Nick
CHAPTER FIVE
I might have finished my Chinese assignment yesterday, but this is college, and I have another fifty things due today, too. At least my sleep schedule is fucked enough for me to stay up late and get stuff done without suffering too much the next day, provided—
Ugh.
Provided nobody wakes me up before I have to.
Groaning, I reach for my nightstand and grab my buzzing phone. Right as I’m about to hang up and go back to sleep, my eyes catch on the caller ID.
It’s Brad. My agent.
I accept the call.
“Did you see the news?” Brad asks, not giving me a chance to speak.
I try and fail to shake the sleep out of my brain. “Huh? What?”
“Nick, it’s past noon where you are. Did you just wake up?”
“Yeah, I had a super late night. I was balls-deep—”
He groans. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
“—in a mountain of deadlines,” I continue, which makes him scoff.
“Don’t scare me! God.” Those are tough words for someone who had to hold back a snicker at the end of his sentence. “Anyway, you didn’t hear this from me, but Jack Nowak is in some hot water with the league.”
Just hearing that guy’s name makes me roll my eyes.
Nowak is the guy who scraped ahead of me in the draft last July, and he got a spot with Detroit’s minor league affiliate, the Lansing Lemurs.
One that should have gone to me, since running quickly shouldn’t make up for his slightly worse batting average—
“What happened?” I ask, to not seem like a total self-centered douche. Hot water could mean anything, from getting into a bar fight to—
“Arrested for aggravated assault. The police also found a stash of unlicensed guns at his place.”
The hell?
“This is absolutely an unprecedented situation,” Brad continues. “I haven’t seen anything like it in my career so far.”
I bite my tongue to avoid reminding Brad that he’s less than five years older than me and that I’m one of his first clients. What he lacks in experience, he makes up for in results, so I sure as hell want to stay on his good side. Besides, he isn’t wrong about this being unheard of.
“Right,” I say. Even though I’m not one to relish in anyone’s downfall, I’m an undrafted free agent—openings are scarce, and anything helps. “What’s going to happen now?”
He huffs through the phone. “Now? Detroit’s shitting their pants, and I’m gonna be busting my ass off trying to get you back on their radar in case this goes nuclear.”
I stay silent. If there’s a chance at going pro, I sure as hell am gonna take it.
Unlike my friends who are also studying Kinesiology, I have exactly zero ideas about how to turn my degree into something useful job-wise, so if there’s no way for me to go pro, I’ll have to come up with something before I graduate.
It isn’t like I have a home to go back to, but I thrive under pressure. If I make going pro my only option, maybe I’ll have a better chance at making it.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Right,” I say, snapping my attention back to the conversation. “Thanks. And I’ll make sure to keep up with training so I’m ready for when scouts are prowling practices next year.”
“Awesome. Sounds like a plan.”
We sign off, and I flop back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling and contemplating my life.
This is the single best chance I have at doing what I want, and it’s one I have to take.
With a groan, I heave my reluctant body out of bed and plod to the kitchen, greeting a sweaty Jeremy right as he walks back in from a run.
God, he’s out here running while I’m lazing around in bed, meanwhile, I’m the one who wants to go pro this year.
I envy the juniors who still have all the time in the world to figure their shit out.
It isn’t like I haven’t been training or anything. It’s just that I know I could be doing a lot more—the baseball team at WMU is trialing independent conditioning in the off-season, maybe to weed out some of the less-motivated players, and I don’t want to get lumped in with that group.
Besides, my next realistic step is joining a minor league team, hopefully triple-A, and they’re a huge step up from college ball. What I want to avoid is getting my shot and then screwing it up by being a lazy piece of shit.
Grumbling to myself, I grab a protein bar and head back into my room to text Ian.
sup
wanna hit legs later?
Ian
For sure
Let’s check out the new gym
it’s open??
Yup they finally installed the equipment
Fucking finally. WMU dragged their feet on opening a new athletics facility for far too long, and the old one was falling apart. With newfound excitement, I change out of my PJs and pack my workout bag, heading out and speed-walking to the gym.
Man, this new place is swanky. It smells like construction materials and industrial air freshener, not stale BO, and the lights actually work. Too bad WMU only finished building it in time for my last year here, and not even for when the year started.
On my way to the varsity athlete locker room, I pass by a glass wall overlooking the basketball courts on a lower floor, and I peer down to see what it’s like.
Right as none other than Dean Shen himself scores a sick three-pointer.
Wait, does he play varsity basketball? How did I not know that? And why didn’t he mention it?
I glance at the scoreboard, which says Economics vs. Health Sciences.
Right. I forgot intramurals were a thing. Without thinking, I whip my phone out to text Dean.
nice basket
surprised you aren’t on the varsity team
My brain stutters as soon as I hit send. Dean’s gonna be creeped out for sure—why did I have to go and do that?
Shaking my head, I go to get changed. The new facilities are lush as hell with dim lighting and empty, unused lockers, but I don’t stand around admiring anything too much. I’m already late, and I’m not trying to leave before I blast my fucking legs into a pulp.
Dean texts me back right as I’m putting shorts on, and I reach for my phone with the fabric bunching around my left ankle.
Dean Shen
Bro, stop stalking me
Lmfao
Jk thanks
haha yeah I’m checking out the new gym and saw the court at the right time
Nice
you ever think about going pro?
Nah. Believe it or not, some people don’t want to live life on hard mode
I bark out a laugh and tap out a reply, still grinning, when someone clears their throat.
I jerk my head up to find Ian grinning at me.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks.
“No, why?”
He scoffs. “Oh, no reason. You’re just half-nakedly smiling into your phone. I thought I'd check in case you were having a little fun with someone.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I shove my phone into my pocket.
Damn it, I’m half-naked like Ian said—I don’t have a pocket. My phone falls to the tiled floor with a clatter.
“I was replying to a text,” I mutter, bending over and inspecting my phone for damage. “You know me. No hookups since I was a sophomore.”
Ian tilts his head but stays silent, choosing to get changed instead of replying. Still, there’s some kind of inquisitive expression plastered across his face as he slips into the borderline-obscene pair of tiny workout shorts he always wears on leg day.
Sure, objectively, my buddy has some nice legs, but I’m not trying to get an eyeful whenever I talk to him.
“You know, you have options beyond hooking up,” he finally says.
Groaning, I finish pulling on my own pair of gym shorts, which aren’t nearly as obnoxious as Ian’s.
“Man, I’m graduating in, like, six months.
” It’s my newest excuse—my go-to has gone through various iterations over the years, from “I’m still hung up on my ex,” to “I’m focusing on training,” to “too much drama, must avoid.”
“And besides, guys always want to hook up before going out with me,” I continue, hinting at my real motivation for staying alone. “You know I don’t like that.”
“Yeah.” Ian exhales and presses his locker shut. “That’s tough, but I’m sure someone is gonna wait for you.”
I manage to hold back a wince, smiling back and digging around in my bag for my earbuds. The way someone is gonna have to wait until I get over my quirks doesn’t bode well for my prospects.
“It’s whatever,” I mutter, shoving my darkening thoughts aside. “But enough of that. Let’s work out.”
The two of us head into the weight training area, and Ian lets out a slow whistle as soon as we step in.
“Talk about an upgrade. Holy shit.” He scans the room, searching, and his face lights up a few seconds later. “Fuck yeah. They have a hip thrust machine.”
I don’t have a chance to rib him for being a little too excited, because he’s speed walking over to use said machine before I can even think. Shrugging, I grab a mat to warm up—Ian’s on a years-long mission to fill out the lower part of his uniform, and if it makes him happy, who am I to judge?
Once I’m loose and limber, I bang out some reps on the leg extension while trying not to show concern for the sheer volume Ian’s trying to lift. My latest body composition scan confirmed I’m not lacking in leg power at all, so I don’t go nearly as hard as—
Ian’s walking over. He probably wants a spot. I’m all done, so I stand up.
“Spot me on the squat rack?” he asks.
“You bet.”
We make our way over, and like I always do, I get in position behind Ian and wrap my arms around his waist, growling a horny purr into his ear which makes him scoff.
“Fuck off,” he mutters through a smile, backhanding my chest. “It’s not my fault you aren’t getting any, so don’t take it out on me.”
“Mmm. Angry guys are such a turn-on,” I lie.
“Shut the hell up.” He lets out a scoffed chuckle. “One more word from you, and I’m shoving a fifty-pound dumbbell right up your ass.”
I soften my tone and pout my lips. “Aww, stretch me open, Daddy.”
“Never change, man.” Out of not-so-witty replies, Ian rolls his eyes and angles himself under the barbell. I chuckle, taking my actual spotter pose before helping him through his sets.
It’s odd, really, how I can get all jokingly nasty with my friends, but I can’t follow through with said nastiness for real with anyone else when push comes to shove.
As much as Ian was joking earlier, I’m neglecting a dry spell that’s pushing two years, and it’s a hundred percent on me for not trying.
It’s just…I’m not wired like other guys. I know I only like other dudes like that, but I can’t bring myself to ignore my initial nerves and pretend to like hooking up when it makes me uncomfortable as hell.
I’m not doing that again. Once was enough, and the other times after…I didn’t pretend, which ended exactly as well as it sounds.
Opting out of the whole thing makes the most sense for me—
“Yo, help me out here!” Ian grunts, and I snap back to reality.
Oh, fuck, he’s straining.
I jolt upright and rack the barbell with a loud clang. “Hey, don’t go so hard.”
Red-faced, panting, Ian stumbles backward and collapses on the padded floor next to me. “You’re probably right. Sorry.”
“Nah, you’re good.” I grin down at him. “You’re so sweet, building a nice ass for your boyfriend.”
He rolls his eyes and smacks my ankle. “That is not why I go hard on leg day, but if he asked, I would.” His face molds into a tired smile. “You know I’d do anything for him.”
“Aww, you’re so fucking disgusting,” I tease, giving his ribs a gentle kick.
What Ian and Callum have—they’re not the most conventional pairing, but the level of obsession they have for each other is out of this world.
They have something super sweet, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m allowed to deserve the same.