Chapter One Cam #2
“Or you’re straight,” Jody suggests.
“I’m not,” Mason says, cleaving my chest open.
“So it is the fuck-ass piece-of-shit personality.” Anup gives Mason a hearty smooch atop his beanie, oblivious to the critical hits I’m suffering. “It’s okay, baby. I expect he only wants you for your brain cells, anyway.”
Unfortunately, Mason doesn’t get the chance to defend my intelligence.
Coach Barnett notices the congregating mass and blows his whistle, shattering the sound barrier.
“Morelli! Kumar! Jackson! On the field!” he yells, and so we sprint away to complete our high knee jogging, side lunges, and assorted tortures.
All the while, I can only contemplate my place in the universe.
Why did Mason Gray reject me?
There’s this uncomfortable nagging in my chest. Cam Morelli is supposed to be…
well, perfect. He’s well-liked by everyone, a shining star among a dome of murky darkness.
I’ve put years of work into this face, this body, this personality, to solidify my position as one of the most respected seniors in school.
Everyone knows my name because I’ve hand-carved a positive reputation for myself.
Why doesn’t it work on Mason?
My skin feels prickly. I can’t remember the last time I asked somebody out—usually, people are propositioning me every month, and I go along with it for a few weeks until we break up.
I don’t care about the connotation that comes with it.
It’s better that I’m too romantically active than otherwise, and it’s better that the negativity is based around my number of partners rather than the queer thing.
I tested the waters and “came out” last year by dating one of the JV lacrosse guys, and thankfully people seemed more gossipy about the fact that he was the fifth person I had dated in three months than the fact that he was a guy.
Every popular person in school has at least one negative feature attached to them, whether true or false. It’s better that I can control what that feature is—in this case, being hard to tie down.
I was shit out of luck in middle school. It’s better this way.
Is that connotation the only reason Mason isn’t interested in me, or is it something else?
Eventually, people begin to flood the stands—students dressed in Elwood High merch, faculty members, and parents.
Not mine, though. Today is the first game they’re missing because they’re busy swapping saliva over a dinner table for “date night.” The sun melts into the horizon, bathing the sky in a crisp October orange despite the lingering September date, and the other team arrives to warm up beneath the looming scoreboard. I’m still heated.
That’s an awful idea, but thank you.
I readjust my shoulder pads, secure my face mask, tie my cleats tighter, and try to get serious.
I can’t start slacking because I’m in a bad mood.
Especially because Coach Barnett has been in contact with a scout from the University of Alpine who’s been observing Darius since freshman year and just caught wind of me when I joined the team last year as a junior.
I have to keep on top of my game if I stand any chance of earning myself a full ride, or the last two years of obsessive training and bulking will have been for nothing.
As the hum of roaring high schoolers washes over the field, annoyance plucks at my veins.
Seriously, it’s not like I have a crush on Mason.
I don’t get those. Butterflies? Not in this chiseled abdomen.
If anyone is pining nearby, it’s probably for me.
I’m one of the tallest and most well-built seniors in school, thanks to my dad’s one good gene and the aforementioned obsessive training and bulking.
My skin is a natural, flattering golden brown, which gives me the mysterious and sexy air of an ethnically ambiguous man.
“You are tan, white boy,” Anup tells me whenever I bring it up.
But basically, with my long eyelashes and dagger-sharp jawline, I’m irresistible. What happened here?
It’s the fourth quarter when everything goes wrong.
I huddle up behind Nate, our center, eyes wandering the sea of white helmets clashing with the brutish red of the opposing team.
Everyone is braced, waiting for the call.
My gaze flicks to the sidelines, where Coach Barnett is massaging his peppered goatee.
Mason stands beside him, expression neutral as ever.
Nate snaps the ball, and I close the leather between my gloves while the crowd wails with excitement.
Anup is trying to escape the guy on his flank—Ravi’s down the field, faster than the player targeting him.
We’re about to score. With twenty seconds left, we’ll tie the game, and all Jody has to do is score the extra point for the win—
Suddenly, a heavy weight collides with my side, drilling me into the ground with enough force that the air nearly leaves my lungs. I blink blearily, looking into triumphant eyes behind a garish-red helmet. “Stay down, bitch!” he yells.
He’s done it. He’s cracked me. I don’t know where it comes from, but suddenly, I’m not on the field anymore.
The turf is a coarse bedroom carpet. The people looming over me aren’t football players—they’re other students.
Eighth graders. Laughing, speaking behind hands, looking down on me with amused, disgusted eyes.
Do you think he’s…?
Like mother, like son…
I’m not that kid anymore. I’ve taken appropriate steps to ensure I won’t ever find myself in that position again. But knowing this matters little. The pure, unbridled rage that spills out of me would be extremely ugly if I wasn’t…well, me.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, and I’m tearing my helmet off, and so is he, and my fist lands on his face before he can even curl his hand. He staggers beneath my knuckles and hits the grass, blood spurting from his nose.
The chaos that follows is flattering, actually. As his team surges toward me with an explosive battle cry, my team rushes to keep them off me.
Just like that, the game is over.