by Maris Black
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Layla shrugged and scanned the room, and I couldn’t help feeling like she was looking for a way out, like she’d rather be anywhere but sitting here talking to me about relationships. Because the truth was, ours was over. Maybe the other guy was waiting for her somewhere in the cafeteria, watching all of this go down.
If he was watching, he didn’t get much of a show. We could have at least argued, shared a few tears, but instead it felt like nothing, and the nothingness was ultimately more painful than any drama we might have had. I just sat there awkwardly, feeling the nothingness like a boulder in my gut, not wanting to stay, but not knowing quite how to say goodbye and get up and walk away.
And that was how I became single again. Emasculated in the cafeteria by a tiny blond cheerleader with a Mexican twang.
MIRANDA didn’t seem surprised when I got home and announced to everyone in my living room that Layla and I had broken up. In fact, except for Trey’s half-hearted Really? and Braden’s overly-shocked No!, there was no reaction to my earth-shattering news. Trey and Braden continued playing their video game.
“It’s about time,” Miranda said, earning a suspicious glare from Braden. “I mean, you two were just not compatible. Did you know there was a rumor that she was seeing Matt Foster?”
Fuck. One of my teammates?
“She didn’t tell me it was him. Just said she hadn’t cheated on me, but that they had been talking.” I plopped down on the sofa next to Miranda. “We’re still friends, though.”
I feel numb. I must still be in shock.
Miranda snorted. “Okay.”
“What? We are friends.”
“I said okay.”
She clearly didn’t believe me, and I didn’t bother trying to convince her. Either Layla and I were friends, or we weren’t. She’d be busy soon with her new boyfriend and probably wouldn’t have time for friends, anyway, so what was the point?
“I got all A’s so far,” I said, changing the subject.
“Nerd,” Braden accused, still without taking his eyes off of the game.
“I’m not a nerd,” I protested for the second time within hours.
Braden snickered. “Yeah, right. You make straight A’s without studying, you wear those Clark Kent glasses when you read, and you’ve started dressing like one of those male models in the magazines. What are they called? GQ, or Cosmo. Some shit.”
“Cosmo is a women’s magazine, hon,” Miranda corrected.
“Whatever,” Braden said. “He knows what I mean. Jamie, you need to stick to the basketball shorts and snapbacks. That’s what the chicks dig. I’ll bet that’s why Miranda broke it off with you. Matt Foster doesn’t try to be GQ. He dresses like a jock.”
“I dress like a jock a lot of the time,” I pointed out indignantly. “And my body is way hotter than Matt Foster’s.”
That claim actually got Braden to look up from the game long enough to give me an amused look. “The shirts you wear are too tight. Guys need breathing room. And those skinny little pants you wear when we go out are ridiculous.” He elbowed Trey like he’d just made the joke of the century.
“You’re just jealous, Braden. I look damn good in tight t-shirts and Clark Kent glasses.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Miranda nodding in agreement. “Besides, we’ve got to start growing up at some point, man. You think you’re going to wear snapbacks and basketball shorts to your first job? I guess that would be okay if you’re a pro ball player, but that won’t fly in the real world.” I looked to Miranda and then Trey for backup, but they were no help. “Trey, I’m not a nerd, am I?”
Trey laughed. “What’s so bad about that? I’m a nerd, and proud of it.”
“You got that right.” Braden piped up. “College is for partying, man. You’re gonna be forty years old looking back on this time wishing you’d sowed your wild oats like me.”
“Yeah, you think so?” Trey asked him. “I’m okay with that, because when I’m looking back, I’ll be sitting in a nice house counting my money. Meanwhile, you’ll be crying in your beer in some one-room hovel wishing you’d done your homework and taken life seriously.”
Braden waved him away, obviously not buying into Trey’s vision of the future. “My daddy’s got money, man.”
The room was thick with Miranda’s sudden disdain for the turn the conversation had taken. “Sowing your wild oats, huh?” She asked her boyfriend pointedly.
“Figure of speech, babe,” Braden said. Then he let loose with a barrage of virtual gunfire on the video game, jumping to a standing position and pounding frantically on the buttons on his controller. “Motherfucker shot me! Did you see that? We’ve got to get better internet, because this shit is lagging. No way he could have gotten me. Did you guys see that?”
Trey threw up his hands. “Thanks, man. Nice going. You just got me killed.”
Miranda rolled her eyes at me. “I guess this is what they mean by sowing oats? Wearing a hole in the sofa playing video games?”
“Hey, it’s better than going out and banging other chicks,” I pointed out. Miranda didn’t seem too thrilled that I had put that particular thought into words, and I didn’t relish exploring the idea further with her. “Give me that controller,” I told Braden. “Let the master take over. I’ll prove to you there’s no lag.”
“It’s your funeral.” He handed me the controller and headed off to the kitchen. “Anybody want a sandwich?”
Trey raised his hand like he was in class. “I’ll take a PB&J.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Braden said. “Anybody named Miranda want a sandwich?”
Miranda got up and followed him into the kitchen, leaving me and Trey to battle bad guys on the game. I needed some brainless man-fun. Anything to get my mind off the fact that I’d just been dumped.
THAT night, I went to the gym later than usual.
The place smelled of chlorine and sweat. It was a smell I’d come to associate with being healthy, and the second it hit my nostrils, I got a surge of adrenaline. I strode across the crowded space to secure a locker for my cell phone and wallet, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the gym— muscles pumping, men grunting, the clang of heavy weights hitting the floor. Treadmills whirred, ponytails bounced, and sneakers tapped out a choppy rhythm on the treadmill belts. In the background, sneakers squeaked on the basketball court, and children squealed beneath the gushing fountain in the indoor pool, which should have been closing any minute.
My brain shifted into workout mode, and I turned everything else off.
Whether I was straining to eke out that eighth rep on a weight machine, pushing myself to failure, or zoning out on the treadmill for an hour, it was always cathartic. Focusing on pushing my body gave my mind a much-needed vacation. I didn’t have to think about school, or relationships, or whether I could afford to go out with my friends on Friday night. It was just me and the machines, and we had only one goal in mind: physical exhaustion.
When I was almost finished with my Thursday night arm routine, a guy sat down on the machine directly in front of me. It was one of those awkward situations where both of us were forced to stare directly at each other as we worked. I was doing lat pull-downs, and he was on the ab crunch machine. I’d never seen the guy in school. He was slightly shorter than my six-foot height, with light hair and a broader build. I was of the opinion that people who took part in sports had a slightly different musculature than people who only worked out in a gym environment, and this guy had a gym jockey look about him. Not that it wasn’t a good look on him, because it definitely was.
Normally, I would have tried to engage him in a little chat to dispel the awkwardness of staring right at each other while we worked out. Except for my horrible attempt at impersonating a reporter during the MMA event, I’d never had a hard time talking to people. But after Layla knocked the wind out of my sails, I hadn’t felt much like socializing.
As I watched, the guy slipped his t-shirt off and slung it over the arm
of the machine. Then he began to crunch his very tight, very prominent abdominals, keeping his eyes trained on his six-pack as if to visually confirm that the muscles were engaging. When I realized I was studying his muscles just as intently as he was, I looked away and reminded myself to resume my own exercises.
I could tell a difference in my own appearance during the off season. I kept myself in shape, which was easy considering my natural tendency toward a long, lean muscularity. Baseball, basketball, and football had all been important to me in high school. I’d juggled all three sports until my junior year when it got too much for me. Carrying a full load of Advanced Placement classes and trying to play every sport they offered began to feel like a slow suicide, so I reluctantly dropped baseball. By college, football had fallen by the wayside as well, mainly because I had little chance of doing anything at a big university other than riding the bench.
The decision had also been affected by my desire to focus on preparing myself for a successful career, and also by my secret fear that I couldn’t hang with college-level athletes in such a physically demanding sport. My parents seemed relieved when I announced my plans to drop football. I think we all breathed a little easier knowing I wasn’t going to have to compete with guys who would probably stomp me in the dirt. I did still play basketball, though I often considered retiring that jersey, as well.
Quitting ball wouldn’t be so bad. I could always stay in shape by frequenting the gym, just like the guy I was currently watching work his abs. I mean, he was no Michael Kage, but he looked good.
Dammit, now I was thinking of that stupid fighter again. It felt like he’d appeared in my life for the sole purpose of making me feel like shit in comparison. I had looked at his pictures on my cell phone until I was sick to death of seeing him. Especially the ones where I was in the frame with him.
I wondered what his abs looked like under the dress shirt he’d been wearing at the event. No doubt amazing. Some guys had all the luck. Sure, Kage worked his ass off for that body, but the face… he was born with that. Ever since I’d met him I’d been preoccupied with the idea of getting in better shape, but I knew no matter how hard I tried, I’d never be able to attain his level of attractiveness. I wondered if he’d found me attractive, or if maybe he looked at mere mortals like me and felt pity.
And now my girl just dumped me. Can I get any more pathetic?
I hopped up from the weight machine in the middle of a rep, quickly sprayed and wiped the seat and handles, and hurried down the long corridor to the back of the gym. I grabbed one of the white towels off the cart just outside the door to the shower room and went inside.
Leaning over the bench that ran beneath the wall of tall gym lockers, I propped a foot up on it and unlaced one of my sneakers. That’s when the guy from the ab machine rounded the corner, a towel slung over his shoulder along with his shirt. When he saw me, he stuttered to a halt at a locker near the door and began to remove his own expensive shoes, not bothering to untie the laces. I was careful not to look in his direction, but at one point, as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and slung it into the locker, my eyes accidentally found him anyway. To my surprise, he was looking right at me.
He smiled tentatively, and I glanced away like I’d just been caught peeping through the keyhole of a brothel bedroom. Shit. I was usually very careful to not look at other guys in locker rooms, but I wasn’t exactly my usual self that night. I swallowed hard and worked my sweaty shorts and boxer briefs down my legs and wrapped the rough towel around my hips. Then I headed for the showers at the back of the room.
Even though we were alone in the locker room, the guy entered the shower stall right next to mine. I could see his head and shoulders out of the corner of my eye the whole time I was bathing, and I knew he could see me, too. It was awkward as hell, and I found myself wondering why I was in this predicament anyway. Had he purposely followed me into the locker room? Why was I here, anyway? Normally I just drove straight home and showered.
“You need some shower gel?” the guy asked from the other side of the low wall.
“Huh?” I was startled enough to almost lose my footing.
“Shower gel,” he repeated. “I noticed you didn’t have any. Would you like to use some of mine?” He held up a black bottle of shower gel, sans top. “You can use it for your hair, too.”
“Uh, sure… I guess,” I stammered, reaching for the bottle. As I poured a dollop into my cupped palm, I read the label aloud. “Tom Ford. I thought he only made clothes.”
The guy shrugged, took the bottle back from me. “What’s your name?” he asked.
I felt my eyes widen, and I looked at him like he’d just asked for my social security number. “Um…”
“Never mind,” he blurted. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No, I do. I want to.” I lathered my body quickly as I spoke, without regard for accuracy of coverage. “It’s Jamie. My name’s Jamie Atwood. Can I get another squirt of that soap?” I smiled, trying to warm up and relax.
He spilled some out into my palm, and I rubbed it into my hair. After I’d finished rinsing my hair under the faucet and wiping soap from my eyes, I said, “You know my name. What’s yours?”
“Cameron Walsh,” he answered.
He wasn’t creepy, wasn’t trying to look over the wall or anything, but his eyes never left mine. It felt strange and oddly exhilarating as we held gazes for what seemed like minutes, both searching for something else to say and coming up blank. When it got a little too intense, I was the one to break the stare, glancing down and watching the last tiny bubbles of Cameron’s shower gel gathering at the edge of the drain before being sucked down.
“Well, I guess I’m gonna get out of here.” Cameron finally found his voice, and I was relieved. Relieved that I hadn’t had to speak first, and relieved that he was leaving. Better not to find out just how strange a gym shower conversation could get.
I felt like I’d just been hit on. Hell, I knew I had. It wasn’t the first time a guy had ever shown interest in me, and I’d never gotten up in arms about it. I just considered it a fact of life. But this one had seemed different— bolder.
Not tonight, buddy. Not ever.
I pretended to shower until Cameron had left the locker room. Then I got dressed and headed out to my car. Instead of going straight home like I normally did, I took a detour and drove straight to the local pick-up bar, The Collegiate. It was where all of the single guys on the basketball team hung out, and I figured since I was now a single basketball player, that was where I belonged. Besides, a guy was almost guaranteed to find something he could take home in there.
Since fate seemed to be kicking me in the ass that day, I was only slightly surprised to discover Layla and her new boy toy cozied up together at a back table in The Collegiate. It made me angry for more reasons than one, but mainly because Layla deserved to be taken somewhere better than this shit hole for a first date. But she also deserved better than me, so who was I to talk? I hadn’t even been able to muster enough interest to ask her not to break up with me.
At that point, my appetite was gone. And I don’t mean my appetite for food. I sat down at the bar and ordered one of the fifty-cent well drinks the club used to get the girls compliant, which in turn brought the guys through the front door every night.
One girl after another sat next to me to order their drinks, but I never even cast a full glance at any of them. They never stayed more than a couple of minutes, either— probably because of the arctic chill emanating off of me. Just after I got my second Screwdriver, Matt slipped onto the stool beside me.
“Hey, man,” he said. “You okay?”
“Not really,” I grated.
He rested his forearms on the bar. “Look, we never went out while you two were together. I just want you to know that, okay? I didn’t steal her from you. She said you two just grew apart.”
I finally turned to look at him. “It’s not even that. So we grew apart. Fine,
I accept that, and she and I are still friends. But dude… what are you thinking bringing her to a place like this on your first date? She’s not some piece of meat. She’s a great girl, and she deserves better than this. Why don’t you pretend you’ve got some fucking class and take her out to a nice restaurant?”
My response was not the one he was expecting. He floundered, obviously wanting to say something though his mouth wasn’t producing words.
“That’s what I thought.” I swallowed the last half of my drink in two large gulps and set my glass back on the bar. “You don’t even know this is wrong, do you?” I slid off my stool and left the bar, sparing a glance at Layla on my way out. She looked appropriately uncomfortable, and I just felt really, really bad for her. Jesus, I hoped she would find someone better than that asshole. And someone better than me.
4
MY CELL phone rang just after noon the next day. I rolled over and squinted against the light filtering through the blinds, opening and closing my mouth in a futile attempt to smack away the horrific case of cotton mouth I had. I found my phone on the floor beside the bed, nearly dead, and flipped it over to see who was disturbing my coma.
Dr. Washburn?
I answered hesitantly, wondering what he could possibly want. It was almost like getting a midnight call from the hospital or the police station.
“Jamie, hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” he said.
“No, Doc,” I groaned. “What’s up?”
“Something quite interesting happened this morning. I got a phone call from Las Vegas concerning you. Do you have anything you’d like to tell me?”
I wracked my brain, trying to come up with any possible reason Vegas would be calling. I’d stopped off at a convenience store on my way home the night before and picked up a case of beer, then gotten exceedingly wasted. In fact, my head felt like a subway accident, and my mouth tasted like I’d sheered a sheep with my teeth. But I was fairly certain I hadn’t gone to Vegas.
Still, I could play along.