Chapter 18
Aston
SETH HARRIS IS A SNIVELING
LITTLE WHORE!
HE WILL RUE THE DAY HE DARED TO
brEATHE THE SAME AIR AS ME.
HOMEWRECKING SKANK!
I know what you’re probably thinking.
Stalker much?
But I can explain!
You see, I didn’t plan on following Vale. At least not today.
And correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure actual stalking—like the hide in your trees, Peeping Tom, photos plastered all over the walls, I’ll fucking kill you if I can’t have you grr kind—emphasis on that last one—takes a bit more forethought and strategic planning than what I’m realistically capable of.
Not to mention diabolical intent.
Even on a good day, but especially on a day like today, where I kind of just want to marinade in my misery and listen to Celine Dion on repeat while I stare morosely at the ceiling.
Self-awareness, baby. It’s the name of the game. And yours truly is nothing if not an opportunist, and everything but…
Well, you get the picture.
Anywho, I digress. Let’s scritchy-scratch this record back.
So there I was after last period let out, shuffling pathetically down the hall like the sad sack of shit I am, “All by Myself” playing in my head on a loop—it was a really bad day, okay?
? —when miracle of all miracles, Casey motha-fuckin’ Shrute skips on by.
Yelling something about something to someone, and I catch words like practice and field…
And it was as if a little lightbulb exploded in my head, freezing me in my tracks. Eyes wide, I stood there for a solid three seconds wondering how something so simple—so obvious—didn’t even occur to me in the weeks I’ve been here.
Of course Vale had football practice.
And of course I needed to go watch it.
That’s what good, supportive boyfriends do, even when they’re on the outs.
But, if anything, it was remembering what happens after practice that really sealed the deal for me and kicked Plan B of my operation into gear.
Sing it with me, folks: locker room.
The magical place equally feared and revered by queer boys everywhere.
Roll in the spotlights and singing angels, it’s time to bow-chicka-wow-wow all up in—
A whistle blows, piercing the chilly fall afternoon, snapping me out of my fantasy.
My Blow Pop is nothing more than a wadded piece of crunchy gum, so I chomp down, ripping the stick out, and toss it somewhere behind me. Mashing my teeth until the gum’s nice and gooey, I blow the occasional bubble as I watch the guys converge toward the bench where their coaches stand.
Some guys take a knee. Others hunch over, hands to their thighs as they heave for air.
Then there’s Vale, standing there in the center, tanned, muscular arms crossed over his padded chest. Untouched. Unfazed. Truly, a god amongst his people.
Damn, my baby is fiiiiine.
Pinching the arm of my sunglasses, I slide them down to the tip of my nose to get an unobstructed view.
Save for that one water break when he finally spared me some attention, he’s made it a point to avoid looking this way.
His friend had stared. Some of the others too, not that I paid any of them much mind. I only had eyes for Vale.
And for a very brief moment in time, he only had eyes for me.
Just like the other night.
I shift in my seat, toes curling when I clench. The bench cold and hard as fuck on my still sore cheeks.
Imagine if he fucked me for real…
Would I even be able to walk???
I blow another bubble, so big it momentarily blocks my view before popping—loudly.
A couple of players glance my way, though I doubt they heard my gum snapping from way down there. But other than the cheerleaders hanging out off to the opposite side of the bleachers where I sit, there’s no one else around.
I wonder if they know who I’m here for. They have to, right? The rumor mill was a spinnin’ beautifully today, something I would’ve cherished most graciously if my little mouse hadn’t all but spit on our great love story by canoodling with the enemy this morning.
This must look pretty damn pathetic then, huh? Me following him around like a lost little puppy, waiting for just the barest of scraps, knowing everyone and their brother probably knows what we did the other night.
God, you must hate me right now. Where is my sense of self-worth? Where is my dignity?
Someone below cheers, followed by more whoops and hollers. Not Vale though, nope, no siree. If anything, he stands taller. Holds himself more rigidly, his coal-black eyes hard and unflinching as they glare from a sea of light and joy.
Gosh, I’d just love to squish those cheeks, stretch them out, split that sexy mouth into a grin. Watch those cold eyes erupt into icy, black flames.
“Alright, boys, hit the locker,” I hear shouted, followed by a strong, synchronized clap. Whooping, they all jump up and start running for the tunnel across the field.
Vale hangs back when Coach waves him over. Heads bowed together, they chat over a clipboard, pointing at whatever’s there. Finally, Coach claps him on the shoulder. Vale nods before jogging off to join the others.
He doesn’t look my way again.
But it’s okay. He doesn’t have to. Soon, he won’t have any other choice.
I’ve made sure of that.