The muscles in my legs are burning as I continue to work my ladder drills with my favorite of the Benson twins cheering me on. Not that I really have anything against Elliott, per se. It’s just after the enlightening conversation we had at the party of Sorority Row back on the night of our first game, I would prefer to steer clear of him. I’m not in the mood to answer any of his questions, or God forbid, have to remind him I’m not fucking gay, nor am I fucking the quarterback—or blowing or whatever else—to get any favors.
No. The ball ends up in my hands on game day because I’m a damn good player and everyone on this team knows it. I’ve more than proven myself to them at this point.
Except today, it doesn’t feel like I am.
What it does feel like is that my feet might fall off or even be burnt down to nubs on the rubber floor of the gym with how fast my legs are moving. But it’s not enough.
I know without looking at the stopwatch in Drew’s hands I’m slower than normal. Despite how hard I’m working, I know I’m not hitting the mark today.
That tends to happen when your head isn’t in the game.
The thing is, my head is never not in the game. At least not when I’m on the field or the weight room. Those are the two places where I can let loose, work out my aggression and rage in a conducive environment.
My sanctuary.
Except this garden of Eden is tainted with a slippery fucking snake who goes by the name of River Lennox.
He’s everywhere I am. Always. Like he seeks me out and watches me just to make me uncomfortable.
Sure, I know that isn’t necessarily true. We’re teammates, we have to see each other on the field and in the weight room or whatever. But seeing him on campus randomly, in a lecture hall or the team cafeteria?
At the fucking grocery store on a Sunday night?
Yeah, all that, I could do without.
Glancing over to where he’s currently doing leg presses with Garrett, I feel a growl work its way out of my throat, a low rumble from deep within my chest as I continue to pound my legs into the floor.
Yet if I’m being honest with myself, a majority of my irritation is with myself, not River.
Because I don’t know why I had to go off on him the other day. It’s not a damn crime to be bisexual, I’m not some sort of ignorant asshole. Hell, Roman was bisexual and I never felt weird around him.
Until he decided to kiss you the night before he left for college, leaving you not only with a broken friendship, but behind in hell, my brain reminds me.
Not that I’m one to hold grudges or anything.
Okay, that’s a bold faced lie, but not necessarily when it comes to Roman. I’d like to believe we somehow would have gotten past it, after an awkward phase, and by now we would be able to drunkenly laugh about it whenever we got together like hey, remember the one time you kissed me but I’m not into dudes?
But him kissing me and then just…leaving? Leaving when my life was spiraling down into the darkest pit of hell with no cord to pull to save me from impact?
Not to mention him confusing the hell out of me.
It was like a final nail in the coffin of what was a friendship, a brotherhood, from the time we met at eight and nine years old.
That is what makes me hold grudges.
So why is it a big deal River is bi, but not Roman?
I pull up and step out of the ladder at the end of my reps, waving Drew off before he can tell me my time. I already know it’s fucking terrible, but I don’t need to know how terrible.
Instead of forcing myself into the proper headspace, my eyes find themselves on River once again, taking in the way the muscles in his legs flex with each press he makes on the machine.
Even I can admit the guy is good looking, what with those eyes I swear change from blue to green on the hour, his brown hair cut in a neat high fade, and two dimples popping in his cheeks. And on top of that, he also has to be charming and funny and nicer than easily eighty-percent of the people I’ve ever met.
He’s the poster child for every parent’s golden boy and every girl’s perfect man.
Except he isn’t just into girls…
Goddamnit, I don’t know why my brain keeps latching onto that. I don’t know why I felt the instinct to tell him to basically go fuck off because he is more fluid sexually. That’s not any of my fucking business anyway. But it was the same feeling that hit my stomach the night of the party, when I first found out.
It was like fight or flight, in a sense. Self-preservation.
And for the life of me, I don’t get it. I wish I did.
Because, truth be told, I enjoyed getting to know River a bit the few times we talked. I don’t know much other than he’s originally from Colorado and went to school with Elliott and Andrew, as well as Coach Scott’s son. That, in addition to his pretty decent taste in music, sums up every piece of information I know about the guy.
As I watch him hop off the leg press and playfully shove Garrett into the seat, I start to see it though. Why my gut is telling me to get the hell away from him.
He’s…so much like Roman.
Yeah, they have the same color hair but that’s where the similarities in looks end. Ocean eyes versus dark hazel. Built for highly skilled contact athletics versus lean and limber, like a runner or swimmer. Preference of shorts and a tank top over a three piece tailored suit.
And don’t even get me started on the fact that Roman would never in his life get a tattoo, where River has multiple.
On the outside, they’re nothing alike.
But right now, the way River is laughing and joking and is fucking happy even though we’re working our asses off in the middle of practice? That has Roman written all over it.
Fun, carefree, outgoing. So likeable it’s sickening to see.
Shit, I’m sure the guy would give the damn shirt off his back, just the same as Roman would. Making this all the more confusing.
I never truly dealt with my fallout with my best friend for over half my life. In fact, I’ve been holding onto it in the most unhealthy way possible; shoving it to the back of my mind and pretending it doesn’t exist.
So, is the fact that they are so similar what rubs me the wrong way? Or is it because of this overwhelming sense of…maybe kinship I feel with him?
I honestly don’t know how to fucking describe it, only whatever it is, it’s a double edged sword. Easily the greatest thing to happen to me, at least when it comes to my football game, but also lethal to it if today is any indication.
It’s moronic to think this, but sometimes I wish we didn’t have any on-field chemistry. That the two of us didn’t make such a great team when it comes to the game.
Not entirely true.
I love winning and the high I get from a great pass or a touchdown will never lessen with time. And if I didn’t have a quarterback I could mesh with on a decent level, that would never happen.
I just wish we couldn’t read each other to the point it seems like our brains and bodies are a single unit. Our minds have blended together into one and I don’t even have to look at him to know where the ball is going and how fast I need to run to make sure it ends up safely in my arms. And from some of the insane passes he’s been throwing at me this season, he feels this connection too. There’s no way he’d trust me to nab some of the bombs he’s been lobbing towards the end zone otherwise.