by Shae Connor
That, of course, is the moment when my natural logorrhea decides to get constipated.
My lips flap uselessly, not forming any words for another eternity, before Darryn rolls his eyes. “Look,” he says. “I meant what I said before. When I figured out you were gay, it genuinely did not matter to me. You were a nice guy and a good teammate, and that was all that mattered.”
He falls silent, and that’s when my words start flowing again. “And then you, what, discovered the flamboyant side of life?”
I wince even as I say it, and before he can yell or leave, which is what I deserve, I put up a hand. “Sorry. That was stupid. I just…” I let my hand drop. “When you figured it out, why didn’t you say something?”
“What was I supposed to say?” Darryn looks at me then, his dark eyes wide and pained. “You obviously didn’t trust me enough to tell me about yourself. And I wouldn’t have known where to start.”
His words slam like a fist into my stomach. “You think I don’t trust you?”
Darryn gives me one of his patented raised eyebrows at that. “We’ve been friends for a year, Grant.” His words are slow, as if talking to a small child. “And you still haven’t told me you’re gay. What the hell else am I supposed to think?”
He’s gotta be kidding me. “You can’t think of any reason an athlete on scholarship to a college in the Deep South might be reluctant to come out?”
“Not come out, come out.” Darryn waves a hand. “I’m not talking about a Sports Illustrated cover here. Or even telling the team or anything. I’m talking about telling me.” He lays his hand over his chest. “The guy you’ve been living with for a year. The guy who’s supposed to be your best friend.”
That one I’ve thought about long enough that I have an answer. “I was afraid,” I admit. “I haven’t even told my parents yet. My sister knows. I didn’t even have to tell her.” Some kind of twin thing, I figured. “The first person I told was a friend in high school I kinda had a crush on. I thought maybe…” I shrug. “It didn’t go well.”
Darryn’s hands curl into fists. “Did he hurt you?”
My heart gives a little leap at his concern. “No. Not…not physically, anyway.” I lower my head to my chest and curl my arm across my stomach at the memory. “He called me several choice names and never spoke to me again.”
The rawness in my voice must affect Darryn, because in my periphery I can see him shift forward, as if he’s moving to hug me. He gives great hugs, even though I’ve only gotten them in celebration or consolation after great or terrible performances in meets. My skin aches, as if it’s pulling away from my body, reaching for Darryn’s touch.
But he slides back into his chair, and the ache gives way to a jolt of pain. I bite back a gasp, but I can’t stop the full-body flinch.
“I’m sorry you went through that.” Darryn’s voice rasps like his throat is coated with sandpaper. “I thought you knew me better. If I ever did anything that made you think I’d treat you like that—”
“You didn’t. But what makes it my job to come out anyway?” The frustration of the last few days wells up, spilling out as my voice rises. “You figured out you were gay—”
“Bi, actually.”
I pause for only a second. “Okay. Bi. You still didn’t tell me.” The words tear at my throat. “Why was it all on me to come out? You’ve had months, and you didn’t say a word, either.”
He does that one-shoulder shrug again. “You had plenty of chances, too.”
“But I didn’t know!” I’m on my feet then, my heart and head pounding, the bitter taste of adrenaline in my mouth. “As far as I knew, you were straight and an athlete. You know damn good and well how most jocks treat gay guys. Or if they even think they might be gay.”
“I’m not just any guy, Grant!” Darryn pushes to his feet, too, fists clenched at his sides. “You know me. We’ve talked about everything.”
My shoulders slump as all the fight drains out of me. “Everything except this.”
The truth falls into the silence between us.
We keep cycling through the same arguments, getting nowhere. I only wanted to talk and clear the air, get my best friend back, and maybe see if what’s-his-face is a permanent fixture or if there’s still a chance that we could—
Darryn turns away and picks up his backpack. “I have to get going. I have plans tonight.”
My stomach drops like a rock. Guess that answers my question.
“With him?” I can’t stop the way it sounds like an accusation.
Darryn freezes and carefully doesn’t look at me. “His name is Rich. And yes, with him.” He hooks his backpack over his shoulder. “Probably gonna have plans with him pretty often.”
The “you better start getting used to it” goes unspoken.
I slump down onto my bed, hollowed out, and watch as he walks out the door.
Chapter Two
The next morning, I’m sitting alone at a table in the corner of the dining hall, picking at my scrambled eggs and toast, when a tray slides onto the table across from me. For a half second my heart leaps, thinking it’s Darryn, but I look up to find it’s Annie. I try not to look too disappointed as I give my twin sister what I’m sure is a half-assed smile.
“You look like someone kicked your puppy and stole your pickup truck.”
My smile transforms into a teasing sneer. “You been listening to that country channel on Pandora again?”
Annie rolls her eyes behind her glasses as she pulls her hair up into a messy ponytail. Even though we’re twins, we don’t look all that much alike. For starters, I’m pretty much covered in freckles while she has only a dusting across her nose. We have the exact same red hair, though, more of an auburn shade than Dad’s brighter orange shade.
We don’t act that much alike, either. I’m the loudmouthed, gregarious extrovert, while Annie’s the reserved, shy introvert who runs a phone and computer repair shop out of her dorm room to earn extra money. In fact, she earned enough last year to pay for a private room this year, and she rarely leaves it except for classes and mealtimes—and most of my gymnastics meets. I don’t worry about her. Much. She’s probably more well-adjusted than I am, and that’s without bringing the mess with Darryn into the mix.
Annie doesn’t miss much, though, and I know she sees through my snarky facade. She turns her attention to her bowl of oatmeal, which she’s loaded down with dried fruit and brown sugar, the only way she’ll eat it. “What happened?”
I don’t want to out Darryn. That ship sailed long ago for me—when I told Annie I was gay the night of our eighteenth birthday, her only reaction was an eyeroll and a “duh.” I choose my words carefully. “I found out Darryn’s dating someone, and I didn’t handle it well. He’s kind of pissed at me.” I shrug. “I guess we’re pissed at each other.”
Annie takes another bite of her oatmeal, swallows, and washes it down with her orange juice.
“Well,” she finally says, “that sucks. And not in a fun way.”
I snort, caught off guard. I shouldn’t be surprised by her, after nineteen years of living side by side, but every now and then she manages to get one past me.
“Yeah. I have no idea what to do.” I don’t really expect her to have any suggestions. She’s had about as much success dating as I have, which is to say, basically none. “The Curse of the Clarks,” we’ve taken to calling it.
Guess it’s struck again.
“Just, I guess, keep being his friend.” Annie catches my gaze, and she looks serious for once, none of her usual dry, sometimes biting humor in her eyes. Not that it would matter to me, since I know it’s a defense mechanism, but even with me, this is a rarity.
“I mean, you’re stuck with him anyway,” she goes on, looking down into her oatmeal as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “Even if you changed rooms, you’re still teammates.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Might as well be a friend.”
I nod and chew my bottom lip, knowing she’s right. My chest might go tight at the thought of Darryn spending all his time with someone else, granting his devastating smiles and sharing sweet laughs with another guy, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
Then Annie hits me with the kicker.
“Besides,” she says, lifting her head to catch my gaze again, and this time that wicked spark is there. “When his new relationship inevitably falls apart, because of course he’s really in love with you, someone’s gotta be there to pick up the pieces. Might as well be you, right?”
I bark out a laugh at that. “You are an evil, evil woman.” I grin at her and lift my coffee cup in a toast, feeling the least little bit better. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”
That gets a glare. “Better watch out. You don’t want to end up on the wrong side of my brilliance.” Her smile is sickly sweet. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
There’s a reason she has a whole collection of T-shirts featuring The Hulk.
…
Classes drag like someone hit the wrong setting on the space-time continuum. I don’t know what the problem is. Maybe it’s because we have a mock meet in the afternoon. I’ll be seeing Darryn but probably won’t have a chance to talk to him. Though after the way our last talk went, not talking is probably for the best.
As I cross to the gym after my last class finally lets out, I give myself a mental pep talk. Be a friend. Be a teammate. Congratulate him when he does well. Treat him like you would have a week ago.
By the time I push through the doors of the building that’s my second home on campus, I’m feeling pretty good. A couple of guys are out on the floor already, under the watchful eyes of our coaches as they warm up or try out some new moves. I watch one of the freshmen—Kenny, I think his name is—as he works on his Thomas flairs. The floor exercise move, which was invented for the pommel horse by one of my childhood idols, former US Olympian Kurt Thomas, involves swinging wide-spread legs high over the mat and requires strong wrists and great balance.
It’s also one of my specialties. Maybe I’ll have a talk with the kid, see if I can help with his technique.
My mind is on Kenny and not where I’m going as I hit the locker room door, which explains how I end up chest to chest with my roommate.
Darryn grabs one of my arms to keep us both from falling over. He’s already in his uniform, the standard tight tank top and body-hugging pants, and my first instinct is to get my hands and maybe my mouth all over the exposed muscles of his shoulders and arms.
Then my brain catches up to my hormones, and I manage to step away from Darryn without doing anything stupid.
“Sorry.” I try to smile. “Million miles away. See you out there.”
Darryn hesitates for a moment before he nods and returns my attempt at a smile. The door swings shut behind him, and I walk on autopilot over to my locker to get changed.
Well. Isn’t this going to be a buttload of fun?
By sheer force of will, I force the whole situation with Darryn out of my mind and focus on practice.
Halfway through our mock meet, I’m feeling pretty good. We’re divided into two teams and do the apparatus rotations, like we would during a regular meet. I nailed my vault with only a slight bobble, and my rings performance was one of my best, even though I know I need to increase the difficulty level if I ever want to reach the top tier in the all-around.
I’m waiting for my turn on the floor now. Technically, I’m rated second on floor exercise to one of the seniors, but he’s on the other team today, so I’ll be last to perform in our group.
Men’s gymnastics doesn’t get as much coverage as women’s overall, probably because they’re very different sports in a lot of ways. The men’s performances focus on strength and precision, while women’s are heavier on artistry and grace. We share only two apparatus, vault and floor exercise, and men perform in six different categories to women’s four. Not to say that men’s gymnastics is better than women’s or anything like that. They’re both tough as hell.
Collegiate gymnastics is a whole different world from the Olympics, too. The number of men’s teams is in the teens—and ours is only a few years old—and the women have only a couple dozen. Most of the elite competitors focus on the Olympics, though, which doesn’t leave as much talent for the college level.
Heath finishes up his routine and walks off the floor. He’s a junior who’s done well in his meets, but he takes forever to learn a new move. If he doesn’t step things up a notch, the younger guys are going to blow right past him—like I already have.
I glance over to Coach Sato and get the nod that sends me striding out to the center of the mat. I wait for the low buzzer that signals the start of my minute-long routine. I nail the first tumbling pass, which is the toughest of my four, and my round of Thomas flairs flies so high my hands nearly lift off the mat. As I go into my fourth tumbling pass, my heart pumping and my body buzzing, I feel like an Olympic champion about to nail down the gold. Never mind that I’ll likely never reach those heights. When I’m on, I can feel it down into my bones. And I’m on today.
I bounce off the mat into my last double backflip, and my feet slam into the mat, sticking the landing. I shoot my arms up over my head into a V that means victory. A whoop comes from somewhere off to my left, in a voice that sounds an awful lot like Darryn’s, and a grin erupts on my face.
No matter what else is going on in my life, I can always count on gymnastics to be there for me. And I guess, despite everything, I can always count on Darryn to cheer me on.
The way my heart lifts, I don’t know which thought comforts me more.
I head off the floor and join my teammates in our rotation to the next apparatus. From across the way, I happen to catch Darryn’s gaze as he follows his team over to the vault. He gives me a smile and a wink, and my grin widens.
He still has my back. And knowing that makes everything else fade into the background.
…
After I finish my last apparatus, the high bar, Coach Sato calls me aside to offer a few tips on getting my last release move higher. I’m supposed to fly three or four feet above the bar, which is already over eight feet above the ground. Coach and I talk for a while before he suggests I give it a few more tries.
My arms feel like overcooked spaghetti after the hard-driving work of the mock meet, but it’s going to take a lot more than that for me to tell any coach no. I cross to the bar, pausing to re-dust my hands with chalk, and then Coach steps behind me to lift me up. Since I’m not doing the full routine, there’s no need for me to do a formal mount.
I get a good grasp on the bar before I start swinging. By the time I’ve worked up to three times around backward, I feel I have enough momentum to give it a try.
The move is called a Yamawaki, named for a Japanese gymnast from the eighties. It’s not the most complex in the book, consisting of releasing the bar from a backward swing and taking a half-turn in the air to re-grip the bar facing forward. It’s a basic of the sport, though, and the higher you fly, the higher your score.
My first attempt probably hits that three-foot threshold we’re looking for, but I almost miss the bar on the way down and have to slow to a stop to get my hands back on solidly.
“Good height,” Coach Sato tells me. “A little too far out in front. See if you can push that momentum up instead of out.”
I nod and let my body hang for a few seconds before I kick out to start a new swing. This time, everything feels perfect. My hands are secure, my legs are angled just right, and when I push into the release, I feel like I’ve taken flight.
I come back down in the right spot, grabbing the bar without breaking the flow of my swing. I grin as I take another full swing.
“All right!” I hear Co
ach yell. “Gimme another one!”
I manage two more, and though the second is still the cleanest of them all, the last two are almost as smooth. I finally bring myself to a stop, arms and wrists screaming at me, and open my hands to drop softly to the mat below.
Movement to my left catches my eye, and I glance that way in time to see a dark-haired figure slipping out the door. I’d know the lines of that body anywhere.
Why did Darryn hang around to watch?
Dammit. Don’t tell me he was looking to talk to me after practice and I missed another chance. Why is it that life seems to be conspiring against me?
Well. Nothing I can do about it now. I shake it off and turn my attention back to Coach Sato, who’s making a couple more suggestions but then tells me I’ve done great and sends me off to the showers. My arms are trembling from the extra exertion, and once I’m in the locker room, my fingers don’t want to cooperate. I fumble my practice gear off and drop it on a bench before walking into the showers and turning the water on almost too hot to stand. I let it pound down on my sore shoulders and over my arms, soothing the burning muscles even as my pale skin turns bright pink from the heat.
My mind wanders, and I picture Darryn coming back into the locker room, stripping out of his clothes, and following me into the showers. I can almost feel his body behind mine, his arms wrapping around me, his hips notching into place against my ass. My cock throbs, and it’s all I can do to yank myself out of the fantasy and not jerk off right there.
I flip the water over to cold and stay under the icy spray until I’m shivering and my balls are crawling into my abdomen. Only then do I dare to turn the shower off and head back into my life.
…
It’s after eight when I get back to the dorm. I stopped by the dining hall and grabbed a sandwich after I finished at the gym, but I didn’t feel like company. Instead, I found an empty bench in one corner of the quad and sat there to eat. I tried to read the next chapter in my physiology book—why the heck we have to learn about “the integumentary system” instead of “skin” is beyond me—but I couldn’t concentrate. I ended up staring off into space for a good twenty minutes thinking about Darryn and how to bridge the chasm between us, before I got sick of my own melancholia and headed back to the room.