Since Austin isn’t here, I pick an empty table and start chowing down. A few minutes later, an older gentleman sits next to me with a plate of beans on toast and says, “Good morning,” in a crisp British accent.
I dip my chin. “Morning.” Gray hair sweeps back from his widow’s peak. He wears large glasses and a suit with a green bow tie. If we’re dressing for success, then this guy wins.
“I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Charles, the housing manager.” We shake hands. “If there’s anything you need from me—extra towels, sheets, the cleaning crew—you’re always free to stop by room 100. That’s the board room. If you can’t find me, talk to the front desk. They’re happy to pass along the message.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He takes a bite of toast, wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. I haven’t seen one of those in, well, ever. “The situation is solved, by the way. You should be getting a new roommate by the end of the day. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
My hand stills as I’m about to take a bite of eggs. “Sorry,” I say with a frown, sure that I’ve misheard him. “What are you talking about? What trouble?”
“Wasn’t there an issue with your roommate?” Before I can respond, he shakes his head. “Well, it’s done now. He’s moving to a different room, and you’ll have a new roommate by the end of the day.”
My skin prickles, and I’m not sure if it’s from anger or panic. “You’re talking about Austin Rhodes, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m sorry.” I raise a hand, trying to catch up. Any lingering sleep suddenly burns away like dew beneath the sun. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about. Did Austin say there was an issue with us rooming together?”
Those bushy gray eyebrows draw together in confusion. Charles lowers his toast. “Well, yes. That’s what he told me. You were uncomfortable rooming together. So he asked for a new roommate. It’s not a problem—this happens all the time. We’ll just switch you with someone who hasn’t arrived yet.”
The fuck?
Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We said all of ten words to one another last night, and now it turns out Austin’s leaving without an explanation. Again. I literally did nothing except say hello and try to make small talk.
“Excuse me,” I tell the housing manager. Dumping my tray at the station, I hurry back to my room, rage slowly beating back my exhaustion. I need to catch Austin before he slips away a second time. I deserve an explanation, and I’m going to get it. About whatever issue he has with me, about why he left all those years ago. It’s not just a matter of closure. It’s a matter of respect.
When I unlock the door to our room, I find him sitting on his bed, his back to me, looking at something he holds in his hands.
My fury feels like it’s shredding a hole in my chest. I could throttle him right now. I really could. “What the fuck, man? You’re seriously changing rooms without telling me?”
I wait for his answer. When it doesn’t come—not that I expected one—I blaze forward, too angry to think straight. “What is it this time?” I come around to where he sits, standing in front of him. “Do you despise me? Is that it?” My anger unearths all the hurt I feel, hurt from finding out my best friend dropped me without a word, hurt that I trusted someone who didn’t care for me as I cared for him. Losing a friend is shitty enough, but losing a best friend? It’s like losing a limb.
“I was going to tell you,” he says, still not looking at me.
My vision goes red. Is that all there is between us now? Lies? “Bullshit. You were going to run, just like you did back in high school.” I shove the words through my clenched teeth and grapple with the urge to connect my fist with his jaw. Punching Austin, while not the brightest idea, would at least make me feel better. “I’d expect nothing more from a coward.”
The insult must hit hard, because he jerks his head up. What I see in his eyes pushes me back a step. I anticipated anger, loathing. But not turmoil. Not this agony wrecking his features.
Some of my anger dissipates. Some—not all. I recognize a kicked dog when I see one. We’re going to talk about this, and he’s not leaving until I have answers.
“What’s going on, Austin?” My voice softens, and I sit on the edge of my bed so we’re facing one another. Now I wonder if the reason he dropped me has nothing to do with me, but instead something else. Maybe some tragedy befell him and he didn’t know how to communicate what had happened. “You’re acting like you want nothing to do with me, and I don’t get it. Did I do something to offend you?”
“No.”
“Do you hate my company?”
A laugh catches in his throat. It’s bitter. “No.”
“Then what’s the deal, man? Because for the last four years, I’ve been convinced I did something to make you hate me.” My voice is hoarse with emotion. I swallow, waiting. It’s funny—well, not that funny—but I don’t know if I’m ready for the truth. If Austin tells me he does hate me, for whatever reason, it would probably crush me.
His back swells as he sucks in a breath. “I owe you an apology.” That green gaze is steady on mine. “I’m not sure if you’re going to like it. It’s a long time coming.”
Stillness settles over me. Seated on the edge of my bed, facing him, I wait. My heart begins to pound.
“I’d never had many friends growing up,” he begins. “My home life wasn’t that great. We were poor. Very poor.”
While I’d never visited Austin’s house, I did notice that he didn’t have many clothes, and the ones he did have were threadbare, second-hand. One pair of sneakers. And his cleats. He was on free and reduced lunch at school. A lot of seniors and juniors had a car that they parked in the student parking lot. I did, but he didn’t.
I’d never asked him about his home life, just as he never offered to discuss it. It never mattered to me where he came from though. Austin was a friend, through and through.
“Because of that, I was always somewhat of an outsider,” he says, bowing his head to look at what he holds in his hands. A keychain. It’s a wooden laser cut of a soccer ball, which I gave to him for his birthday one year. I can’t believe he still has it. “A lot of the guys liked going out to eat after school, buying the newest Nike cleats, going to the movies, but since I couldn’t afford any of that, I always made up an excuse. Funny thing about socializing. Once you turn down invitations enough times, people stop asking you to hang out.” His mouth quirks. “I was fine with it, honestly. They had their lives, and I had mine. Then you transferred my senior year, and things changed.” Softer, he adds, “It changed everything.”
There’s a pause. Austin has never spoken about his background before. I’m happy to finally get a glimpse of it.
Another breath, like he’s bracing himself. “You remember Chelsea Holmes’s graduation party?”
A slow nod. Austin and I, new graduates, rode with some soccer buddies to a house in the middle of nowhere. Austin drove. I was in the passenger seat. Two of our teammates were plastered in the backseat before arrival.
We’d been to parties before, but never as fresh graduates. There’s something about being pushed from the nest that makes everything sharper, the colors more vivid. We were boys, but we were free.
That party was the tipping point. On the ride over, Austin and I were friends. The day after, I learned he’d blocked me on social media. Blocked my number. Blocked my email. Since I didn’t know where he lived, aside from North Carolina, I couldn’t get in touch with him. I learned a few weeks later he left to start classes at Duke on a sports scholarship. Pride and grief kept me from tracking him down. I wasn’t going to chase someone who wanted nothing to do with me.
Austin unclasps his hands. Rests his fists on his knees. “It was around midnight. You, me, and a few girls went upstairs to play Seven Minutes
in Heaven.”
I remember that too. Six of us sitting on the floor of Chelsea’s bedroom. Except it hadn’t been a game of innocent kisses. One of the girls voted for blow jobs instead. We drew straws. First straw was the receiver. The second straw anointed the person who’d be giving head.
Austin continues, “We drew straws. You got the short one.”
I’d been blindfolded. They led me to the closet and ordered me to take off my pants and sit on the chair, among the hanging clothes. The rules were I couldn’t touch the person who was giving me the blowjob. The task would be completed in silence—or as much silence as I could manage with someone’s mouth on me. Austin and I were the only guys, so the odds of Austin drawing the short straw were pretty slim. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.
After removing my pants, I sat in the dark, blindfolded, my senses heightened. Someone would soon walk through the door, and I wondered who it would be. Jade was cute, and I had a bit of a crush on her, but any of the girls would have been fine. Shit, I was about to have a girl’s mouth on my cock for the first time ever. I was hard and willing and waiting.
It didn’t take long for the closet door to open. I wasn’t allowed to talk, and neither was the person who had drawn the short straw. That was the illicit, thrilling part of this game. You didn’t know who touched you, and you wondered.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling away from the memory. “And then some girl gave me a blow job. Big deal.” I wonder where he’s going with this.
“It wasn’t a girl,” Austin says, avoiding my eye.
I blink. The words seem to echo in the room. “You mean—”
“It was me.”
I’m not sure what comes over my body. My muscles tense up, and my heart gives one hard kick.
My cheeks flush with the memory of someone’s mouth on me, bringing me more pleasure than I’d ever experienced in my eighteen years. I’d wondered for years which girl had touched me. Wondered if I’d missed a chance with the nameless, faceless girl who never came forward. But now Austin’s telling me it wasn’t a girl at all. It was him.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. It was so long ago. “So you were drunk.” I swallow. “Everyone does stupid shit when they’re drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk, Logan.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name. And I realize it’s true. I don’t ever remember Austin drinking at the party. That’s right—he was the designated driver that night.
My skin feels too tight. I remain quiet. I’m not sure what to say anyway. We haven’t spoken in so long, and now I’m learning all his secrets.
“The game was rigged,” he goes on, and it sounds like he’s pulling the words from behind his teeth. He runs a hand through his hair, drops it into his lap. “I cheated so that I could be the one to go in there.”
I frown at him. “Why would you—”
“I’m gay, Logan.” Finally, he lifts his head, staring me straight in the eye.
I open my mouth, close it.
“That year, I was coming to terms with my sexuality, and I just—” He shakes his head, the disgust plain on his face. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that. I was ashamed at myself because you were my friend and I broke your trust. I don’t know if you remember, but many of the guys on the soccer team were homophobic. I couldn’t come out to them. Or you. If you found out it had been me, I was afraid you’d hate me. So I figured, if you ever did find out, it wouldn’t really matter if I wasn’t a part of your life anymore.”
Holy shit. That’s a lot to take in, and a lot for one person to keep inside for so long. My mind lingers on his sexual orientation for only a moment before it passes over and latches onto the memory of abandonment, how shitty I felt thinking I had done something wrong. My self-loathing and struggle to rebuild my self-esteem. “That’s fucked up, Austin.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you—”
“Not the blow job, you asshole. Ghosting me.”
He flinches and falls silent.
I’m on my feet. I can’t sit still any longer. I pace to the end of the bedroom, whirl around, and face him, needing the distance. “Do you know how shitty it is to wonder—for four years—what you did because your best friend suddenly stopped talking to you? Do you know how difficult it was to suddenly realize I had no one who knew the real me, no support? Sure, I had my family, but it wasn’t the same. You knew I wasn’t close with them.” And it hits me then, the truth of those words. It was never the same with Austin. “Fuck, Austin. I mean, you acted like I had betrayed you.”
I’d never realized just how much I depended on Austin back in high school until he was gone. Maybe he was the kid who didn’t have very many friends, but I was the kid who knew too many people, and not a single one of them was true. They needed me for a favor. Needed me for money, or for influence, or to make themselves look popular. All fun people, but all surface friendships. Then I met Austin, and we clicked. He was humble where others were arrogant. He was steady where life was chaotic. I admired that about him. Looked up to him. I never told him that.
“I really want to punch you right now,” I tell him.
The strain around his eyes makes him appear many years older. “I won’t stop you.” Soft.
It’s his regret that washes the last of my anger away. Slumping onto my bed, I struggle to orient this new information. It’s silent between us, some of the earlier tension having eased. At the end of the day, I don’t want to punish him. All I want is for him to know how much he hurt me, and I think he does know, since it seems he’s carried this regret with him for years.
“My first year of college was shitty,” I snap at him. “Not one single friend, not even on the soccer team.”
“If it makes you feel any better, mine was too.”
“Yeah? Well, good.”
His mouth twitches at that.
I shake my head, fighting my own smile. How can I be mad at the guy, but also forgiving? Deep down, Austin knows he made a mistake. And maybe that’s why it’s easy for me to let it go. He knows he did wrong, and he’s owning up to it. “I don’t know, man. Going off to college was supposed to be fun. But that first year I was basically a hermit. I didn’t have anyone to talk to.” I’d wanted to talk to Austin though. For the first few weeks of school, I’d texted him, even knowing he probably wouldn’t respond. He didn’t. But still, I tried.
His sigh seems to cost him a lot of energy. “You didn’t get along with your teammates?”
“They were fine, but it’s hard to find someone you click with, you know?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.” He looks at me for a long time. Something flashes in his expression—fear? “You really don’t care that I’m gay?”
“Austin.” I’m having a hard time deciding whether to laugh or groan at his ignorance. “My brother’s gay.”
He blinks. “Oh.”
I snort. “Yeah. Oh.”
“That’s why I asked for a room change,” Austin explains. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable living with me. I wanted you to have the choice as to who to room with.”
“And if I want that person to be you?”
“What?” He’s startled.
“What if I want to be your roommate? What then?”
“I don’t know.” He watches me with typical wariness, not sure where this is going. I’m not entirely sure either, but I do know Austin was the best friend I ever had, and if there’s any way we can return to that place, then I want to try. “I guess I didn’t think you’d want to be my roommate, especially after coming clean about... you know.”
“Well then I guess you’re an idiot.”
He laughs at that, quiet. Always quiet with him. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
I then say, “So you’re going to let Charles know you don’t need to switch rooms?”
<
br /> He nods, a corner of his mouth lifting.
“And you’re going to stop being a dick.”
Another nod.
“Then we’re good.”
Chapter 5
Austin
“So you think you have what it takes to play soccer?”
Our coach for the summer, a man named Vin Romero, strides up and down the lineup of players standing at center-field. He’s a squat Italian man, lines carved into his bronze skin, gaze sharp and stern. His gait is steady, yet lighter than I would expect of a man closer in appearance to that of a bull than a deer.
Vin Romero is a legend. He played for Manchester for twenty years as a defenseman. Five-time Olympic Gold Medalist. Two-time World Cup Champion. But what made him a legend was the game in 1993. Both of Manchester’s goalkeepers were injured, so he stepped into the goal, barely even trained, and stopped every shot made. Manchester secured the win that game.
I’m in awe. Before I became a goalie, I played defense for many years. I worshipped the man, and saw myself in him too. He came from nothing. A broken home. In college, he walked six miles to the field every day, there and back, because he didn’t have enough money to afford a bike or car, and the buses didn’t stop where he lived.
Any athlete will tell you that people like Vin Romero aren’t born. They’re made.
Further down the line, Logan watches him in equal awe. My gaze settles on him for only a second before turning back to Coach Romero. The last few days have been slightly awkward, but not nearly as tense as they were that first day. Logan, knowing him, probably feels no awkwardness. He’s let go of his anger. But I still harbor guilt over making assumptions about his character, for abandoning him. The guy who unknowingly stole my heart back in high school.
Every day gets a little better though. It’s like old times. The jokes, the laughter, and then the deeper conversations as we stay up later than is smart. We’ve spent a lot of time reminiscing, but also talking about the future too.
Now that a few days have passed, I’m mostly over the jetlag. Our days are scheduled with breakfast in the morning from six to eight. Our first practice runs for two hours, from nine to eleven. Noon is lunch. We have free time until four, when we have our second practice. That goes until six. Dinner is seven to nine. Since this is our first practice of the summer, I’m not sure what to expect. I’m guessing morning practice covers conditioning or drills, and the evening practice is scrimmage.
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