Rubbing the back of my neck, I murmur, “Yeah. Sorry about that.” Deep breath. I don’t think I’ve ever done something like this—righted so many people that I had wronged. This morning, I studied myself in the mirror, wondering who this guy was. I think this is a guy I’d like to know more of. All I need is for my team to give me that chance.
“Look.” My heart is pounding. My visions wavers, though that could be the heat. “I’m here because I want to apologize.”
All eyes are on me. Some shocked. Most mistrustful. But a few—including the captain—nod in approval. It’s that sight that gives me the courage I need to continue.
“These past few months, I’ve been acting like an ass to everyone. I’m not going to use the excuse of being the new guy. The fact is, I grew up getting whatever I wanted, and that transferred over to the field. But I realize getting others to like me has nothing to do with how good I am at something and everything to do with my character. And right now, my character sucks.”
I get a few chuckles at that. Sweat slides down my face, half from the hot sun, half from my nervousness. Coach hovers on the outer edge of the group, watching this all play out. Satisfaction curves his mouth, and maybe a flicker of admiration. More than anything, I want his approval. So far, I haven’t worked for it. Belief in a player is a powerful thing.
“I want you to know,” I continue, “that I’m working on changing. It’s not going to happen overnight, but I’m trying to better myself. I promise to treat each of you with respect, and to not make it all about me. At the end of the day, we’re a team, and it’s time I start honoring that.”
There. That didn’t sound so bad.
The guys share long looks, as if they’re speaking mind to mind. Of all the players, it’s Jason who pushes forward and says, “We appreciate that, Sebastian. Thank you.”
I blow out a breath. I didn’t realize how tight my chest was until the tension loosened a bit. “If I ever slip back into my old ways, please tell me to shut the fuck up. Or kick my ass. Or both.”
We all laugh together.
“Well, this is all fun and dandy,” Coach bellows, clapping his hands, “but we’re wasting daylight here! We’ll take a five-minute break, then it’s back onto the field.”
My team disperses, though a few linger with curious glances my way. That went surprisingly well. I’m grateful the guys gave me a chance to come clean with everything. The only thing I can do now is stick to my promise and prove to them I’m working on changing my ways.
“Hey, Sebastian?”
It’s Max. I lift my chin in his direction. “What’s up?”
“So.” He shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable. For some reason that puts an ill feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I hope I’m not stepping over any lines, but I saw you hanging out with who I think is my math TA. Mr. Forester?”
All right, he’s got my attention. Alarm bells go off in my head. There are many ways this conversation could go. Try not to think too deeply about it, Dumont. “He’s my math tutor,” I say, like it’s no big deal he would notice us hanging out. Except I’m guessing Max didn’t see us in his office.
“I was just wondering if you two were a thing. You seemed pretty close.”
It’s the moment of truth. Like I said before, my sexuality isn’t anyone’s business, and the only reason I haven’t told my teammates that I swing for the other team is because I’m unsure if they’ll take the news positively or not. Back in England, none of the guys cared so long as I performed during a game. Going out to pubs with them, I was able to bridge that gap, but for some reason it isn’t the same in Indiana.
After a moment, I nod. Living an honest life. A free life. That begins with the truth. “Yeah. We’re seeing one another.” I brace myself for backlash.
“Oh.” He doesn’t look offended by that. In fact, he looks pleased. “That’s cool man, glad to know there’s another queer guy on the team.” Then he laughs, though not at me. At the situation, I guess. “Sometimes it can get pretty lonely.”
Holy shit. Max is queer? “You’re gay?”
“Bisexual.”
“Ah.” Well, fuck. I had no idea.
“The guys won’t care, you know.” He says it kindly, like he knows that it’s a bigger deal in the athletic world than we’d like it to be.
I nod in a distracted manner. “Good to know. You never know with athletes. Some don’t take it too well.” I’ve met my fair share of homophobic douchebags, some of whom had been on past teams of mine, unfortunately. It’s always a fight for us, to prove we are equally as worthy of love as anyone else.
Max slips his hands into his pockets. “I feel that. But we have a good team here. They don’t give a shit who you fuck or who you love. I just wanted you to know.”
This is the last conversation I thought I’d be having with him, but it’s the most needed. I feel myself unwind. Relieved. “I thought they’d judge me, considering they don’t like me very much.” More honesty from me. I’m surprising myself.
Max snorts at that. “The only reason they don’t like you is because you act like an entitled asshole.”
“Yeah,” I say sheepishly. He’s not wrong. “Trying to change that though.”
Ten minutes to go for practice, and it’s the best it’s ever been.
We’re ending with a scrimmage in preparation for next week’s game. My team is down by one point. We wear blue. The other team wears gold. Coach’s whistle hangs out of his mouth, his face flushed and sweating from all the screaming he’s been doing when we fuck up. You can bet your ass that one threat from Coach is enough. I didn’t make the mistake of ball hogging. If someone’s open, I pass. The man terrifies me. He has the power. He’s always had the power.
“Jason!” He has the ball back at mid-field, and there’s space enough for him to cross it to me. Ahead, two defenders sprint toward me as he passes the ball.
Shit. Jason crossed too late. It’s too risky to let the ball hit the ground, so I head it to Jared behind me. One of our opponents shoulder-checks me, and for a minute, I’m back where I started months ago, fighting a dirty game against my own team.
The guy, Kyle, looks startled. “Sorry, man. You know how rough the game is.” He smiles, and it’s genuine. Just playing the game, then.
We regain possession of the ball and send it to our left defenseman, who kicks it down the line all the way to Max, who’s our left striker. The other team panics and breaks formation. The field in front of Max is wide open. They were so concerned with me receiving the ball that they clumped together on my area of the field, and look where it got them. Coach’s cursing carries over to me. He’s screaming at the other players to get their asses in line.
Max sprints closes the last few yards of distance and takes the shoot. It hits the bottom-left corner of the net.
Fuck yeah. We’re tied with five minutes left in the scrimmage.
As we return to our starting positions, I nod in Max’s direction. “Nice shot, man.”
He’s puffing for air, hands on his hips. It takes him a second to register what I said. “Oh... thanks.” A tentative smile.
Now that the gold team realizes I was serious about working as a team player, they’re less confident about where we’ll send the ball. Just to confuse them, I avoid taking shots. I pass and assist, but that’s it. My method of thinking is that I need to get used to doing these things anyway. As a result, energy crackles through our team. We have the hardest, cleanest passes. The most attempts on goal.
Again, Max scores just as Coach blows the whistle.
Game over.
We huddle up, slapping one another on the back. Max is beaming from ear to ear. The smile is for our team, and for me. He deserves the praise. He’s an excellent shot.
“Mighty pretty shot there at the end, Max,” says Coach with approval. He then switches his attention to me. “
Nice assist, Sebastian.”
My team slaps me on the back in comradery.
“Gold team, I don’t think I have to tell you what went wrong, but you know what? I’m going to tell you anyway.” A brutal grin that looks like he’s looking forward to ripping them apart. Yikes. “Your assumptions just lost you the game. Spread out. For the love of God and all that is holy, spread the fuck out. You can’t pass if you’re all in the same place.”
The gold team nods in understanding, albeit sheepishly. I’ve been there. Getting scolded by the coach isn’t fun, but at the end of the day, Coach Wheeler is here to make us better players, better teammates, and, I hope, better people.
Another ten minutes of recap, and Coach sends us on our way. We move to the bleachers to grab some water. Some of the guys are already heading out. Some start changing right in the middle of the field in front of, well, everyone. About five or six players huddle up, discussing something I can’t hear, as their voices are too low. I catch the word “toilet paper” though.
I shoot a quick text to Aidan. Practice is over. Want to hang out? I can grab dinner and bring it to your place.
That done, I stow my phone away and begin some cool down stretches. I haven’t seen Aidan in four days. The night of our hot tub fun, he stayed over. But when I woke up the next morning, he was gone.
He’d left me a note though saying how he had work to catch up on and he caught an Uber back to campus. Still not sure if he’s avoiding me or if he really does have work to do. I’ve been giving him space. It’s starting to worry me though. Like, was the sex bad? Is he not feeling whatever this thing is between us? Has he met someone else?
The last thought sends my stomach plummeting. I’m pretty sure Aidan hasn’t met someone else, as his life revolves around school, but what do I know? Nothing. I know nothing.
I take my time removing my cleats and changing into my sneakers, trying and failing to eavesdrop on my teammates’ conversation. While I may have apologized to everyone, it will take time to form friendships with the guys. For now, I’ll let them do their thing. The last thing I want to do is force a friendship.
It’s as they’re heading out to the parking lot in one large group that Max spots me lagging behind. He jogs over. “We’re heading out for uh, some shenanigans, if you want to join.”
Shenanigans. It sounds both questionable and illegal, in which case, right up my alley. Quickly, I check my phone to see if Aidan has texted me back, but he hasn’t. My heart falls. Usually we text after my practice ends. Guess he’s busy.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I say to Max, “Where do I sign up?”
The shenanigans, as it turns out, are indeed questionable and illegal. But since there’s beer involved, the guys don’t think too hard on that.
I’m not drinking, since someone needs to be of right mind, and after this I plan on stopping by Aidan’s apartment. He’s not a fan of drunk Sebastian, and I’ve realized I don’t like it either. Consider this me changing in more ways than one.
You know when I overhead the words “toilet paper”? Well, it turns out my team has decided to toilet paper one of the frat houses. For funsies.
Really don’t know whose idea this was. It’s the middle of the night and we’re all huddled under a large oak tree, toilet paper rolls piled at our feet, as we talk strategy. The house is dark. It’s a Tuesday night so most of the frat bros have probably gone to bed already, but you never know. They like to party from dusk till dawn, all day, every day.
Frat Row is a street located on the southwest part of campus. It’s pretty secluded. The houses sit in a line on tidy lawns, their parking lots full of expensive cars they can’t afford. Most of the people I know in frats are in debt due to their excessive lifestyle. I mean, my lifestyle is excessive too, but my parents can afford it.
There are six of us under the tree. Me, Max, two mid-fielders, another striker, and Dean, our back-up goalie who is a part of a rival frat and whose idea it was to come here. Apparently, Alpha Phi, Dean’s frat, was egged last week because of some rumor going around on Facebook. So now we’re TPing their frat house in revenge. It’s harmless, for the most part, but there could be consequences if we’re caught by the police. I don’t think it would be enough to get kicked off the team—which is why I’m not participating, only watching—but we could get probation. Moral of the story is: don’t get caught.
They’re all plastered. Only Max is slightly sober, and he still managed to spill his beer all over me on the car ride over.
“Just to reiterate,” I say. “If someone calls the cops, you run. Got it?”
My response is a bunch of glassy eyes and loose chuckles.
“On second thought,” I say, “don’t run. Hide and hope they don’t find you.” The last thing we need is for someone to fall and break their leg before next week’s game.
Dean burps. He looks a little green. Babysitting drunk athletes is kind of exhausting.
Max clears his throat, says in a loud whisper, “On three, we spread out and take our positions. Got it?” The words are slurred. His eyes are almost completely closed. I don’t know how he’ll maneuver himself without running into a tree face-first.
“Got it,” everyone answers.
“One, two, three!”
As far as I know, they’re supposed to be getting into position quietly, but Dean must have missed that memo because he charges out onto the lawn toward their front door, holding a roll of toilet paper in both hands and arms spread out like wings, and screams, “Fuck yeah!”
He trips and does a faceplant in the grass.
“Fuck yeah!” go the rest of the guys, running in wobbly lines with their arms full of Charmin Ultra. Extra cushy. That was Dean’s idea. Because, and I quote, “To clean up all the shit they’re full of.”
The first upstairs light turns on right as Max flings his first roll. It hits the wall of the house. He swears and sends the second roll flying. It comes loose and manages to make it onto the roof, the end unrolling a white line against the side of the building. He’s scrambling to retrieve his first roll when Max reaches his side and tosses his rolls over the roof. It’s actually working. Sort of.
Two minutes later, three more lights brighten the windows of the house. Both our mid-fielders struggle to stand up long enough to launch their rolls, and if I wasn’t so concerned with the police showing up, I might find it funny. Both keep slipping in a large muddy area, brown streaking their clothes like skid marks.
Who am I kidding? It’s hilarious. I can’t hold in my laughter any longer.
That’s when one of the windows squeals opens. The light behind the frat bro casts his form in a silhouette as he pokes his head outside and screams, “What the fuck?”
The house is lit upside like a Christmas tree.
“Time to go!” I bellow, hands cupped around the sides of my mouth.
Two of the five start racing back my way. It’s miracle they don’t collide with one another. I’m fleeing to the nearby parking lot, keys in hand, unlocking all doors. I throw myself into the driver’s seat and start the engine just as the mid-fielders reach me, Max not far behind. “Get in!”
They pile into the back seat, breathless with hilarity, covered in grass stains and mud. Shit. This is an expensive car. I’m going to have to pay for it to be professionally cleaned.
That’s when police lights flash in the distance.
Jackson, our other striker, finally realizes his team has abandoned him. He bolts, tripping and stumbling in his haste to reach the parking lot in time. I pull from the spot and drive a little closer to the house, beeping my horn a few times to get Dean’s attention, but he’s screaming obscenities at one of the guys whose head sticks out of the bedroom window. Dean chucks something—I can’t see what—but it hits the frat bro square in the face and drips down.
“Dean just egged that guy in the face,”
Max cackles, hitting the back of my seat for emphasis.
Jackson reaches the car and throws himself into the passenger seat. Craning my head out the window, I scream, “Dean! Get your ass over here!” I can’t move the car any closer because I need the shadows for cover. My Ferrari is bright red. They’ll be able to recognize it easily.
The door to the frat house slams open. Three guys wearing only underwear charge Dean. He screams and flees down the sloped lawn, dropping the toilet paper in the process.
“Open the door,” I order Max in the backseat.
Dean is almost to the parking lot, but so are the frat bros.
That’s when the sprinkles come on.
Never have I heard such high screams from grown men. Dean reaches the car with moments to spare.
“If anyone pukes in this car,” I snap, “so help me, I will toss you out onto the street. Understand?” My eyes are crazed in the rearview mirror as I look at my teammates. They all nod. Except Dean. He opens the door and throws up on the pavement.
We tear out of the parking lot, laughing like maniacs the entire way.
Chapter 20
Aidan
A knock sounds at the door. I check the clock. Two in the morning.
It’s not unusual for me to stay up this late working on school, but I have no idea why someone’s knocking on my door at this hour, considering most people are asleep. If I was, I wouldn’t be able to hear them.
Setting my laptop aside, I check the peephole. The sight of Sebastian makes my stomach drop.
The truth? I’m avoiding him. I have been since we hooked up at his parents’ house. Except for m, it was so much more than a hookup. It felt like everything I didn’t know I wanted given to me, and that terrified me. Because instead of wondering if I was allowed to have this, I wondered how I would be able to keep it, if it was even real or if my overactive imagination made me see things that weren’t there. My anxious mind picked at the situation relentlessly, sowing doubt and unease. What if I was the only one feeling this way? What if it didn’t mean anything to Sebastian? Eventually, someone would end up hurt. And that person would be me.
Sebastian (The Dumonts Book 1) Page 14
