Time Out | Hayes, Sean; Milliner, Todd; Greenwald, Carlyn

Lange Beschreibung
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?

Rezensierung
'A highly readable, emotionally engaging novel with appealing characters....Time in!' Booklist July 2023

Buchausschnitt
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

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 l