Coach shakes his head with a smile. “We’ll start with passing drills at tomorrow morning’s practice, so bring your A-game. Let’s bring it in.”
We stack our hands together. “One, two, three: Paris!”
The team disbands and heads toward the locker room, though a few players return to the dorms. The room is full of chatter, hissing showers, shedding clothes. As I move down one of the locker aisles, I notice Logan peeling off his shirt from the corner of my eye. I glance away, heading to a shower stall at the end of the hall.
Bad enough I have to endure the torture of living with someone I’m still attracted to. Logan’s straight. End of story. I promised myself I’d let it go, and I did. Mostly. I’d be doing myself the biggest favor in the world by getting over it.
After removing my sweaty, grimy clothes, I duck under the hot spray, facing the wall. Four years of distance, zero contact, and my heart still pounds when he’s near. It was just a crush. That’s what I told myself throughout the years.
It was never just a crush.
The night of the graduation party, I’d already accepted I was gay. Months and months of painful self-discovery led me to the realization one morning while eating breakfast at my kitchen table, of all places. The lightbulb finally went off. The reason why hanging out with Logan felt like a drug. The way my body tingled when our hands accidentally brushed. I wanted him—wanted to touch him—as more than a friend.
So when Logan was chosen to go into the closet blindfolded, I knew this was the only chance I’d have to act on my desire. It was sharp as a knife point, my desperation even sharper. Sitting in a circle on the bedroom floor with the other party-goers, my palms started sweating as I slapped together a last-minute plan. No one knew of my sexual orientation, and I wasn’t ready to divulge that information. I was barely comfortable with it myself. But I wanted Logan more than anything, and for the chance to touch him the way I’d dreamed, I’d risk outing myself.
There were four girls in the bedroom besides myself. The odds of me picking the short straw were slim. But what they didn’t know was my sleight of hand trick I’d picked up a few months ago, bored one day while waiting for the bus to pick me up from school. So I cheated.
I’ll never forget their wide eyes and scandalous giggles as they saw the short straw resting in my open palm. It was like walking in on a secret, illicit affair. Knowing I’d have to put my mouth on another guy’s dick shocked and thrilled them. They were drunk. Glassy eyes and sloppy grins. None of them saw the anticipation I fought to contain. The joke was on them. I was getting exactly what I wanted.
One of the girls, Jade, pushed me toward the closet. Disappointment flashed in her eyes. I knew she had a crush on Logan. “Well, go on.”
My legs shook as I walked to the closet and cracked open the door. From the doorway, I saw Logan sitting on a chair in the dark, pants gone, his erection bobbing between his thighs. My mouth was dry. This was the point of no return. Slowly, I shut the door behind me.
A hand on my shoulder jolts me back to the present. It’s Logan. I’m standing under the shower spray, but the water’s gone cold. The locker room has emptied out. I’m naked.
He frowns as I jerk away from his touch. He’s fully clothed. A blessing in disguise. But I still have to think about something other than the fact that I’m naked and we’re standing less than two feet apart. Paint drying. Toe fungus. Ear wax. I manage to get control over my dick. I pretend he’s my grandmother removing her dentures for the evening. That seems to help.
“You okay?” he asks in concern.
“Yeah.” I turn off the shower and slip a towel around my waist. The memory of that night brings heat to my face. I banish the thought to another continent before facing him again. “What’s up?” My tone is even and steady, I’m happy to note.
“Me and some of the guys are going to head out for a drink. You down?”
Aside from Christian, I’ve barely spoken to the other players. It’s not that I don’t want to. They all seem nice. But my natural instinct is to separate myself, do my own thing. I very nearly pass with the excuse of being too tired, but I also know the damage to our friendship can never be repaired if I avoid Logan. Things will never be as they once were, but maybe they can get close to that.
“Sure,” I say, heading to the bench where my duffel rests and pulling out a set of clean clothes. “I need to eat something first, but I can meet you. Where are you meeting?”
“The Gray Lady. It’s just down the street from the dorms. Take a right when you walk out the front door, head down about four blocks. It’ll be on your left.”
“Cool. See you then.”
Chapter 8
Logan
We arrive at the bar a little past seven. I’m with Greg, Manuel, who’s from Spain and who has the most accurate corner kicks I’ve ever seen, and Christian. The bar is on the small side, with low lighting and soft French music drifting through the background. A lot of violin and accordion. It’s not packed, but it’s not deserted either. Most of the patrons lean toward middle-aged or older. Quieter than I expected, but I’m not complaining. There’s enough room for us to find a booth. I look around the bar for Austin, but he’s not here yet.
Our server approaches our table, her smile wide as she takes in the three fit soccer players. She’s beautiful, with dark features and wide hips. I smile in return as she glances at each of us. “What can I get you to drink, boys?” She has a faint accent, but it’s not French. She looks to be Italian.
I know in France you’re probably supposed to drink wine, but I’m a beer man through and through. “I’ll have a Stella, please. Oh, and a Peroni,” I add, thinking of Austin. He liked that beer back in high school, so I’m assuming he still likes it now.
She shoots a smile my way, jotting down my order. Greg’s too busy texting his girlfriend to give her notice, but Christian and Manuel eye her with equal appreciation as they give their orders. Once that’s done, she makes small talk with them before sashaying back to the bar. My eyes can’t help but linger on her very fine ass.
I guess I’m a free man now. It’s been a week since Jasmine broke up with me, and I feel completely fine. Actually, I feel great. I don’t have to worry about keeping my phone on me, don’t have to worry about what to say to repair whatever damage I’ve caused for not being present enough.
Greg, as if noticing my happy expression, asks, “I’m guessing the post-breakup is going well?”
“Better than I expected, honestly.” I informed him about the breakup a few days ago. To which he’d responded, “I honestly never liked her that much anyway.”
That was certainly a surprise. “Why?” I asked. Jasmine was nice enough, even if she was too high maintenance.
“Her voice was annoying.”
The comment caught me off guard. “Her voice?”
“You didn’t notice? It sounded like a squealing baby.”
“Oh.” I blinked, thinking back. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
Talk turns toward sports, as it usually does. There’s a game playing on television. Greg is starting to get nervous because his girlfriend is coming to visit in a few weeks. And he’s proposing.
It blows my mind, knowing my friend wants to spend the rest of his life with his girlfriend. They’ve been together for three years, and it’s obvious they’re madly in love. When I first met Greg, he didn’t have much stability in his life besides soccer, but once he and Teresa started dating, I saw a change in him. Maturity. Compassion. Dedication. It was like his life flipped a switch. I’d never seen him happier. I’m happy that he’s found someone to complete his life. Not that I’m looking to get hitched any time soon, but it would be nice to have someone by my side, through good times and bad. The forever kind of love.
Christian zones out of the conversation, his attention locked on the game. I can’t blame him. Germany’s playing. I doubt an
atomic bomb going off would pull his attention away.
“I was surprised they asked me to the academy,” Manuel says, his expression closed and contemplative. “I heard someone dropped out, which meant a spot opened up for me. It was a miracle.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “I was asked to play for Barcelona a few years ago, but I tore my ACL. They chose someone else. It pushed me back almost two years for recovery.”
Yeah, that has to be rough. All your dreams come true, and suddenly they’re being snatched away. “How’s your knee now?”
“Good as new.” He knocks his knuckles against it. “Or as good as it will ever get.”
I remember Austin mentioning he had a friend who had torn his ACL. I think he said he plays for the Men’s National Team now.
The server returns with our drinks and lingers. “Are we interested in any appetizers this evening?” The question is directed at Christian, but he’s sucked into the match. Clueless. Just yesterday he was complaining about how he hasn’t hooked up with anyone in months. You snooze, you lose.
I shake my head, and Manuel does the same. Greg is still texting furiously. “We’re good for now, but thanks.”
With another smile, she disappears into the growing crowd.
Manuel and I talk for another twenty minutes. Again, I glance around the room, but Austin hasn’t shown. I’m almost done with my first beer, and I find my mind drifting to the graduation party. It was the last time I saw Austin before he disappeared. It still irks me that he’d think I’d cast him out over his sexuality. I’ve never cared about that shit. It’s his life. He can do whatever—and whoever—he wants.
The buzz takes me back. I sat on a wooden chair in the closet, halk-naked, blindfolded, my breathing loud in the enclosed space. My ears strained for sound as my heartbeat thundered through me. God, the anticipation of the door opening had been almost too much. The thought of a girl’s mouth on me, which was something I dreamed about no less than five times a day. I was hard and waiting.
The creak of hinges. I tensed. Everything was dark.
Soft footsteps on the carpet, and then the click of the door closing behind whoever had entered the closet. I hoped it was Jade. She was cute and sweet, with big blue eyes. We sat next to one another in English, and she would always make a point to ask me about my day. But, being eighteen and inexperienced, I could never tell if that was because of attraction or if she was just being nice. And I was too chicken-shit to ask her out.
The rules stated I wasn’t allowed to talk to whoever entered the closet. The other person wasn’t allowed to talk either. I couldn’t touch them, but they could touch me.
Another step. The tread was heavy, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I inhaled, hoping to catch the girl’s scent. I couldn’t smell anything beyond the dust and fabric of the clothes. Whoever it was stood right in front of me, as I could feel the heat from her body. Releasing a breath, I licked my lips.
Clothing rustled. I wondered why for only a moment before the girl knelt in front of me, and I tensed. A feeling of vulnerability crept over me. Was it obvious I was inexperienced? I was half-naked while she was fully clothed. I heard her breathing—deep and steady. My own deepened to match. My cock throbbed as blood pulsated throughout the tip.
More rustling. The girl’s body heat was a blaze against my bare legs. Fabric brushed my thigh, and I sucked in a breath. I remember thinking please. Without even realizing it, my legs opened wider, and the girl shifted a few inches closer. A stream of warm air coasted over my dick. God.
My hands gripped the sides of the chair. Every muscle in my back and legs contracted in anticipation, the moment I’d feel heat against my most sensitive flesh. A bead of sweat winded down the side of my face. It was too warm in the closet. I nearly asked who was here. I’d be breaking the rules, but I wanted to know which of the girls would be touching me tonight. The sense of not knowing heightened my arousal.
A brief touch along my cock. My hips jerked. My world narrowed at the touch of a finger tracing along my length. It traveled up, dipping into the slit where my precum leaked. I think my mouth opened as pleasure swamped me, but I couldn’t be sure. I no longer had control over my own reactions.
Another breath. The girl’s mouth was right there. An inch forward was all I needed. I forced my hips still, though at that moment I wanted nothing more than to shove into her mouth.
It felt like an eternity passed. Then, the lightest touch of the girl’s tongue circled my head. My breath stuttered in my chest, and it felt as if all the air in my lungs evaporated. I needed to touch her. Just her shoulders, just to anchor myself. Another slow lick shot heat up my spine and through my pelvis. A small groan slipped out—
“Logan?”
Someone slaps me on the back, and I blink in the dim-lighted room, coming back to myself. My beer sits in front of me, now empty. Looking up, I meet Austin’s green gaze.
“Are you all right?” His hand rests on my shoulder. His expression is concerned.
My face burns and my pants are tight. Shit. I’m half-hard from the memory. A mouth on me. But not just anyone’s mouth. Austin’s mouth. I think it’s finally hitting me.
The only thing I can do is shake off the memory and feign a smile. “Hey, man.” I lift my drink, set it down again. Then I scoot over to make room for him in the booth.
Austin slides in next to me, his thigh pressed against my own. He nods to Greg, Manuel, and Christian, who barely spares him a glance. I pass him a beer, my pulse having slowed. “Got this for you.”
He nods his thanks and takes a sip. “Peroni?” he says in surprise.
For some reason, I want to deny it. I remember a lot of things about Austin. Like his love of Thai food. That ugly haircut he got, a few months after knowing each other. I smile. “Good to see some things don’t change.” Even though a lot of stuff does.
The look he sends me is almost wary. “Thanks.” He sets the beer down. Austin isn’t much of a drinker, so I assume that’s the last sip he’ll have. Even knowing that, I still wanted to get it for him.
While Manuel disappears to get another drink, I turn toward Austin and find a safe topic of conversation. But surprisingly, he talks first.
“How are you feeling about—you know.”
Ah. The breakup.
I shrug. “Pretty good, all things considered. Live and learn, right?”
He nods. Murmurs, “Live and learn.” He takes a swallow of his beer.
“What about you?” I ask, suddenly curious. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“No.”
I wait for Austin to elaborate, but he remains as closed as ever. A short laugh slips out, because I’m not at all surprised. I’m suddenly remembering how difficult it was to converse with him in group settings. Getting Austin to talk is sometimes like pulling teeth. “Come on, man. That’s all you’re going to give me? No juicy gossip? No trail of broken hearts?”
He sighs. Glances at the television before turning back to me. He looks amused. “You really want to know?”
“I’m asking, aren’t I?”
My friend shakes his head. “I’m telling you, it’s that Grey’s Anatomy. The need to pick apart romantic relationships.” But his eyes dance, and he goes on. “There was one guy I met at a party when I was a freshman. We lived in the same dorms. We dated for a few months.”
I wave my hand, gesturing for him to go on. “And?”
“And it turns out he was a narcissistic asshole who gaslighted me. I decided relationships weren’t really my style. Nowadays, I stick to hookups, and I’m happy with that.”
I understand—to an extent. Getting burned can color your perspective, but ever since I met Austin, he’s been closed off emotionally to most people, aside from his sister and, well, me. I don’t want one bad experience to make him think relationships are something to fear.
I’m
curious as to what type of guys he goes for though. The way he looks now is different. He’s edgier. It makes me wonder if he attracts men of a similar look. He didn’t have those tats in high school, or the eyebrow ring. It’s the juxtaposition of his edginess and the quiet, calm personality beneath that intrigues me.
“You have a type?” I ask.
He chokes on his beer, spewing it across the table. Christian takes no notice as he screams obscenities at the game. Germany made a blunder, causing the other team to score, I think. Greg and Manuel have both disappeared.
“You want to know my type?” he croaks once his coughing fit is under control.
“I don’t know, I’m curious.” The bar is busier than it was, and many of the patrons are men, some Italian, some American, some French. There’s a good variety of ethnicities. I draw his attention to the bar. “Any men over there who catch your eye?”
He follows to where I point, considering the crowd for a moment, brows knit. Then he tips his chin toward the end of the bar. “The guy in the blue shirt. Short dark hair.”
I appraise who he points to. He’s a good-looking guy. Around our age, probably. Fit. At one point, the man turns around and scans the crowd, and I catch sight of his raw-boned face. He has dark eyes.
It seems Austin goes for the tall, dark, and handsome. Interesting. Growing up, I always pictured him with a blond girl. Maybe it was his hair. It was so fair back then, more white-blond than it is now, and he always reminded me of some Scandinavian dude.
I take a sip of my beer before remembering it’s empty. I’m going to need another soon. “You could always go talk to him,” I say.
“He’s straight.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can.” He looks around, zeroing in on a different man across the room. “That guy’s queer, though.” I turn to look. Tats. Partially shaved head. Jeans that mold to his legs. “I’m not sure what he identifies as, but it’s not straight.”
Out of Bounds Page 7
