KNIGHT
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sullivan is oversharing with D between puffed breaths about some piece he’s supposed to be working on for his advanced composition class.
They had choices, apparently, and he chose a string quartet, as opposed to a woodwind piece or a small symphony, which seems smart as I’m getting the impression he hasn’t been putting his composing skills to much use lately.
Why? I haven’t figured that out, and it’s not something D would know to ask him.
My roommate appears to have a real affection for Sullivan.
I don’t know if it’s because of the two semesters they spent living in the dorm together, or if there’s something he sees in Sullivan that he feels pulled toward in the same way I do.
Like the guy is in a hole, and we’ve got the rope that can pull him out, but he keeps missing it in the dark.
Every day we show up at the gym when Sullivan is supposed to meet us, there’s a moment I hold my breath waiting for him to arrive. Wondering if the hole finally buried him, or he’s decided not to try and get out. And every time he appears, it’s like thank God. He’s still looking for the rope.
What I haven’t gotten a chance to do yet is talk with him privately.
As much as I want that opportunity, it seems smarter not to seek it out.
I need to move on with my life and let him move on with his.
Our first game of the season is Saturday, and I’m already in full-on game mode.
I need to focus on my team like my life depends on it, because it more or less does.
There won’t be time for a pointless crush, and there’ll be less time to worry about whether Sullivan really is okay or not.
“How do you come up with the music?” D asks.
“Like what I want it to sound like?”
“Yeah. Do you just mess around on the violin for a while until you stumble on something that sounds like a good intro or chorus or whatever and go from there or—”
“No. It just sounds like—the way it sounds if that makes sense.”
“No,” Deandre and I say at the same time.
“Well—it’s a string quartet. I just picture four people playing the instruments somewhere—like in this case I’m picturing a wedding reception on a beach, and it sounds how that’s supposed to sound.”
I laugh. Sullivan gives me a crooked grin that just about kills me. “What?” he laughs. “It does. Just because your tiny brain can’t see it doesn’t mean—”
“Excuse me, can I ask you something about quadratic equations while we’re here?”
Sullivan’s already huge eyes get as big as planets. He slows his treadmill to a walk, shaking his head, unwilling to acknowledge what I said.
“See it or hear it?” Deandre asks.
Sullivan turns back to him. “Huh?”
“You said see it. Do you hear the music or see the music.”
“I guess it’s like—both. Do you not see music? Like when you hear it I mean.”
“Man, no. I don’t see music.”
“Well, your loss.”
“You mean you see the notes on a page?” I ask.
“Sometimes. But it’s more like—I don’t know. Like I see the shapes it makes.”
Astonished, I shake my head. “Okay, yeah. I’m gonna go ahead and say you lost me there.”
D says, “It makes shapes?”
“I guess not. Maybe I’m just nuts.”
“Or you’re a genius.”
“For all the good that does,” he deadpans.
I don’t want him going off on that train of thought, so I slow down my own treadmill and say, “Let’s hit the weights.”
“Right,” Sullivan says. “Upper body day. Can’t wait.”
When we get to the bench press, and I start to walk behind it, Sullivan stops me. “Let D spot me. You go work on your own chest. You have a game this weekend.”
I give him a harmless glare. “So does he.”
Sullivan shrugs and gives my shorts a quick glance. They aren’t lined today, even though they’ve got a long inseam. Okay, maybe I don’t need to be hovering my crotch over his head at the bench press. I’m flattered, though, and can’t help my smirk.
I do go on with my own workout, and I’m far enough away that I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can tell he and Deandre keep up a steady stream of conversation.
The pit I feel in the middle of my chest is very obviously jealousy, and at the heart of that jealousy is a craving unique to Sullivan Scott.
This nearly suffocating desire to wrap myself around him.
Wrap myself up in him. In his sounds and his warm scent and yeah—even his body, which we’re working on, but I love exactly the way it is, too.
I swallow hard, reminding myself none of it is meant for me. Our lives are separate. Our futures are separate, and there’s nothing I’m willing to do to change that. Not yet, I think just before I tear my gaze away from them. Those two words, though. That whisper of a thought brings me up short.
Not yet.
Because what the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Does it mean I do see him in my future? I mean, obviously I’d want him there if I could have that, but since I can’t, why is my brain leaving the door cracked on the option?
And besides, Sullivan isn’t an “option.” He’s a person.
Someone who deserves to be prioritized and taken care of.
Someone who deserves the freedom to live the life he chooses for himself, not the life someone corners him into because they’re too weak or too much of a coward to be authentic.
Fuck, when am I gonna get it through my thick skull that I don’t need that?
I chose football, and I have never once looked back.
Never once regretted it. Sullivan sees shapes in music, and I see shapes, too—on the field.
My brain knows exactly how to analyze the positions of the players in rapid time.
I find the formations, I focus on the openings, I play smart and I play hard.
I’m good. I love it, too. It gives me confidence, it’s given me incredible friendships.
It gives me something to look forward to.
It keeps my brain and my body more than occupied.
It’s gonna get me paid, and it’s also gonna make me rich.
Football is a tool, a coping mechanism, a passion, a partner.
It’s literally everything I need, and yes.
I choose it. I choose it above all other things, because maybe one day it’ll let me down, but it won’t be because I didn’t give it everything I’ve got—and it won’t be because it didn’t believe in me enough, and it won’t be because I disappointed it or failed it in some way.
The game is not a person, and it can’t hurt me. Not the way I’m most afraid of being hurt. It won’t ever be because I’m not enough. If there’s one thing I believe in with my whole soul it’s that I belong on that field.
When the three of us leave the gym, sweat-drenched and shiny, Sullivan asks if D and I want to grab something to eat and says he’ll let us order for him.
“I got this,” I tell Deandre just as he’s about to speak up. “I want Thai, and I know you hate that shit.”
“There’s a sandwich place right there.” He points across the street at a franchise sub shop.
“Yeah, well we’re getting noodles. Take it or leave it.”
D makes a face and waves us off. “See you back at the house. You coming to the game Saturday?” he asks Sullivan.
I look at our joint project curiously.
He glances up at me with a frown.
“It’s at three,” I say helpfully, because I figure he has plans for the night.
“Oh, well, uh…”
“You gotta come. Have you ever been to one? Freshman year maybe?” I ask.
As I suspected, Sullivan shakes his head.
I lift my brows, expectantly. I’ve seen what he can do with a violin and a cello. The least he can do is see what I can do with a football. Not that he’s obligated or anything, but…well…it might be cool.
“Sure, maybe. I’ll see if I can get tickets.”
That’s a copout. “I’ll give you tickets. My mom and dad will be there, so I have four more.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Do I have to sit with them?”
I shrug. “You can figure it out.”
“Maybe we can discuss this with some noodles.”
He’s hungry. That’s good.
“Sure. The restaurant is literally two doors down.”
Satisfied that he’s coming to the game, Deandre says his goodbyes, leaving me alone with Sullivan for the first time in months.
I wasn’t prepared for all the physical urges to come back at me so fast. I want to hug him.
I want to cage him in against a building.
I want to put my hands under his shirt and crowd him. I want our mouths open on lips or skin.
The surge of lust has my dick thickening in a hurry. I avoid looking at him as we walk because we’re just supposed to be friends now.
Fuck, I wonder how he’s doing with that. “Is this okay?” I ask quickly.
“It’s great,” he says, just as fast.
“We haven’t really gotten a chance to—”
“Yeah, I know. This is good. I like Thai food.”
“Okay good.”
“You guys are really taking this assignment seriously,” he says, deadpan.
“I always take assignments seriously.”
“And Deandre?”
“He loves a project.”
“Yeah, I noticed that when we were roommates. He has more model car sets than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
I laugh at that. I’ve noticed all the cars in Deandre’s room. I don’t think I knew he made them himself, though. Or maybe it’s something I forgot.
“He took me to the grocery store Monday,” Sullivan adds.
I frown at that. “He didn’t mention it.”
“He’s got me making protein smoothies.”
“Ah. How are they?”
“Easier to make than bacon and eggs.”
“You can tell us if any of this is too much.”
“No, I don’t mind it. I guess I missed him.”
And me? I want to ask but don’t.
I clock the entrance to the restaurant a hundred yards away. “Looks a hell of a lot like he missed you, too. Why didn’t you guys stay in touch sophomore year?”
“I don’t know that I ever really considered him a friend.”
“Why? He obviously considered you one.”
“I guess it wasn’t as obvious to me then. You guys—you all had your own thing.”
“Football, you mean?”
“Yeah. You were on a team. I had my own friends anyway.”
“You still talk to them?”
“Just Chelsea,” he says.
“How’s Chelsea?”
“Both our majors got a little more cutthroat this semester, so we’re having to reprioritize some things.”
“Hm.” I want to know more about what he means by that, but we’re at the restaurant now, and I open the door. The A/C inside does immediate wonders to cool my sweat. “What’s she majoring in?”
“She was a music major, but she switched last year, and now she’s doing a double major in film and journalism.”
“To do what?”
“Make documentaries.”
“That’s smart. To do journalism along with the film major, huh?”
“She’s pretty smart,” he says.
“Just two?” the petite, pretty hostess asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“This way.”
We follow her to a booth along the wall and sit opposite each other.
Sullivan takes the seat facing the door.
The small restaurant isn’t slammed, but there are other people here.
Plenty of college-aged kids, more than one who I can tell recognizes me when they see me.
That took some getting used to last year, but now I smile as pleasantly and nonchalantly as I can, trying not to act like it’s weird as hell every time.
Sullivan barely glances at his menu. “You want me to get noodles, too?”
“You like noodles?”
“I’m starving. I don’t care.”
I bite back the smile I want to unleash on him.
I’ve watched him starve before, and he’s doing the opposite of that now.
So yes, I will continue taking this assignment seriously.
I have my own goals I want to reach, too.
Increase my muscle mass by ten percent, improve to a six-minute mile, and get eight hours of sleep a night.
The six-minute mile seems the furthest away by far.
I can sprint, but I’ve never been much of a runner.
I’m not sure whether more muscle will help or hurt with that.
I take a minute to look at the menu, make my suggestion for drunken noodles, and he agrees. We guzzle the glasses of water our waiter drops off and place the order. Now I have to look at Sullivan and pretend like I know exactly how to go about just being friends with him.
“How was your summer?” he asks.
“Not as good as last summer.”
His cheeks, which were pale from the cold A/C, heat with color.
“Were you in town at all?” It’s something I wanted to know but was afraid to ask the whole time I was home.
“I came back for a couple of days in July before my classes started. Otherwise, no.”
I know better than to ask him where he was before that in case it was the thing he doesn’t want to talk about—whatever place he called me from when he sounded so lost, I was afraid I might never see him again.
I think I might need to get over that at some point. The fear of asking about it. If it’s something that could hurt him—or worse—maybe it’s better if I put something on the line and get him to talk about it with me.
I don’t want to do it today, though. There are other things I need to know first. “Are you feeling better about school this semester?”
“Yeah. I like having a class with you—and D,” he adds. “Whoever’s idea it was, it was a good one.”
It was his idea. “Why’s that?”
If it’s possible, he blushes more, but he also rubs his face with his hands and looks down before glancing around at the other diners. “Don’t flirt,” he says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are, Knight, and you have to stop. You can’t make this feel like a date. You need to be cracking jokes or something.”
“Why don’t you crack a joke then?”
“Because I don’t know any. And stop looking at me like that.”
I have no clue what he means. “I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“Then just stop looking at me.”
“You think we should arm wrestle or something? Friends do that, right?”
For that, I get a laugh, but the way his eyes sparkle when he does it, I don’t know. Maybe he’s right. Maybe being out in public when we’ve never done the friends thing before wasn’t the best call for either of us.
But the underlying tension between us—that pull between us that started during UNO that first night? It doesn’t feel like it’s gone anywhere. If anything, it’s more insistent. For me anyway. Is he feeling it, too? Is that why he’s giving me shit about how I’m looking at him?
Now I have to know. “Is this hard for you, too?”
“Yeah, actually,” he admits without any follow-up questions.
“How do we make it easier?”
“Maybe it’ll just take time,” he says.
“Practice,” I agree.
“Yeah. That, too.”