Chapter 10 #2
But that didn’t mean frustration didn’t spike through him when they got to the car and Trevor said to him in a voice that definitely had a smug edge to it, “I’m so glad you brought that up today.”
“You mean that you brought that up today,” Lane countered, slipping into the driver’s seat.
“I didn’t.” He wouldn’t have ever brought it up.
He hadn’t ever brought it up, because he was never, one hundred percent certain that what he was seeing was legit.
He’d never been the smartest kid in school, but he had been good at football, especially on the field.
And he’d focused on that, just that, for a long time, but towards the end of his time at USC, he’d had a great receivers coach who’d taught him that film could expose a defense and create a play in a way that sheer physical skill couldn’t.
But as a bigger guy, known for his blocking and his hits as much as he was known for catching the ball, a lot of his early tentative suggestions had been shut down hard, and once or twice, even laughed at, so he’d learned to keep his study to himself.
Aidan wouldn’t laugh at him, he wasn’t that kind of teammate or that kind of captain. But the fear lingered. What if he looked stupid? What if he was wrong?
Trevor wouldn’t understand that. He’d gotten fantastic grades in school, had even been a finalist for the Campbell Trophy, awarded to the NCAA football player with the best academics.
“No, you didn’t,” Trevor said as Lane pulled out of the parking lot, “but I don’t understand why.”
Because everyone thinks you’re smart! Lane wanted to yell, but he wasn’t going to.
He was not going to lose his temper, because if he did, he didn’t know what would happen.
Would Trevor still like him after that? He’d wanted and needed and hoped for this for so long, he didn’t want to be the reason that it got fucked up now.
But he also hated that Trevor was volunteering his opinions in meetings, and he couldn’t keep doing that.
“Why doesn’t matter,” Lane said gruffly.
“Yeah, it sure fucking does,” Trevor argued.
“Don’t push this, okay? I know you want to. You keep talking about it to other people, other teammates, even, and you just can’t.”
“Why the fuck not? You’re good at this, and what you know can help the team! It helped the team today,” Trevor insisted.
Of course his words triggered the lingering guilt he’d already felt for not sharing.
He could usually banish it by reminding himself that Aidan was better at it on his worst day than Lane was on his best, but then he’d been wrong today, hadn’t he?
He hadn’t caught up on the miniscule physical cues the same as Lane had.
“I know, but—”
“Lane, seriously, what the fuck,” Trevor interrupted. He was beginning to sound testy, and Lane would be lying to himself if that fact didn’t freak him out.
Lane let out a hard sigh. “It worked out this time, okay? But it’s not always going to work out.”
“You don’t know that unless you share what you know,” Trevor pointed out.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Lane said. Sure, he’d gotten better at it. He could see that. Could logically acknowledge it, because it had helped him out enough times on the field over the years. Rarely did he see something and use that knowledge and discover that he’d made the wrong choice.
But that baked-in fear was so inherent, he didn’t know how to shake it. If he’d even be able to.
“You’re more than just a big pair of biceps and some killer abs, you know,” Trevor said. “You can do more than just block and then catch a ball.”
“Killer abs, huh?” Lane tried to change the subject and could tell right away that Trevor wasn’t buying it, because he shot Lane a look full of frustration.
“Don’t, okay?” Trevor retorted.
“I wasn’t—”
“I mean it,” Trevor said.
“I know you think you do,” Lane said, still trying to stay calm—not just because he was driving, but because the fear of sharing was nothing compared to the fear of what pissing off Trevor would mean.
“I do know. I came here and I didn’t really know you at all, all I knew was the stupid facade you showed everyone, like your public face, and guess what I found out?”
Trevor was silent long enough Lane realized that he actually wanted him to know. To ask. And ugh, that was bullshit. Trevor was so cute and he liked him so much, always had, but he also had a stubborn streak a mile wide.
He could imagine his mom grinning at him about it. Saying something about a mule meeting a bull. But she wasn’t going to, because she didn’t know about this, and he couldn’t imagine telling her.
Which, that was a panic for another day.
Finally he gritted out an extremely reluctant, “What?”
“I discovered that you’re smart. You’re funny. You’ve got a lot of good, important things to say. You’re even kind. A little difficult sometimes—”
“Hey,” Lane interrupted, because he felt like he should, instead of just letting himself sink into all these compliments like they were a warm bath.
“It’s true, but even that is kinda cute, honestly.” Trevor shot him a grin. “I’m just saying, dude, you don’t need to front with me—or with our teammates, either.”
“I’m not,” Lane claimed, but he probably was. A little. Or a lot.
He didn’t know how he felt about Trevor seeing through him, or about him seeing the real Lane.
“Just say thank you,” Trevor said, but he was rolling his eyes fondly.
“Thank you,” Lane said in a rough voice.
“Good,” Trevor said.
It didn’t feel like Trevor was going to drop the subject forever, but at least he didn’t bring it up again on the way home.
They’d gotten a grocery delivery today, and Trevor chattered on about what he was going to cook for dinner tonight, the hockey game he wanted to watch on TV tonight, the new book that Cam had recommended to him that he’d started.
It was easy enough conversation, light enough that Lane could pay half attention and participate without too much trouble.
The other half of his brain was currently analyzing or probably over-analyzing, everything that Trevor had just said to him. Because it didn’t seem like that guy, who had those kinds of thoughts about Lane, would be that easily freaked out or scared away by a little argument.
Maybe Lane wasn’t giving Trevor enough credit.
Maybe you haven’t ever given Trevor enough credit.
And that was totally possible. After all, the way he’d reacted to Lane’s bombshell revelation had been a shrug and a, Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Even though the guy had never even considered that he was into guys until this year! He’d still claimed he’d have wanted to know.
Lane hadn’t quite wrapped his head around that yet, but maybe him understanding it wasn’t that important. Maybe it was only important for Lane to accept it.
He pulled into the parking garage under his building, and Trevor trailed after him as they headed upstairs.
Trevor had been quiet—or nonconfrontational—for long enough that Lane was almost lulled into relaxing his guard. Trevor wouldn’t bring it up again. But then of course the moment they were in the apartment, he opened his stupidly big mouth again.
“That was just one little thing you shared—you see stuff all the time,” Trevor said as he headed into the kitchen.
Lane groaned, not bothering to hold back his frustration. “Can’t you just drop it?”
“No, because it feels ridiculous to me,” Trevor said self-righteously. “You wanna give me one good reason?”
“Yeah, sometimes it’s good, like today, and sometimes it’s not.”
“How often?” Trevor challenged, crossing his arms over his chest.
Lane tried to ignore the way it made his biceps fill out his T-shirt sleeves. This would be so much easier if he was less attracted to him.
“I don’t know,” Lane evaded, but he should really know better than to try to avoid telling Trevor something he wanted to know. He could be relentless; just like he’d been the other day, when he’d convinced Lane to admit the truth about how long he’d liked him.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Trevor argued.
And it was one thing to admit that, and it was another to get pushed way past his comfort zone about this.
“Why can’t you fucking leave it alone?” Lane argued.
“Because I want to win these games! I want to win a—” Trevor broke off, but it was obvious what he’d meant to say. “For me, sure, but for Aidan, too. And this feels like our year, doesn’t it?”
“Doesn’t mean it is.”
Trevor threw up his hands. “God, you are so fucking annoying. I don’t even know why I like you.”
Lane’s heart stuttered. Here it was. I don’t even know why I like you so easily morphing into, Actually, I don’t like you.
He’d thought he’d be angrier about it, when it finally happened. Resentful, maybe. Bitter, for sure. But instead, all he felt was bone-deep devastation sliding through him, cutting through bone and muscle and sinew like a hot knife through butter.
It was a challenge, but he tried to keep it off his face.
Keep his expression stony, but the way Trevor did a double take and then actually put the pork tenderloin he’d just taken out of the fridge back inside and walked around the island to stand right in front of him, told Lane he’d done a shitty job.
“What?” Lane challenged. Easier than sinking further into the inevitable. He didn’t want to be sad, he wanted to be mad.
Though, that wasn’t really true, either, was it?
He wanted to find that full-body satisfaction and rightness he’d been enjoying every morning when he woke up and Trevor was snoring away next to him, hair a mess, a crease from the pillow imprinted on his cheek.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Trevor repeated, but quieter. Less angry, more pleading.
“I’m—”
But Trevor didn’t let him finish. He just pulled Lane into his arms, wrapping them tightly around his middle. “You’re just so . . . so guarded,” he murmured into Lane’s shoulder. “I can’t get inside, and I want to.”
Lane’s throat closed tight. He didn’t know if he could even speak. But he had to. He had to. “But you said . . .”
“I said what?” Trevor pulled back, and there was concern and clear affection shining in his brown eyes.