised as everyone else clearly was. So I danced like the uncoordinated idiot that I was, no partners in sight so I had to be content with my own (not-so) sick moves. 

Marty Weston pulled me aside into an interview. “So, Keith Calloway, how you feeling right now, kid?!”

“I’m feeling pretty great. I think I’ve provided everyone with a good demonstration of what’s gonna happen to them when they face me!” I said, the barely-earned confidence flooding out of my mouth with each screamed syllable. 

“Bold words,” Marty said. “You think you’re gonna live up to them?”

I grabbed the mic out of his hands and grinned maniacally. “I think there’s a new sheriff in town, and you best believe he’s gunning for the crown!”

Everyone went wild, and it was at that point I decided this would make a good angle for a pro career. 

Because I’m an idiot. 

***

“So, Keith,” Eric said, and it felt like I’d been slapped. What the hell was happening to me?

“Yes,” I said, hurriedly putting my hands under my rear while I sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair. 

Eric Gaines was the owner of Gaines Auto Body and Bodybuilding, south Los Angeles’ premier destination for car detailing and weightlifting. Eric was, quite simply put, a hulking specimen of testosterone. He looked like he didn’t have an ounce of fat anywhere on his body- just raw muscle as far as the eye could see. He’d been my sponsor the past year, and he’d been conciliatory when I’d lost the finals last year. The unspoken caveat was that I needed to turn it around next year. 

And so far… I was letting him down. 

His office was all white walls and hardwood floors with a dark brown finish, his desk made of pure glass. He sat on a workout ball, while his guests were made to sit in the most uncomfortable plastic chairs imaginable. Probably a business negotiation strategy- the man had a truly staggering number of books on the subject on shelves lining his walls. “Last night didn’t exactly go as planned.”

“No, sir, it didn’t.”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Um… I mean, I could tell you about how my loss was a fluke, but it would probably just sound like an excuse,” I said. 

“You’re right, it would,” he said with a shockingly earnest smile. Was he being passive-aggressive? I could never tell.

“I’d like to say it won’t happen again-”

“But you can’t guarantee that, and that’s completely reasonable,” he said with a conciliatory shrug. 

“Uh… Yeah,” I said. 

“But you’ll do the best you can?”

“Yes! Absolutely.”

“That’s good. Because anything less than that… Any more of these ‘flukes’, and you and I might have to reconsider our arrangement,” Eric said. “Sponsoring a robot fighter like yourself is an eccentric rich man’s game, and I’m merely an eccentric middle class man running a small business. I have a bottom line. And a reputation. And given your… Antics, in the ring, if you keep losing, it might not be great for that reputation, or that bottom line. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir!” I said. 

“That’s good to hear, Keith,” he said. 

Slap. Seriously, why did that keep happening today? Sure, taking off that dress last night had been one of the single most painful experiences of my life, but that didn’t MEAN anything. Definitely. Not one bit. Not even a tiny little sliver of anything. 

“The money for this month should have already been deposited in your account,” Eric continued. “Anything else you need for the time being?”

“No, sir,” I said. 

“Good. Let’s talk again next week.”

We shook hands, and I left and stepped out into the hot midsummer air of Culver City. That was one meeting down for today. That just left the second one… And probably the much more painful one. 

I’d called Underhill last night, against my instincts. He’d texted back saying if I wanted to resume our conversation from last night, we could meet for lunch the next day.

We met at a retro diner in Inglewood with old movie posters all over the walls and fifties music playing on the speakers and waitresses wearing old timey dresses as uniforms. I’d been here before, and I’d probably been able to ignore it before, but the uniforms were… Really, really freaking cute! They were pink with white polka dots, and they had red aprons over the front. The women all wore their hair up, and I pictured myself with long hair, down past my shoulders, and in the process of putting it up, spending an hour each morning brushing it and applying product and arranging it and… 

Oh boy. 

Boy?

Right, that’s what I was. That’s all I’d ever be. I wasn’t really tr… 

But I wasn’t exactly cis, now was I? Cis people don’t spend their downtime fantasizing about being the opposite gender. 

So what was I? A girl? Non-binary? Gender fluid? 

Did I even like being a boy?

I ordered a black coffee after being sat in a booth in the back corner of the oblong establishment, drumming my fingers on the table while staring into my drink. 

“Hi,” Underhill’s voice called out as he approached. I looked up- he wore a black and gray flannel button-down and jeans, his hair messy but still framing his face well, his stubble somewhat grown in compared to last night. His eyes were… Big and friendly and inviting, and I… 

No, no, bad! I chastised myself. “Hi.”

He sat down. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

I sipped my coffee, then exhaled deeply. “So. Before we go any further. I need you to promise me that this will remain confidential.”

“Sure thing. Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up the obligatory three fingers, smiling broadly with all his perfectly straight pearly whites. 

 “You were a Boy Scout?”

“Eagle Scout!” he said. 

“Of course you were,” I muttered. 

The waitress, a young black woman named Connie, came over and asked if we were ready to order, to which Underhill replied he just wanted a black coffee. 

“A fellow black coffee drinker, I see,” I said. “A man of culture. Duly noted.”

He chuckled. “You’re stalling.”

I gave a much more nervous chuckle. “Yeah. I am.”

I pulled out my phone, and showed him a photo of me from last night. After Mom had gotten done doing my hair. 

“Oh wow, look at you,” Underhill said with an approving smile. “You look pretty. Did you do your own makeup?”

I felt myself blush. “I’m not wearing makeup in that photo.”

“You’re not? Dang. Good for you.”

I chuckled again… Actually, no, that wasn’t quite accurate; I giggled. I freaking giggled- what the hell was wrong with me? “Thanks. My mom did my hair for me.”

“So she knows?”

“Both my parents do,” I said, stirring my coffee with a spoon. “They were… Completely supportive, and completely unsurprised.”

“So, you’re-”

“I don’t know,” I cut him off. “If you were about to say the ‘t word’ that is. I don’t know yet. But… There’s a chance that I am.”

Connie came back and asked if we wanted anything to eat. Simultaneously, Underhill and I both said, “A Denver omelet, side of hashed browns.”

Connie raised an eyebrow and smirked, then jotted it down on her pad. “Sounds good, kids.”

“A woman of culture,” Underhill smiled at me again, the kind of smile that you saw in dental commercials- seriously, killer smile. 

A burst of warmth ran through me at being called a woman- Gender Euphoria? The articles certainly would have called it that. Was this… This couldn’t just be my immature ass getting off on tricking people into thinking I was trans. That would be ridiculous- no cis person would ever be happy with something like that. 

“I try,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I guess I just wanted to ask you- and I need you to be honest here- do you think I’m trans?”

He flinched. “Um… I’m not really sure it’s up to me whether or not you’re trans.”

“I know that, I know that, I just… My parents think I am, and I’m starting to think that maybe, MAYBE, I might be. What do you think?”

“I think that you shouldn’t be looking for someone else’s approval on this sort of thing.”

Dammit. That was a good point. 

“But at the same time, if you’re hoping I’ll say yes and tell you you’re trans-”

I scrunched up my face again, closing my eyes and nodding in spite of myself. Ugh, what is wrong with me?!

I felt a hand covering mine. I opened my eyes to find Underhill squeezing it. “Look,” he said, “I’m not an expert. Yes, my best friend is a trans girl, and I’ve learned a lot about this stuff from her. All I can really tell you is what I think she would say- which does slightly beg the question of why you wanna talk to me about this and not Faith.”

“Because she hates me,” I monotoned.

He opened and closed his mouth, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good point- she does. She REALLY does.”

“Not that I don’t deserve it,” I said from the corner of my mouth.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that-”

“I’m a total jerk whenever we’re both around each other.”

“Yeah, but you’re not when you’re out of the ring,” Underhill said. “You play the heel because our sport is populated mostly by weird nerds with questionable social skills- the audience likes a good douchebag. Yeah, you lay it on thick sometimes, but also Faith is terrible at reading social cues from people she doesn’t know super well.”

“Maybe I should dial it back,”  I said. “That whole schtick was one thing when I was on a winning streak. Right now… That ain’t me.”

“Heh. Maybe,” Underhill said. “Backtracking, though: if Faith were here, and she didn’t hate you, I’m sure she would tell you that wanting to be a girl and being a girl are the same thing, but that only you can decide what you want.”

“That’s good advice,” I said, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest. Connie came back with our orders, as well as a single chocolate milkshake with two straws. “We didn’t order that,” I said. 

“Yeah, I put it in for you,” Connie said. “You two were being super cute, figured why not.”

“C-cute?!” I stammered. It was then that I looked down and realized Underhill’s hand was still covering mine. He seemed to realize the same thing, and slowly withdrew his hand, but still smiling that winning smile. 

“I mean, hey, we’re both real good lookin’,” he said. 

Connie gave him a thumbs-up as she walked away. I buried my face in my hands, the heat from my red cheeks burning my palms like a hot stove. 

“You wound me,” Underhill said with a laugh.

“Why?”

“Embarrassed to be assumed as my date? She wounds my fragile male ego.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Shut up- aren’t you embarrassed? People might think you’re gay!”

“So?” Underhill shrugged. 

“So?!”

“So,” he said. “Not really a big deal to me. If it was the right guy, I could probably call myself hetero-flexible. And besides, you’re…”

“I’m…”

“A question mark,” he said. 

“Damn you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Besides, you do realize we live in southern California, yes? This is arguably the most queer friendly place on the whole of God’s green earth.”

“You… You raise an excellent point,” I acquiesced. He really did- if this, whatever it was, was a part of me I wanted to explore, I did live in one of the better places to do that in. And if I wanted to wear a dress outside my home, even if it were just to go down to the market for groceries, it wouldn’t be THAT abnormal in Venice Beach. 

He took a sip from the chocolate shake, and, on impulse, I went for a sip as well, our faces, our mouths very close together as we both sipped. It was his turn to blush, then, and I laughed in earnest and without embarrassment when he did. 

“I thought you said you didn’t mind,” I needled him.

“Lol, just caught me by surprise,” Underhill said. “Bold move, that was.”

“I’m a bold girl,” I said, the words tripping out of my mouth before I could stop them. I’d just called myself a girl without even meaning to, and it felt… It felt amazing. It felt like a hot bubble bath after a long walk, like dry socks on a damp afternoon, like the warm and soft comfort of my bed after a long day. 

Dammit. 

“That you are, ma’am,” he said. There was that smile again. 

Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit.

“You’re a good guy, Underhill,” I said. 

“Thanks. But call me Zeke.”

“You’re a good guy, Zeke,” I said, then finally took a bite of my omelet. Delicious!

“Thanks. Also, there’s actually something I wanted to ask you,” Underhill… Zeke said. 

“What’s that?” I said between bites. 

“What got you into the robot fighting game, anyway?” he asked. “For me it was just a fun thing to do with my engineering program buddies- I never expected to actually go anywhere with it.”

“... It’s a little embarrassing.”

“Calloway, we’re professional science nerds.”

“Fair point,” I said. “I, uh, always wanted to build my own Gundam, ever since I was a little kid.”

“Ayyy, I love me some Gundam.”

“You do?”

“Hell yeah! Never get to talk about it though because Faith hates it.”

“What the- she hates Gundam? She’s a robot fighter, and she hates giant robot anime?”

“Obviously she doesn’t hate giant robot anime- look what our bot is named!”

“Touche,” I said. 

“She’s strictly a super-robots girl,” Zeke said. 

“Ahhh, I see, I see,” I said. “That makes sense. No disrespect, they certainly have their place, but I lean more towards real robots.”

“Fair and valid.”

“I actually have a bunch of Gundam on Blue Ray,” I said, leaning forward in my seat. I never got to talk about Gundam with anyone, much to my chagrin, though the whole ‘no life outside of work’ thing probably contributed to that. “You wanna watch it together sometime?”

“Sure!” he said. “When works for you?”

“I’m free tonight,” I said. 

“Awesome!” he said. “Can’t wait.”

I smiled. “Me neither.”