For the first time in our relationship, I’ve outright lied to Ivy. Okay, it’s a small lie but a lie nonetheless. I don’t have early practice. I just had to get away from her. Fast. She hurt me. Not when she’d told me the truth of how she saw me. Hell, I know what I am. No, it was the pity in her expression, as if my inability to find any meaning in sex made me pathetic.
Now I’m vacillating between outrage and pain. Sex is sex. Fuck if I should be ashamed of having as much of it as I want. But then there’s this pain, right behind my sternum. Because she’s brought up things that I don’t ever like to think about. Such as why I can’t find meaning in the act. But I know, don’t I? And that knowledge is a scab that I don’t want to pick at.
Only she’s already picked it, and now I’m slowly bleeding. I know Ivy’s sorry she hurt me. It doesn’t matter. The cat’s out of the bag. And I can’t stop thinking: Am I really living for the moment, or am I running away from reality?
But even that isn’t the real reason I escaped Ivy. It was because for one blind second, I’d been about to say the stupidest thing I could. Make me stop, Ivy. Be the one who makes it all stop.
I have the feeling that she could. I’d stood there, aching and hating that we were snapping at each other, and all I wanted to do was kiss her, explore the gentle curve of her lower lip before sucking on it. And Ivy would have flipped out. Because friends do not maul other friends’ mouths.
I’m in uncharted territory here. Usually, when attraction hits, I’d make a move. Or the lady in question would. But now? I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.
“Shit.” I pick up the pace and head into the team’s gym. I could work out at home—and, God, I need to do something to ease this twitchy feeling—but I don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s late so I have a good chance of being alone here.
Gyms stink of bleach, lingering sweat and funk, of steel weights and rubber matting, and I love that. It’s familiar as home to me now. I hustle past the locker rooms, ready to hit the treadmill, when I see them.
It’s a small movement out of the corner of my eye, nothing I’d notice if I wasn’t alone at night in a supposedly abandoned gym. I know Rolondo so well by now that I recognize him almost instantly. He’s leaning against one of the shower walls, a towel wrapped around his waist, his torso still wet.
But it’s the guy next to him who catches my attention. Many scenarios could explain what I’m seeing, but the way the guy leans into ’Londo, half his body blocking my view, and the expression on my friend’s face, tight and miserable, gives me pause. And as if someone’s snapped their fingers in front of my eyes, I get it.
Understanding hits me the exact moment Rolondo notices me. He stiffens, standing tall, his shoulders straightening as if bracing for a fight. The guy next to him, a big black dude who looks like he’d be at home on the field with us, turns and glances as me. Fear widens his eyes for a second before he narrows them and glares at me, then ’Londo.
Without a word, he pushes off from the wall with one hand and stalks past me, his shoulder almost brushing my own.
I’m left alone with Rolondo who stares back at me. I suppose the knowledge is there in my eyes; I’m not really trying to hide it. That won’t help anymore. But it breaks something between us. I see the moment he decides I’m now the enemy because I know his secret.
He makes a noise of defiance and strolls my way, heading for his locker. He doesn’t look at me when he passes, but his muscles twitch and his walk is awkward. Hell. I can leave now, not say a word, but I don’t.
“Whatever the fuck you think you saw,” he says as he grabs his boxers, “you’re wrong, G.”
Weariness has me rubbing my face before I move to the bench and sit on it. “You think so?”