SHORT STORIES 5 #2
As we walked back toward campus under the streetlights, a comfortable silence settled between us. Parker bumped my shoulder lightly with his.
"Thanks for tonight, Wyatt. You're a good friend already."
Friend. The word should have relieved me. Instead, it left an ache I didn't know how to name.
Back in my room, Isaiah was studying. He glanced up and raised an eyebrow. "You were out with Parker?"
"Just dinner," I said quickly. "Mentor stuff."
He nodded, but there was a knowing look in his eyes I chose to ignore. I went to bed early, praying for clarity and peace. God had brought me here for a reason. I just needed to stay on the path.
But as sleep finally claimed me, my dreams were filled with hazel eyes and the sound of a fastball cutting through the air. And for the first time in a long while, I didn't wake up feeling guilty. I woke up wondering what might happen next.
Chapter 2
The days after that pizza dinner passed in a rhythm that felt both familiar and new. Classes demanded my focus, and I buried myself in problem sets and proofs, letting the clean logic of mathematics push away the confusing thoughts that kept surfacing whenever Parker was around. But the mentor program required regular check-ins, and Parker made those meetings easy. He was reliable, always showing up with a smile and a thank you that sounded sincere. Slowly, our conversations stretched beyond schedules and study tips.
One Thursday afternoon, we met in the student center after his morning classes. Parker arrived carrying his baseball bag, his shoulders still tense from practice. We claimed a quiet corner table near the windows, sunlight streaming in and catching the faint stubble along his jaw.
"Coach is riding us hard this week," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Big series coming up against Baylor. I need to keep my mechanics sharp."
I nodded, though I only half-understood the terminology. "Anything I can help with? Not with the throwing, obviously, but maybe the mental side? Stats or strategy?"
He chuckled, a warm, low sound that made something flutter in my chest. "You already do. Talking to you helps me chill out. Most guys on the team just hype each other up. You listen."
We spent the next hour reviewing his English composition paper. Parker had a solid voice in his writing, but he struggled with structure. I walked him through organizing his arguments, and he took notes carefully, his large hand moving across the page. At one point, our fingers brushed when I pointed to a paragraph. I pulled back quickly, heat rising to my face.
"Sorry," I muttered.
"No problem," he replied, his hazel eyes steady on mine for a beat longer than necessary. Or maybe I was imagining it.
Isaiah joined us later that evening in the dorm. The three of us ordered takeout and watched a baseball game on the small TV in our room. Isaiah was surprisingly knowledgeable about the sport, explaining plays to me while Parker offered commentary from the player's perspective.
"See that? That's what I work on every day," Parker said during a pitching change, leaning forward. His knee rested close to mine on the couch. I didn't move away.
As the game went on, conversation turned personal. Isaiah shared stories about his family in Dallas—strict but supportive, with a younger brother who looked up to him. Parker talked about his little sister back home who played softball and idolized him. When they turned to me, I hesitated.
"My family is close," I said finally. "Church is a big part of everything. Dad's a deacon, Mom runs the women's Bible study. My sisters are still in high school, always involved in youth group."
"Sounds a lot like my house," Parker replied. "We pray before every meal and every game. Keeps me grounded."
Isaiah glanced between us but said nothing. Later, after Parker headed back to his own dorm, Isaiah closed his laptop and looked at me directly.
"He's a good guy, Wyatt. But you seem... different around him. Everything alright?"
I forced a laugh. "Yeah, just tired. College is intense."
He didn't press, but his expression suggested he saw more than I wanted him to. That night, alone in bed, I replayed the evening. The easy laughter, the way Parker looked at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. I whispered prayers for guidance, asking God to quiet my heart. The answers I sought didn't come easily.
The following weekend, Parker invited me to attend one of his home games. "Bring Isaiah if you want," he said over text. "It'll be fun."
I agreed, and Isaiah was happy to tag along. We sat in the student section, the energy of the crowd buzzing around us. When Parker took the mound in the third inning, the announcer called his name, and the stands erupted. He looked focused, powerful. Strike after strike, he dominated the batters. Each time he struck someone out, he would glance toward our section, and I found myself cheering louder than I expected.
After the game—a solid Rice victory—Parker found us outside the locker room. His hair was still wet from the shower, and he smelled faintly of soap and fresh air. He pulled me into a quick, one-armed hug, the kind athletes gave teammates.
"Thanks for coming, man. Having you there meant a lot."
His body was warm and solid against mine for those few seconds. I stepped back, heart racing. "You were incredible out there."
We walked together across campus, the three of us grabbing burgers from a food truck. Parker was in high spirits, recounting key plays. Isaiah teased him about a close call at the plate. I listened, content to be part of the group. As the sun set, painting the sky in oranges and pinks, Parker slowed his pace to match mine while Isaiah took a call from his family.
"You know," Parker said quietly, "growing up, baseball was my way out. My family expected a lot—be the man of the house one day, provide, stay on the straight path. But out on the field, I feel free. Like I can just be me for a while."
I understood that feeling more than he knew. "I get it. Math does that for me. It's a world where things add up perfectly."
He smiled, bumping my shoulder again. "Glad we both found our things."
That simple touch sent warmth spreading through me. I wanted to say more, to share the weight I carried, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I nodded and changed the subject to upcoming midterms.
Midterms arrived with a vengeance. I spent long hours in the library, surrounded by textbooks and notes. Parker had away games, so our contact was mostly through texts—encouragement, study memes, and the occasional question about a homework problem. Each message made me smile more than it should.
One night, after a particularly brutal calculus exam, I returned to the dorm exhausted. Isaiah was out, and I collapsed onto my bed. My phone buzzed. It was Parker.
"Hey, heard midterms are kicking everyone's butt. You free tomorrow afternoon? I could use some help with stats, and maybe we can hit the gym after. My treat for dinner again."
I typed back before I could overthink it. "Sure. See you at 3?"
The next day, we met at the library. Parker looked tired but determined. We worked through probability problems, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he finally grasped a concept, his face lit up, and he reached across the table to fist-bump me.
"You're a lifesaver, Wyatt."
Afterward, we headed to the campus gym. I wasn't much of an athlete, but Parker insisted it would help clear my head. He spotted me on the weights, his hands steady on the bar, his voice encouraging. "You've got this. One more."
Sweat dripped down my back as I pushed through the set. Being close to him like that, feeling the strength in his guidance, stirred feelings I had tried so hard to suppress. In the locker room afterward, as we changed, I kept my eyes averted, but I couldn't help noticing the defined lines of his chest and arms. Guilt washed over me immediately. I excused myself to the showers quickly, letting the cold water punish my wandering thoughts.
Dinner that night was at a quiet Italian place off campus. Over pasta and breadsticks, conversation flowed easily. Parker talked about his faith—how it motivated him but also sometimes made him question if he was living up to expectations.
"Sometimes I wonder if God has a different plan than what my parents picture," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Does that make me a bad son?"
I set down my fork. "No. I think... I think God knows our hearts. We just have to trust Him."
Our eyes locked, and something unspoken passed between us. The air felt thicker. Parker looked like he wanted to say more, but he simply nodded and smiled. "You're wise, Wyatt. I'm lucky to have you around."
Back at the dorm, Isaiah was waiting with popcorn and a movie queued up. The three of us settled in, but my mind kept drifting to Parker. Later, when the room was dark and Isaiah's breathing evened out in sleep, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The pull toward Parker was growing stronger, no matter how much I prayed for it to lessen. Part of me feared what that meant. Another part—a small, hopeful part—wondered if maybe it wasn't a curse after all.
The following week brought rain and cooler weather. Parker had a tough loss in a game, and he texted me late that night. "Rough one. Mind if I swing by to talk?"
I met him in the common lounge. He looked defeated, shoulders slumped. We sat on a worn couch, and he opened up about the pressure—the scouts watching, his family's pride, the fear of letting everyone down.
"I don't know if I can keep this up forever," he admitted. "Being the guy everyone expects."
I placed a hand on his arm without thinking. "You don't have to be perfect. You're already enough."
He covered my hand with his for a moment, the touch electric. "Thanks. I mean it."
When he left, the warmth of his hand stayed with me. Isaiah found me still sitting there later.
"Wyatt," he said gently, "if you ever need to talk about anything—anything at all—I'm here. No judgment."