He's angry at himself. He's disappointed and guilty and mad at himself for letting himself forget. He let himself get distracted. He let himself live in some stupid fantasy where someone like Jake might actually like him and let himself believe that maybe if he came out, it wouldn't be so bad. He let himself forget what's really important, and he knows better than that.
And honestly? He’s mad at his brother. His brother left him. He said he would always be there for him, and he left. Kyle knows he didn't mean to die, but he still left, and now Kyle has no one. He feels alone, and no one understands.
He works until his eyes burn and his body begins shutting down. He works until he's exhausted enough to fall into bed and go to sleep without having to think. He works until he's ensured a dreamless, thoughtless sleep.
And then he wakes up, and he does it all over again.
* * *
He works well into the night, as has become his habit. He doesn't think he's looked away from his screen in hours. He knows Jasper has already gone to bed. He heard him get ready an hour ago, and somewhere around that time he turned the lights off.
Kyle feels himself getting frustrated. It's a tick beneath his skin, crawling and restless. His eyes narrow, blurring at the edges and burning as he looks over a paragraph of coding. It's wrong. It looks wrong. But he can't figure out why. He's been stuck on this bug for hours. He hasn't gotten past it. His vision has been going in and out, and his focus hasn't been much better. He thinks there might have been a while there where he passed out. He can't remember much.
With a grunt of frustration, he saves everything and closes his laptop. Tomorrow. He'll come back to it tomorrow. He should sleep now before he passes out on his keyboard.
He rubs his eyes, feeling water well up at the corners in an attempt to relieve the persisting dryness. When he opens them, gray dots dance at the edges of his vision. He can see them, even in the dark of the room. And they don't fade. That can't be a good sign.
He pushes himself to his feet, intent on going to the bathroom, but his balance wavers. His knees lock up, and his vision swims. He stumbles a couple steps, hitting the wall next to the door to the bathroom. His breaths are slow and ragged as he clings to the wall, trying to stop the vertigo. Everything is spinning, slow and disorienting.
It takes far too long for everything to come back into focus.
He steps into the bathroom, closes the door, and turns on the light.
He's caught by his own reflection. He looks far too pale. His skin feels greasy, and his hair looks matted and gross. He honestly can't remember the last time he took a shower. He realizes with a start that he's pretty certain he's only taken one since he broke it off with Jake. He tried once, and the thoughts came swirling in and pushed him toward a panic attack, so he's been avoiding the shower ever since.
Dark and heavy bags hang under his eyes. His eyes themselves look hollow and distant. His clothes are rumpled and dirty, and he's not sure when he last changed them.
He looks terrible.
It's then that his stomach rumbles, loud and twisting, clenching his gut painfully. He grits his teeth, wrapping one arm around his middle and using his other hand to prop himself up on the counter.
He can't remember the last time he ate. Yesterday? He thinks it was yesterday morning. He hasn't drank much either. He knows he hasn't been eating very well lately, but this is the longest he's gone.
He knows he needs to eat. Logically, he knows. He needs to put something in his stomach to keep him going, but the thought of food makes his stomach roll. No matter how hungry he is, he feels nauseated by the thought of eating anything. His throat feels thick, tongue sluggish and swollen. He's not sure he'd even be able to get himself to swallow if he tried.
It's a bad sign. A very bad sign.
He stares at himself in the mirror, eyes wide with the mounting horror of realization.
The last time he was like this was right after his brother's death. He isolated himself. He lived in the dark of his room. He didn't talk to anyone, not even his parents. He didn't eat anything and barely drank anything. His sleep was sporadic and far between.
He ended up passing out and having to go to the hospital.
He hadn't meant to starve himself, but he was too upset to eat. He'd been put on fluids until his body could work back up to food. It had been a terrible experience. He had worried his parents, who had just lost a son. He had been stuck, surrounded by nurses with pitying eyes. He hadn't been able to work on anything.
He knew his brother would have hated to see him that way.
He would hate to see him this way.
He can't let it happen again. He doesn't want to fall that low again. He can't fall that low again. If he does, he's not sure he'll be able to come back, and he doesn't want that. He has to be strong. For his brother, and for himself.
He needs help.
He can see the tears welling up in his eyes in the mirror, vision blurring with them. They're warm as they run down his cheeks.
He needs help.
He collapses into bed that night, teeth brushed, body showered, and wearing clean pajamas. He feels better, but only by a fraction. His stomach still hurts, his body aches, and he still feels emotionally numb.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll go to the counseling office and make an appointment. Tomorrow, he'll find a way to get better.
For his brother.
For himself.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jake has been on autopilot for weeks. He wakes up when his alarms tell him to. He goes to class when he needs to. He eats when his body tells him it's time to eat. He sits with his roommates in the evenings because it's better than being alone. He laughs when he gets the cue to laugh, but even that sounds strangely hollow and fake. He knows they notice. He can see it in the way they exchange worried glances. But they don't comment on it, and for that, he's grateful. He doesn't want to talk about it.
He does his homework with almost a religious reverence, throwing himself wholeheartedly into it. He keeps his head busy with numbers and problems and critical thinking, and that helps distract from the void in his chest. He studies, and he fills up his thoughts with information, focusing on storing that away rather than thinking about how much he hurts and why.
Studying and homework have become easier. He knows how to focus through the homework and how to phrase his answers. He knows how to read through the text and decipher it into something he actually understands. He tries to focus on that and not on the person who taught him how to do it.
Not thinking about him is hard, though. He lurks in Jake's thoughts all day, hiding in the shadows, waiting for him to be distracted for just a moment before he starts to rise to the surface. His cute smile. His shy laugh. His pouting scowl. The way he glared at Jake with tears in his eyes when he told him sternly and firmly that there was no future for them and they should just never see each other again.
Bad thoughts.
He ignores those thoughts. He pushes them far, far away.
He's made it over the last big round of tests and papers, and he can see that his grades are steadily improving. It's not enough to kick up his GPA yet, but there's obvious improvement that'll allow him to keep his scholarship, as long as he keeps it up. He has proof that he's trying and it's working, though. He can see that his professors are impressed, and when he has his counselor meeting to discuss it, he seems impressed as well.
It's just a shame that while Jake smiled, he felt too numb to really feel proud. Especially when they started talking about how smart he was to go out and find a tutor, and then he just got stuck thinking about Kyle.
Kyle had, true to his word, lined up another tutor for Jake. He's not sure how he managed to find this guy, but he seems nice enough. He contacted Jake through their school email and sounded all professional and stuff. But Jake doesn't want another tutor. He'd rather suffer through it on his own. Maybe it's his stubborn pride talking, but it's working out just fine. Between make-out session
s and Jake staring helplessly at Kyle's profile, Kyle actually did manage to teach him good study techniques, and they've managed to stick. Jake is doing just fine on his own.
His grades aren't the only thing that's been improving. Jake's laser focus and hyper fixation have come in handy during practice as well.
He charges into each practice with the single-minded focus of a bull in an arena. He runs hard. Hits hard. Throws hard. He works and works and works until his body is exhausted and close to collapse. He takes every piece of advice that his coach has to offer and does his best to improve. He focuses entirely and hyper fixates on improving. He sees all the things he's doing wrong and all the things he could be doing, and he works. And he works. And he works.
He gets to practice early, and he's the last to leave.
He works until his muscles are screaming and his body aches, but he doesn't care. It keeps his mind clear, it feels good, and it helps him fall asleep at night before the thoughts he's been keeping at bay can catch up to him.
Distantly, he notices the affect it has on his teammates. He can see how startled they are at first. He can see how confused and rattled they are, and he can hear their whispers behind his back. He pays them no mind, focused wholly on himself and his own performance. Let them gossip. He doubts they'll ever come close to being right, anyway.
After the initial shock wears off, he actually notices his teammates rallying around him. Fall semester practice has always been slower and lazier than the spring. Spring is when the actual season starts, when they have to crack down and actually work hard. Fall is when they tend to goof off despite trying to stay in shape. But the semester is coming to an end, spring is coming up, and Jake is determined to do better and to be better.
And seeing his intensity, his teammates start to step up to the plate as well. They start to follow his example, cracking down on their own performances. He doesn't know if it's because they're inspired by him, because they don't want to fall behind, or because they don't want him to show them up. Whatever it is, it rallies a team wide improvement in focus and drive that isn't entirely a bad thing.
His coach, however, isn't fooled.
"Hey, Jake," the man says, leaning against the fence and watching as Jake goes at a round in the batting cages. And by a round, he means several rounds. The rest of the team has already left, and there Jake is, taking swing after swing.
"Hey, coach," he grunts as he swings, hits the ball, and resets his stance. He can feel sweat trickling down his chest, beading on his forehead, cold in the autumn air. "Need me to get out of here?"
"Yeah, but that's not what I came to talk to you about. You've been pretty intense at practice lately, and don't get me wrong, you're doing great. But I can't help but feel like there's something else going on. How've you been lately?"
Jake grits his teeth and swings, relishing in the jarring slam of the bat against the high-speed ball. He resets his stance. "Fine."
"Sure as hell don't look fine."
"I'm fine." Swing. Hit. Reset.
"Heard some gossip from the boys that your lady dumped you a month or two back."
Swing. Hit. Reset. "It was a mutual dumping."
"Jake, I say this because I care about my players, and while you've been doing great on the field, you need some stability off the field. It doesn't take a genius to see that you've been tense as all get out the past few weeks. The whole grades thing been stressing you out?"
Jake just hums vaguely, letting his coach believe that's all it is. Just him stressing out about grades. Not his tutor slash almost-boyfriend leaving him.
"Thought so. Exercise is great to get your mind off things, but there are other ways to relax. I know you don't have a girl right now, but you've never had trouble finding one. Maybe you should go out with the boys. Have some fun. Get laid. Would be good for you. Get that tension out before you work yourself into the ground."
The light goes off, indicating that his round is over. He lets the bat drop, straightening as he laughs. It sounds hollow and bitter, but he doubts his coach will notice. No one else seems to. How long has he been good at faking being happy? "Maybe you're right. Thanks, coach."
"Anytime, son. Now get out of here so I can close up."
The idea of getting laid makes his stomach roll. The idea of going out and finding a random girl to fuck, having it mean nothing, it makes him nauseas. Once upon a time, he might've been all over that. Not now. Something has changed, and he knows it has everything to do with Kyle.
Still, his coach might have a point. He is tense and stressed, and maybe he should get laid. He's been so hung up on Kyle for the past few weeks, barely daring to think about him but being caught up on him all the same. It's pathetic. Especially when Kyle made it extremely clear that he wants nothing to do with Jake anymore.
Jesus Christ, he's never been this hung up on a break up before, and he and Kyle weren't even officially dating.
What's wrong with him?
He's far too lost in his spiraling thoughts and doesn't see Cindi until it's too late. She's waiting for him outside the practice field, leaning against the fence with an air of impatience that smoothly fades into something more coy at his approach. He hasn't seen or heard from her much since their break up, but she looks exactly the same. Waiting for him exactly like she has before. Hot, confident, sexy, but strangely enough, it doesn't do anything for him anymore.
"Hey," she says, pushing off the fence and sauntering over to him, hips swinging.
"Hey," he says, and doesn't stop until she puts herself in his path, blocking his way and putting a hand on his chest. He looks down at it, brows pinching with confusion as he looks up to meet her eyes.
He knows that look. That's the look she used to give him when she wanted something from him. That gaze that's filled with lust that used to drive him crazy, but now he can see how disingenuous it is. How fake it is. How it's crafted to toy with him. How that lust may be real, but it's not for him. It's just a general horniness.
He frowns, sighing loudly. "What'd you want, Cindi?"
She leans in close, fingers toying with his shirt, her voice pitched low. "I just came by to see how you've been doing."
"Fine." It's a clear dismissal, but she doesn't get the hint.
"I forgot how hot you smell after practice, and how good you look playing." She leans in close, tilting her face toward his neck. He leans back, pulling away as he feels her breath against his damp skin.
"Cindi—"
"I've missed you, Jake." She reaches up, running her fingers lightly over his lips. And that's when the smell hits him. It's familiar and pungent, and it sends him reeling, but not for the reasons she no doubt wants. Her fingers smell like her vagina, her arousal, but instead of making him weak in the knees, it makes his stomach twist.
He catches her hand by the wrist, pulling it away as he steps back. She looks shocked as he glares at her. "If you just want a fuck toy, you can go find someone else. Or better yet, go buy one at the store."
Her surprise shifts quickly into indignant rage. She scowls, eyes narrowing as she snatches her hand back. He's not fooled, though. He can see the pink on her cheeks from her embarrassment at being called out. "Jake, what the fuck?"
"You don't care about me," he says, plain and simple, standing tall and meeting her glare with one of his own.
She scoffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest, hip cocking out to the side. "Like you ever cared about me."
That makes the knot inside of him loosen, shoulders slumping slightly as his glare falls. "Actually, I did."
"If you really cared about me, you'd fuck me now. What's the matter? You're not with anyone. I'm not with anyone. You're still hot, even if we're not dating. If you really liked me, then you'd fuck me."
Something hits him then. It's the cold wash of clarity. It freezes in his chest before melting out through his veins, cool and calming. It eases the tension from his body, slithering as a welcome reprieve through his veins.
He realizes what he's learned from being with Kyle.
He realizes just how much of an asshole he's been.
He realizes who he wants to be.
He reaches out, putting his hands on Cindi's shoulders. She looks startled, staring at him with wide, confused eyes. He smiles, hoping it looks as genuine as it is. "I'm sorry." She gapes at him, and he forges on. "I'm sorry I never took the time to get to know you. I’m sorry no one has. You're more than a quick fuck, and you should be treated as such. And I'm sorry I never did that. I hope you can find someone who will."
He leaves then, walking away without waiting for a response. He leaves her looking shocked and confused, gaping and frozen.
He leaves her and everything she represents behind.
He feels like he's leaving a part of himself behind. A person that he once was and no longer wants to be.
He walks away feeling like a new man.
* * *
"Anyway," he says, swirling around the dregs of his coffee. "I think you were right. I'm thinking about going out to a gay bar or something tonight. Try to pick up a dude. I... I think I'm ready to explore that part of me."
Liddy sits across from him, lounging in her seat with one hand wrapped around her own coffee cup, finger tapping it idly. There's a lazy smile on her lips. It's the one she wears when she finds something privately amusing. "You know," she says slowly, gently tapping her cup on the table before lifting it to her lips. "For someone so pretty, you're not very bright."
Jake bristles, frowning as his eyes snap to hers. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She takes her time downing the rest of her coffee. When she's done, she sets it down, leaning forward to put both elbows on the table. Her grin is positively shark-like. "It means, Jakey boy, that you're being an idiot. Do you even realize that for the past hour you've talked about nothing besides Kyle?"
Jake blinks, frown fading. "What? No, fuck off, you're exaggerating."
Trading Teams Page 17