Prologue #4
They finished up their breakfast and then Trevor took them in his car to the high school gym. It was like peeling back the last year to walk through the doorway, with its full hearts can’t lose slogan that they’d borrowed from Friday Night Lights, painted above.
Trevor tapped it and then Lane did too, like every single player and even every single alumnus did.
He’d thought he’d feel different coming back here, the experience of a full year of football and school and living elsewhere, but instead he felt like the same kid underneath, everything he’d done and experienced just a veneer.
The same kid, with the same problems.
Watching Trevor work out was a particular kind of torture, but at least it was a torture he was used to. A torture he mostly knew how to deal with.
It was the same, but it was different too.
Trevor was a year older. Bigger. Stronger. He hadn’t really bulked up the way that Lane had cautioned against, but there was no question as Lane spotted him that he was lifting a lot more, growing into his strength.
He’d been steeling himself, sealing off thoughts he couldn’t—shouldn’t—have about teammates and friends for years now, and it should have been easier to shut the door on everything he felt, watching Trevor strain and struggle through the last few reps.
It wasn’t.
Lane went over to the water fountain, deliberately trying to give himself a minute of time and space.
To breathe. To try to remind himself of everything he’d ever promised himself when it came to his sexuality and his chosen future career.
Trevor was his former teammate. His straight former teammate. His straight former teammate whose dad happened to be married to Lane’s mom, now.
There had never been anyone more completely off-limits than Trevor.
Lane bent over the fountain and breathed in and out once. Then again. Maybe the problem was that he’d put this high barbed-wire fence so thoroughly all around Trevor. But what else could he do? Trevor was never going to be less off-limits.
That wasn’t just wishful thinking, it was fucking facts.
Cold, hard facts, he repeated to himself. Over and over again. Maybe if he thought it enough times, it would sink in.
Lane straightened and then, a second later, a hot line of a person pressed against his back, the sound of laughter in his ear and he tensed.
“Hey, bro,” Trevor teased, leaning against him fully.
Before, Lane had only had his imagination to supply him with what Trevor’s incredible body would feel like against his. Now he knew. Wouldn’t ever be able to forget. And it was ruinous.
Lane came back to himself a second too late. A second too late to not know. He shoved Trevor off, probably harder than he should. Definitely harder than he deserved.
Trevor also didn’t deserve the way he glanced back over his shoulder and snapped, “Dude, I’m not your fucking bro.”
Trevor recoiled from the edgy frustration in his voice.
“But—”
“No,” Lane said, too harshly. But he was right on the edge, too much feeling swirling around inside him, too slippery to get a handle on any of it.
Sighing, Trevor just shrugged. “It’s just a word. Maybe an opportunity for both of us. You didn’t have one either, growing up.”
None of this was Trevor’s fault. It wasn’t his fault that apparently the sweat slicking up his skin was irresistible to Lane, full of an undefinable something that made him want to throw self-control away with both hands.
“No, I didn’t. Still don’t.” It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, Lane reminded himself, but he couldn’t swallow the words back, even though he was already swamped with guilt over saying them.
Which was worse? The shitty conflict—attraction battering like a wave against the foundation of immutable truth—warring inside Lane? Or the way Trevor’s bright face fell as he understood exactly what Lane was saying?
Frankly, a toss-up.
If Lane had expected he’d feel better after establishing that boundary, he was wrong. It was worse, after.
The way Trevor could barely look at him as they finished up in the weight room, like Lane had extinguished a light.
You’re the fucking worst, Lane told himself with vehemence.
On the car ride here, they’d talked about heading out to one of the empty fields. Running some drills. Some routes. Lane had promised to try to impart some of the collegiate wisdom he’d picked up during the last year.
But when they picked up their stuff, Trevor didn’t turn to go towards the fields, but towards the parking lot and the car.
Lane huffed out a breath, wishing he could assuage some of this fucking wretched nausea-inducing remorse. He shouldn’t have snapped. He should be better than that.
He was better than that.
“Hey,” he said, bracing himself as he caught Trevor’s arm before he could turn away entirely. He could hear his mom’s voice in the back of his head, reproachful. Raised you better than this, she’d say. Now fix this.
God, I’m fucking trying, Mom.
“What?” Trevor sounded justifiably bitchy. He shook Lane’s hand off his arm. Lane wouldn’t have blamed him if he punched him in the face. He deserved it.
“I—” He couldn’t say he hadn’t meant it, because he had. He was probably never going to be able to see Trevor as a brother. That ship had sailed, before he’d even realized who Trevor was.
“Oh?” Trevor bitched. Then rolled his eyes.
“Listen, that was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry I’m gonna be such a . . . disappointment as a brother.” They’d both be disappointed by it. Trevor because he’d probably never understand why Lane pushed him away. Lane because he had to push him away at all.
“You’re not,” Trevor argued.
Because of course he thought that. Even when he should be justifiably pissed as hell at Lane, he wasn’t.
Just another fact to add to the long list of reasons why Lane was never going to get anything he wanted: Trevor was, plain and simple, too fucking good for him.
“I really am. But at least I’m sorry about that.”
The corner of Trevor’s lips—full and flushed pink, a thought Lane shoved away almost as soon as he had it—curled up.
“Are you?”
“Yeah,” Lane said with a heartfelt nod. He dredged up a small smile, even though the last thing he felt like was smiling.
Trevor waited a long moment. “Alright,” he finally said.
“Come on,” Lane said, “let’s go run some routes. You’ll feel better if you do.”
“I don’t feel bad,” Trevor said, and that much was obvious.
No, that was just Lane. “Then it’ll make me feel better,” he said.
Trevor smiled then, the full sunshine treatment.
It felt good, even as disastrous as that was.
“That’s a good reason,” Trevor said, because of course he did.
And after, Lane did feel a little better, but that probably wasn’t because anything really changed.
Trevor was still irresistibly hot. Charming and sweet and good. Good enough that God, Lane was kind of dying to mess him up a little.
But you’re not going to.
No, the only reason he felt better was that by the time they were done practicing, and grabbed food on their way home, he’d decided that he was going to have to go back to California ASAP.
He couldn’t risk any more outbursts, any more shitty comments that he’d eventually not be able to apologize for, not just poisoning his relationship with Trevor, but his mom, too.
Because Delia wouldn’t ever understand, and he wasn’t about to enlighten her, because then she’d be burdened with the knowledge too.
The last thing Lane wanted was for her to feel anything but joy and happiness over this new life she was building with her new husband.
When they got back to the house, and after showering, he reached out to a few friends and acquaintances. Something he should’ve done when his initial summer plans had fallen through, but naively he’d thought that after a year away, things would’ve changed.
But they hadn’t changed enough.
Maybe with time and distance, it would. But clearly, it was not there yet.
Maybe he’d even meet a guy who left Trevor’s memory in the dust. After all, it wasn’t like they even had anything.
They’d never been involved. All he’d ever had was an overactive imagination and hope.
Surely it would be easy enough to find something—or someone—that could make those things a distant memory.
It took twenty-four more hours, but he finally got a handle on a new living situation from a friend of a friend. Reached out and got his work-study job back.
There was nothing else to do but to tell his mom, that no, sorry, he wouldn’t be spending the summer in Arizona after all.
He waited until it was just her, in the kitchen after dinner.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” he asked, leaning against the counter next to the sink as she rinsed dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
She looked over at him, love and affection clear on her pretty face. “Of course, sweetie. What’s up?”
Lane swallowed hard. He didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t know how to do this. Surely, next year would be easier. Or the year after that.
“I know I said I’d come back to AZ for the summer, but actually, something’s come up.”
Delia flicked off the water and turned to him with a frown on her face. “Something’s come up?”
It was a stupid fucking excuse.
But Lane didn’t want to be the poison ruining this new family unit, curdling it from the inside out. Curdling himself from the inside out.
“Yeah,” Lane said. “Um. A new opportunity. To train with some guys during the offseason. USC guys.”
“You want to go back to California,” she said carefully. Didn’t ask, Lane noticed. But as careful as she was, it was impossible to mask the disappointment haunting her eyes.
He nodded. Not sure he’d trust himself to speak. To say the right thing—or just more wrong things.
“Is it—”
“No, no, no,” Lane said hurriedly. “It’s not this house or Tom or um . . . Trevor. Or any of that. I promise.”
He hated lying to her, because he’d never had to before. But how could he ruin this happiness for her? Make her regret taking this step and marrying Tom? Not when it clearly filled her with so much satisfaction?