Chapter 2 #2
“Well, can’t win ‘em all,” I mutter.
“Sometimes you can,” Artie retorts. “Isn’t that right, Connor? Undefeated last year, right?”
“That’s right!” Thalia rattles Connor’s shoulder. “He could’ve gone pro if he wanted.”
“I dunno about that,” Connor mumbles bashfully.
“You lack confidence,” Artie says. “You need to have both confidence and talent in spades to go pro. My son doesn’t have half the talent to match his confidence.”
Artie’s digs have me seething silently and taking my anger out on my lasagna, spearing it into a mangled mush.
A slender hand touches my arm; the coldness of Joss’s gaudy wedding ring makes me flinch. “I think you’re very talented,” she says.
“Thanks, Joss.”
The heat of Connor’s gaze discomforts me now. I knew Thalia kept up with soccer in Sacramento based on how much Artie negged me for not excelling the same as his favorite kid. I didn’t know her boyfriend had been a Hornet during their dominant reign.
Through dinner, my dear old Dad isn’t shy about listing all my many shortcomings at the sport I only started playing to please him.
I can’t even count how many times I quit soccer—only for him to drag me back to practice kicking and screaming—before I realized quitting something I love is birdbrained, even when it delivers the satisfaction of pissing Artie off.
Next time I look at Connor, I see him nodding along to all of Artie’s bullshit, and it makes me want to do unspeakable things to his toothbrush.
Needing to gain back some dominance, I perk up and ask, “So, when are you two lovebirds getting married?”
I’m delighted by the bright shade of red staining Connor and Thalia’s faces.
“You just look so cute together,” I say. “I bet you’ve already got names for all your future kids picked out, huh?”
Connor’s mouth gapes but no words come out. How the fuck did such a cutie win the NCAA championship when he’s this flustered under pressure?
“We’ve talked about it,” Thalia finally answers, “and we decided that finishing school and starting our careers is more important than all that.”
“Yeah, you guys have talked about it?” I ask Connor, loving the way he squirms.
Interrupting my joy, Thalia asks, “How ‘bout you, Dane? Got a girlfriend hiding away somewhere?”
“What, like under my bed?”
Artie interjects. “Your brother isn’t interested in dating girls who are worthy of a relationship. Joselyn has tried setting him up with some of her friends’ daughters, but his idea of a first date is plying them with drugs at degenerate house parties.”
My eyes roll. “Jeez, you make me sound like a predator. I take them someplace where they can vibe and have fun instead of sitting around a stuffy table eating overpriced food and pretending to wanna get to know each other. We had fun!” We had fun doing whatever we wanted after parting ways five steps through the door.
“Women are attracted to maturity,” Artie claims. “No woman is going to see any potential in you when all you do is screw around at parties and get high all day.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter much anymore, since I’ve decided to be gay.”
The moment of silent scorn steaming from my father makes me downright giddy, and I send the cutie across from me a wink while Thalia and Joss are busy checking to see if Artie is still breathing.
“That’s not funny, Dane,” Artie mutters.
“I know it’s serious. But I recently read the gay agenda, and they make some valid points, so I’ve decided cocksucking is the life for me!”
“Dane,” Artie bites my name out like it’s a curse word. “You can either apologize to everyone for your disgusting sense of humor, or you can do everyone a favor and leave this house for good. Take your pick.”
All my chaotic mirth seeps from my body on beads of fresh sweat when I realize he’s dead serious.
A scowl slips past my resolve, but what did I really expect his reaction to be?
He hates me, and he hates gay people. Did I think one hate would cancel out the other?
Still, the rejection stings and solidifies in my mind that no matter what I do, I’ll never be good enough.
I could simp for Artie all day long, transfer to his alma mater and be the best striker their soccer team has ever seen, but he’d still despise me.
Before my mouth can nuke my living arrangement, Connor’s timid voice slices through the tension to say, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay.”
Our eyes connect, and the sincerity in his warms me like an embrace.
But that sort of statement won’t help Connor stay on Artie’s good side.
I already hear a preliminary grumble from Artie’s throat that always leads to a chastising.
To save everyone from a tedious argument, I slap the table beside my plate and laugh.
“That’s sweet, Connor, but I’m just messing with him. This is what we do. I say something ridiculous, and he threatens to kick me out. It’s how we show affection. You’ve never told your dad you’re gay just to laugh at how pissed he gets? I’m sorry everyone. It’s my disgusting sense of humor.”
“You’re psychotic,” Thalia says.
“I love pussy!” I declare. “I could eat pussy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’ve even got a Tupperware of it in the fridge if anyone’s wanting dessert later.”
“Dane!” Artie shouts. “You’re excused!”
“Fine by me.”
I’m halfway to the hallway when I hear Artie apologize on my behalf.
It’s jarring and irritating all at once, because that man has never apologized to me for shit.
Not for running my mother off, ruining my life, and continuing to make it a waking nightmare.
But he’ll apologize to others until the cows come home.
He’ll apologize for what an inconsiderate abomination of a son he has.
Kicking off my Crocs, I fling myself onto my bed and bury myself in the sweet, sweet scent of me. Can’t remember the last time I washed these sheets, but right now, I revel in the familiarity of my own stale musk.
When I find my zen, I flop onto my back and fish out my phone. A quick Google search takes me to last year’s College Cup match. Sac State Hornets versus Ohio University. I watch the match, start to finish, licking my lips each time the camera zooms in on a particular little blondie.
Okay, he’s not little. More like adorably average.
According to his stats, he’s five-ten and a hundred-sixty pounds that doesn’t look like much with a jersey on, but I’m betting he was a fucking work of art under all that emerald green.
Even if he’s given up athletics since the championship, I could tell on the beach this morning that he’s toned.
What does he see in my sister?
If he’s so straight, why was he blushing when I hit on him? Why did he say that dumb shit about it being a-okay to be gay?
Along with his stats, I find out his full name—Connor Whitlock—and it’s pretty easy to find his Instagram from there.
I have Thalia blocked, but she’s a recurring character on Connor’s saved stories, so they must spend a lot of time together.
I’m not heartless; I’m glad Thalia’s dating someone who genuinely likes her, even if I can’t imagine why.
But I’m also human, and my human body doesn’t care that Connor is Thalia’s boyfriend.
Each of his sweet selfies makes my heart flutter, and I salivate over every reel of him practicing his offense on a soccer field, rocketing balls into a net while his whole body pulses with energy.
I thought he was cute on the beach, but on a field he’s breathtaking.
Linked to his personal Insta is his “professional” account.
Turns out, the dude is actually a photographer.
Aspiring photographer, according to his bio, but whether or not he makes a living off these photos, they’re stunning.
He wasn’t lying about photographing lots of people either.
While there are a few nature shots here and there, most of his work is of innocuous people doing innocuous things.
A woman folding laundry at a coin laundromat.
A man nodding off on a public bus.
A tween-age girl taking her turn on a skate park half-pipe.
And young men in soccer shorts and cleats practicing their hearts out. Skin glistening, hair dripping, faces flushed, and muscles flexing. I’m sure there’s some deeper meaning an artist like Connor could espouse, but when I look at these photos, all my lizard brain thinks of is: hot.
The sudden tapping at my door pulls my focus from Connor’s gay ass photography.
It can’t be Artie, since he would fist the door like a madman if he wanted to chat, so it’s narrowed to three suspects.
Most likely, it’s Joss, and hopefully, she’s bringing me dessert.
I did call her mom. Something like that ought to earn me a pudding cup, at least.
But when I pull my door open, it’s the cutie-pie himself melting me with his timid gaze.
“Hey, man,” he says, hands in the pockets of his stonewashed jeans. “You think we could talk?”
“You wanna take that walk now?”
“Heh.” He smiles warily, turning his head each way down the hall before asking, “Maybe the backyard?”
I immediately consider the pool. “Skinny-dipping?”
Connor’s pinched look cools me down.
“Alright. Lemme grab my Crocs, and I’ll meet you out there.”
It’s already dark, and the dining table is cleared.
The family room is empty when I walk through it to the sliding patio doors.
The pool glows a soft teal color, and the solar path lights lead me to the diving board where Connor sits with his jeans rolled up and his feet dipped into the calm water.
He’s on his phone but looks up when I get close.
“Where’s my beloved family?” I ask.
“Thalia’s got a bunch of summer reading to finish. Your dad went to his office, and your stepmom’s in her room, I think. This place is a lot quieter than what I’m used to.”
“Frat house?”
He smiles. “Felt that way sometimes.”