9781534492639: Time Out

Inhaltsangabe

Heartstopper meets Friday Night Lights in this “seamless, engrossing” (Publishers Weekly) coming-of-age story about a teen hometown hero who must find out who he is outside of basketball when his coming out as gay costs him his popularity and place on the team.

In his small Georgia town, Barclay Elliot is basically a legend. Here basketball is all that matters, and no one has a bigger spotlight than Barclay. Until he decides to use the biggest pep rally in the town’s history to come out to his school. And things change. Quickly.

Barclay is faced with hostility he never expected. Suddenly he is at odds with his own team, and he doesn’t even have his grandfather to turn to the way he used to. But who is Barclay if he doesn’t have basketball?

His best friend, Amy, thinks she knows. She drags him to her voting rights group, believing Barclay can find a bigger purpose. And he does, but he also finds Christopher. Aggravating, fearless, undeniably handsome Christopher. He and Barclay have never been each other’s biggest fans, but as Barclay starts to explore parts of himself he’s been hiding away, they find they might have much more in common than they originally thought.

As sparks turn into something more, though, Barclay has to decide if he’s ready to confront the privilege and popularity that have shielded him his entire life. Can he take a real shot at the love he was fighting for in the first place?

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Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Sean Hayes is an Emmy Award–winning actor, best known for his role as Jack McFarland on the NBC sitcom Will & Grace. He is also a writer, comedian, and producer. In addition to his credits in television and film, he has also found success on Broadway. He lives with his husband, Scott Icenogle, in Los Angeles. Sean is the author of picture book Plum and young adult novel Time Out.

Todd Milliner is an Emmy Award–winning producer and writer who cofounded Hazy Mills Productions with Sean Hayes in 2004. He has produced over 400 episodes of television, including hit NBC drama Grimm and the TV Land sitcom Hot in Cleveland. He lives with his husband, Michael Matthews, in Los Angeles.

Carlyn Greenwald writes romantic and thrilling page-turners for teens and adults. A film school graduate and former Hollywood lackey, she now works in publishing. She resides in Los Angeles, mourning the loss of ArcLight Cinemas and soaking in the sun with her dogs. Find her online on X (previously known as Twitter) @CarlynGreenwald and Instagram @Carlyn_Gee.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
TODAY’S MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY.

Through the grogginess, I take a moment to really absorb the feeling of it. My first few seconds in my bedroom as a sixteen-year-old.

My last day being in my room before the world knows I’m gay.

That’s right, I’m gay. I’ve said it to myself a hundred times, but I’ve never spoken those words out loud. Not even in here.

My TV is still buzzing with ESPN that I left on last night, next to the basketball medals and trophies on my dresser. Posters of LeBron James, Trae Young, and Dominique Wilkins plastered on the walls. My gaze skims over a pile of laundry I need to do, lying next to the Xbox I may have spent too long playing last night. It’s a model behind what rich people like my teammate Tim Ostrowski have, but it does the job and I’ve gotten in the habit of zoning into it before important days. I don’t linger on the Xbox now, though, instead I turn to my phone sitting on top of it, and the stupid text from none other than Ostrowski waiting for me in the team’s group chat:

Ostrowski

5:59 A.M.

GOOD MORNING BOYS. PEP RALLY TODAY!!! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. TIME TO ACT LIKE FUCKING CHAMPIONS. LETS WEAR ALL BLACK. INTIMIDATE THE FUCK OUTTA EVERYBODY AND BE READY FOR TONIGHT’S AFTERPARTY skull emoji

I roll my eyes, glad to see no one else has responded, then turn to shut off the TV and check my clock. Sure enough, it’s flipped from 18,616 to 18,615 and my stomach sinks. I bought the countdown clock barely hours after my grandpa Scratch died and set it to fifty-one years from now, when I’ll be the same age as he was. Every day since then, I’ve been panicking, watching the time tick away, thinking about the years I’ve already wasted in the closet. I force a slow breath, knowing the next time I look at it, all that panic will be gone. Even if I only have 18,615 days left, after two p.m. today, they’ll be spent with me living my fullest life. Like he would have wanted. I just wish I’d realized it while he was still here.

I throw on gym shorts and a T-shirt and head down to the kitchen, wondering what birthday surprise Mom will have cooked up this year. She makes super-elaborate cakes every birthday and covers the house in decorations that change depending on what team, movie, or hobby my siblings and I have adopted over the last year.

But when I get to the kitchen, everything’s just as we left it last night: plain walls, sunken couch cushions, and dishes stacked in the sink. The only exception is a card displayed on the counter and my little sister, Maggie, sitting on the neighboring living room couch rifling through a box of Oreo Pop-Tarts with her science textbook splayed open on the coffee table. Maggie never wastes a chance to study, not even to enjoy a Pop-Tart.

“That’s not even a breakfast-adjacent flavor,” I comment as I swipe a protein bar out of a box I left out after practice last night.

Maggie eyes the bar in my hand and glares at me. “You’re eating the exact same flavor, jerk.”

I take an annoyingly large bite and grab my card. Nice of Mom to at least leave me this. But when I open it, I’m confused. It’s a hand-drawn anime-style cartoon with a spiky-haired boy holding an over-the-top cake; definitely not Mom’s style. I look closer, though, where I find the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY BARCLAY!!!!! LOVE, MAGGIE on the picture of the cake.

Heat rushes to my face as I glance back at Maggie, really feeling like a jerk. “Thanks for the card,” I say.

She sighs. “Whatever. Scratch would have made me make it for you.”

I give her a nod even though just hearing his name hurts and let the unspoken I find you unbearably annoying but still do care about you agreement settle between us as I glance outside. Mom’s missed so much work that it’s fair to assume that she’s just gone in early to make up for lost time. Can’t really blame her for not getting a birthday display up when she’s covering the funeral expenses and the second income we lost when Scratch died. But when I look outside, her car is still in the driveway. As if on cue, I hear footsteps behind me—and spy Mom still in her pajamas, lines under her eyes that no makeup can hide. But the thing I notice most is she’s still. Mom’s usually a blur of motion, rummaging around the cabinets, looking for her inevitably misplaced keys or shoes, but now… she just stands there, saying nothing.

“Are… you going to work today?” I ask, shifting my weight back and forth, trying not to notice she hasn’t wished me a happy birthday yet.

“Not yet. The morning got away from me and…”

She trails off and adjusts a piece of her thick honey-brown hair—the same color she gave me—and the pit in my stomach starts to deepen. I need this day to go exactly according to plan. And that plan happened to involve Mom being at her best—or at least the best she can be after what we’ve been through. Today is clearly already not Mom’s best day. Today isn’t even as good as yesterday. I can’t take this as an omen, so I press ahead.

“Well, that’s okay,” I say. “No one will be working this afternoon anyway since the pep rally’s today.”

This, at least, gets Mom to half smile. “Right. Kick off the season.” But she says it like a sigh, not a cheer.

“I’m gonna”—I’m going to come out at it—“be doing a big speech as captain, so I’m glad you’ll be there.” I practically hear the countdown clock upstairs ticking as I chicken out. Again.

“Hon, I’ve got to take Maggie to her sketching sleepover with Emily tonight.”

My heart squeezes. She’s been making excuse after excuse to avoid seeing anyone since the funeral, abandoning her book club friends, ditching drinks out with her coworkers, refusing to let our out-of-state family drop in. Still, I never thought she’d actually miss a Chitwood pep rally.

Maggie glances up from her phone, frowning. “Emily said she had a ton of homework, so we canceled. It’s okay. It gives me more time to work on my portfolio for the Chitwood Young Arts Award—”

Good. Perfect, actually. Thank you, Emily and Maggie’s never-ending quest to be the best students and artists under age fourteen in Chitwood.

“Well then, you should come too, it’s not that long,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Maggie presses. “I really need to finish.”

All she really needs to be there for is my speech, so yes, I’m sure. Besides, when she says “work on” her art portfolios, she usually means adding a sixth unnecessary layer onto an already incredible piece. None of the Neanderthals who judge the competitions will be able to tell.

But then we’re all left in silence. Silence that should be filled with Mom assuring me that she’ll get herself and Maggie to the pep rally come hell or high water.

A second more passes before she finally speaks.

“Barc, I’ve—” She massages her shoulder. “I’m barely back at work and I’m just not up for seeing so many people right now. Zack’s mom always records the rallies,...

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