Gray

For the first time in our relationship, I've outright lied to Ivy. Okay, it's a small lie but a lie nonetheless. I don't have early practice. I just had to get away from her. Fast. She hurt me. Not when she'd told me the truth of how she saw me. h.e.l.l, I know what I am. No, it was the pity in her expression, as if my inability to find any meaning in s.e.x made me pathetic.

Now I'm vacillating between outrage and pain. s.e.x is s.e.x. f.u.c.k if I should be ashamed of having as much of it as I want. But then there's this pain, right behind my sternum. Because she's brought up things that I don't ever like to think about. Such as why I can't find meaning in the act. But I know, don't I? And that knowledge is a scab that I don't want to pick at.

Only she's already picked it, and now I'm slowly bleeding. I know Ivy's sorry she hurt me. It doesn't matter. The cat's out of the bag. And I can't stop thinking: Am I really living for the moment, or am I running away from reality?

But even that isn't the real reason I escaped Ivy. It was because for one blind second, I'd been about to say the stupidest thing I could. Make me stop, Ivy. Be the one who makes it all stop.

I have the feeling that she could. I'd stood there, aching and hating that we were snapping at each other, and all I wanted to do was kiss her, explore the gentle curve of her lower lip before sucking on it. And Ivy would have flipped out. Because friends do not maul other friends' mouths.

I'm in uncharted territory here. Usually, when attraction hits, I'd make a move. Or the lady in question would. But now? I'm not so sure it's a good idea.

"s.h.i.t." I pick up the pace and head into the team's gym. I could work out at home-and, G.o.d, I need to do something to ease this twitchy feeling-but I don't want to talk to anyone. It's late so I have a good chance of being alone here.

Gyms stink of bleach, lingering sweat and funk, of steel weights and rubber matting, and I love that. It's familiar as home to me now. I hustle past the locker rooms, ready to hit the treadmill, when I see them.

It's a small movement out of the corner of my eye, nothing I'd notice if I wasn't alone at night in a supposedly abandoned gym. I know Rolondo so well by now that I recognize him almost instantly. He's leaning against one of the shower walls, a towel wrapped around his waist, his torso still wet.

But it's the guy next to him who catches my attention. Many scenarios could explain what I'm seeing, but the way the guy leans into 'Londo, half his body blocking my view, and the expression on my friend's face, tight and miserable, gives me pause. And as if someone's snapped their fingers in front of my eyes, I get it.

Understanding hits me the exact moment Rolondo notices me. He stiffens, standing tall, his shoulders straightening as if bracing for a fight. The guy next to him, a big black dude who looks like he'd be at home on the field with us, turns and glances as me. Fear widens his eyes for a second before he narrows them and glares at me, then 'Londo.

Without a word, he pushes off from the wall with one hand and stalks past me, his shoulder almost brushing my own.

I'm left alone with Rolondo who stares back at me. I suppose the knowledge is there in my eyes; I'm not really trying to hide it. That won't help anymore. But it breaks something between us. I see the moment he decides I'm now the enemy because I know his secret.

He makes a noise of defiance and strolls my way, heading for his locker. He doesn't look at me when he pa.s.ses, but his muscles twitch and his walk is awkward. h.e.l.l. I can leave now, not say a word, but I don't.

"Whatever the f.u.c.k you think you saw," he says as he grabs his boxers, "you're wrong, G."

Weariness has me rubbing my face before I move to the bench and sit on it. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Rolondo snaps, "I know so." Already he's raging, ready to attack at the smallest provocation.

Bracing my forearms on my knees, I stare at the waffle-weave pattern on the rubber floor matting. "Is this going to become a problem for us?"

He pauses, one leg in his sweats, the other out, before he continues dressing. "You gonna make it one?"

"Look, I can pretend, and that would probably make things seem easier for you."

He snorts, shoving his feet into his shoes without tying them, like he's racing to escape.

"But in the long run, it won't," I finish.

"I swear to G.o.d..." Rolondo holds up his hands and his arms shake. "If you start in on some white-boy, let's-talk-about-our-feelings bulls.h.i.t-"

"Sit down, 'Londo."

When he grabs his bag and makes a move to go, my voice, hard and loud, echoes in the room. "Sit. Down."

I snap my head up and catch his gaze. It's a game of chicken but I don't blink. 'Londo might be fast as f.u.c.k, but I'm bigger and a better tackle. I will take him down in a minute and let him know that with a look.

Scowling and muttering under his breath, Rolondo drops onto the bench next to me. "What, then?"

I almost smile at his petulant tone, only this night has officially gone to s.h.i.t and I just want it all to end. My fingers lace as I sit there. "In high school, I had this friend, Jason. He played receiver. He...ah..." A lump fills my throat and I have to clear it. "Soph.o.m.ore year he tried to hang himself."

Utter silence expands between us. Until I clear my throat again.

"He couldn't handle it. Couldn't face his dad, his team, thinking they'd reject him because he was gay." My hands clench. "I was his friend. I suspected. But I never asked. I didn't want to upset him. But I knew he was troubled about something."

Rolondo's voice cracks when he speaks. "Why are you telling me this?"

I risk a glance, find he's gone ashy gray. My eyes burn. It hurts thinking of Jason. "I want to be clear. Do not think for a second that I'd turn my back on you, think of you any differently. And do not even imagine that I'd tell anyone. That's your business."

He glances away, then nods. Once. Sharp. And I breathe a little easier. But I don't say anything more, knowing that he'll talk when and if he wants. We sit together for a full two minutes before he finally decides to talk. "It's wearing on me. Hiding. Pretending to be something I'm not."

"I feel you."

Rolondo laughs low and without humor. "Not hardly, G. I'm a southern, black man who plays football." He licks his lower lip in agitation. "h.e.l.l, my mama is already bugging me about when is she gonna get some grandbabies? What do you think she'd say about this?"

We both deflate a little and stare at the floor in silence.

"That guy..." I glance toward the showers where I'd found them. "You love him?"

I feel 'Londo nod but it's abrupt as if he's still fighting his feelings.

I want to help, but what can I tell him that won't sound trite? He's in a s.h.i.tty position and we both know it. I pinch the bridge of my nose and think of Ivy. She'd know what to say to make it right.

"I get being afraid to take a stand, change things," I say. "I think... No, s.h.i.t, I know that I'm falling for my best friend."

"Tell me something we all don't know, G." For the first time tonight, Rolondo sounds like his old self.

I fight a smile. "Yeah, well, she pretty much thinks I'm a mans.l.u.t so..."

"Again, tell me something we don't all know."

I glare at him, and he laughs. I deserve it, though. I have been hiding behind a party-guy persona for so long, everyone in my life thinks it's who I really am. And it doesn't sit right with me anymore. Sure, that guy has gotten me laid countless times. But I am tired of being shallow.

Shaking my head, I lean forward and rest my arms on my knees. "It's probably for the best. What the f.u.c.k do I know of relationships anyway?"

Rolondo snorts. "You're asking me?"

"I'm saying we're both screwed."

"Yeah," he says slowly, almost smiling. "Yeah, I guess we are. I'll tell you this. You better figure out how to deal with her dad if you do make your move. Mackenzie will kick your a.s.s, for sure."

It might be worth it. Sighing, I straighten and roll my tense shoulders. "I'm gonna head out. Just... You're my friend and my teammate. Whatever you do, I'm with you. One hundred percent."

"Thanks, man." It's barely a whisper. But I hear it.

My face feels hot from too much emotion flowing through me for one day. I stand, give him a brief tap on the shoulder, and walk away. Despite what I said, my stomach is queasy with uncertainty. Everything is changing around me, so quickly it feels as if a rug has been pulled from under my feet.

Ivy

Gray lives with a bunch of his teammates in a house near campus. Normally, I'd look forward to visiting his home. I've tried to picture it several times. Gray at his desk doing a.s.signments, or in bed, doing... So, yeah, I want to see where he lives. But now with our fight still fresh in my mind, I hesitate to get out of my car.

We haven't seen each other in days, not since that night. Gray has been practicing and then watching game footage like a fiend, learning his compet.i.tion's strengths, weakness, and playing style.

A few texts are all we've exchanged. But now he's heading out of town for his conference championship game, the first stop on the road to the National Championship. I promised to come by before he goes.

With a deep breath, I leave the quiet confines of my little car-it still carries Gray's scent.

The house is a white, center-hall colonial, the type which could be stately and welcoming, but with its peeling paint and barren lawn, just looks kind of forlorn. The four recycle bins, filled with empty soda, Gatorade, and beer bottles, fairly screams "group house."

The sound of explosions and gunfire echo from behind the door, and a bunch of guys shout and laugh. I bang on the door hard, hoping someone will hear me over the blasting video game.

Gray opens on the second knock. I don't think I'll ever truly get over how big he is. He dwarfs the doorway, his broad, defined shoulders visible beneath the threadbare team T-shirt he wears. Sweats hang low on his hips, and his toes peek out from a pair of sports flip-flops. I don't know why I fixate on his toes and the fact that they seem strangely vulnerable, all bare to the elements.

But I can't avoid looking him in the eye forever. Especially when he utters a husky, "Hey."

He's giving me a small, hesitant smile. As always, when I meet Gray's eyes, I'm hit with warmth and a fuzzy happiness that pushes past any other thoughts.

"Hey. I'm here!" G.o.d. Smooth. Real smooth.

Gray's face lights with a full grin. "Yes, you are. Come on." He gestures with a jerk of his head. "Get out of that cold."

Instantly, I'm greeted with the overwhelming scent of funk, like gym socks and men's deodorant and old house. The floorboards are scuffed and stained. And I have to smile because there's a broom in the corner of the hall with a sticky note that says, Use me, d.i.c.kwads, before I paddle your a.s.s!

Gray notices and rolls his eyes. "Dex's sad attempt to domesticate us."

We walk past a pyramid of duffle bags tucked against the hallway wall. To our left, the living room opens up. Two mismatched couches that look in danger of snapping under the weight of six ma.s.sive guys are positioned around a giant TV. Some war-zone video game is playing, but the guys all turn as one when I walk in.

"Ivy!" they shout in unison, their deep voices bouncing over me.

"Boys," I shout back. I get a few head nods, a couple of smiles, then they're back to their game. The sounds of war blare throughout the room.

At my side, Gray takes my elbow. "Let's go to my room."

The stairs squeak beneath our feet. Gray's room is a welcome surprise. At the back of the house, it's simple but clean. Orderly. His desk is spotless, as is the floor. A king bed takes up most of the s.p.a.ce. A chest of drawers by the door and a worn blue IKEA armchair in the corner make up the rest of his furniture.

I peer up at the only artwork in the room. "Wow. Where did you get that?"

Hanging on the wall opposite of the bed, the painting is ma.s.sive. Done in tones of grays and blues, it's a close-up of a man's arm holding onto a battered football helmet.

"Dex did that," Gray says, looking up at it. "I loved it so much, I nagged him until he gave it to me."

"It's fantastic." The composition is simple, but the strength in the arm, the way the hand grips the helmet, speak of suffering, perseverance, and love of the game.

"Yeah. He's ridiculously talented. Not that he lets anyone but us know about it."

I'm not surprised. A lot of athletes have hidden talents or hobbies they like to do in their down time. "There's a guy in the NBA who can play the violin like a master. But he only performs for his teammates."

"Who?" Gray's voice is curious but subdued. Our fight stands between us, and I hate myself for what I said to him in the heat of jealousy and defensive anger.

I give him a forced smile. "That's his secret to tell."

Gray shakes his head. "Tease."

He flops on his bed, the frame screeching in protest, and promptly lies back, tucking his arm behind his head. Okay then, maybe I'm the one overthinking things. Taking a breath, I sit next to him. Gray has other ideas and tugs me down next to him. I land with an "oof" and he grins.

"So."

"So," I repeat, rolling on my side to face him. "You ready for the game?"

While his team is favored to win, anything can happen on the field.

"f.u.c.k yeah. We got this." His smile fades, replaced by a searching look. "The bus leaves in three hours, so we'll be heading out soon. I wish you were coming."

Guilt hits me anew. Because I want to at his game more than anything. But I'm staying put and celebrating Fi's birthday, which happens to be the night before the game. "I wish I were too."

"You sure Fi wouldn't want to celebrate with us? My guys know how to party."

Sighing, I flip onto my back. "My dad has ditched Fi on her birthday for as long as I can remember. When we were little, it was for a ball game. Then for championship games. It's a big recruitment time for him."

"That's kind of s.h.i.tty of him."