The Jock Script (The Script Club 3)

“I know.”

He froze, then exhaled deeply. “Good. That…sucked. I need to make some changes. Fast. The headmaster pulled me aside after the game and told me we’d have to ‘handle’ the queer contingency this summer. He didn’t want to rain on the parade today, so he’ll do it later.”

“Oh. What did you say?”

“Nothing. He caught me off guard and…I didn’t know what to say. I’ll figure it out, though,” he said confidently.

“I know you will.” I heaved myself from the stair and shuffled toward the door again. “I wish you luck.”

Blake stood slowly, his forehead creased in a deep frown. “Ash, talk to me.”

“I don’t have much to say, but I suppose I should inform you that I can no longer be part of your journey. I failed.”

“Excuse me?”

“I failed. I was unable to remain impartial. I’ve become too…attached,” I choked.

“Ash…” He tipped my chin and rubbed his thumb along my jawline. “I’m sorry that scene happened with Katie. I didn’t know how to get away without—”

“It’s not Katie, Blake. It’s not her at all. It’s me. Perhaps we can be friends. I’ll need some time before I can do that well, though.”

“We’re more than friends,” he insisted gruffly.

“No, I can’t.” I pushed his hand away and shook my head, wiping a rogue tear from my cheek.

“You can’t…what?”

“I can’t be your friend, and I’m not qualified to help you. You have to do the rest yourself. It’s your life. That’s your job, your students, your livelihood. I can’t take responsibility for those changes you talk about making. I am a negative in this equation. I’m pulling energy away from you and clouding your head. I never meant to do that. I was only trying to help. But I’m in your way.”

“You’re not in the way. You’re the only person who makes sense to me.”

I shook my head. “I know some things about myself. I know I’m bossy, opinionated, and I like to organize…everything. But I can’t organize your coming-out story. I can’t make it into something I want. Don’t you see? It’s yours. You have to write the ending. I can’t do it.”

“I get that, but…what does that have to do with us?”

My vision blurred when I met his eyes. “We…we can’t be together for now. Maybe…sometime in the future, we’ll make sense, but right this second, I’m not what you need.”

His breath hitched audibly. His hand trembled as he dropped it to his side.

“You’re all I need,” he whispered.

“Blake…”

“How can I win?”

“Win?”

“Yeah, how do I get you to want me the way I want you?”

“I already do.”

He went still for a moment, pursing his lips as understanding dawned. “Wanting isn’t enough.”

Tears streamed down my face now. I couldn’t stop them, and I didn’t bother trying. “No.”

He looked as utterly defeated as I felt. I wanted to take everything back and give him what he wanted, but I couldn’t risk it. He needed to figure out who he was…without me.

Blake closed his eyes briefly, then pulled me against him and held on tight. I didn’t know how long we stood there. After a few minutes or maybe an hour, he kissed my forehead…and let go.

I meandered into the kitchen the next morning, spilled coffee on the counter, and left it. I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, promptly dropped it, and watched it roll across the floor, landing at Tommy’s feet. He picked it up and set it on the table.

George frowned. “Asher, are you okay?”

I considered the question for a hot second before replying, “No, but don’t worry. I’m going to seek professional advice.”

George, Holden, and Tommy shared a concerned look.

“Can we help?” Holden inquired.

“Maybe, but my mother is a psychologist, and I’m in need of a full evaluation. I asked her to meet me at her office.” I glanced at the time on my cell and shrugged. “I’m going to be late. That’s a first.”

Tommy stood, slipping his thumbs into his pockets awkwardly. “I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay. You’re wearing pajamas with chocolate stains on the front, your socks don’t match, and your glasses are smudged. We know you’re unhappy, Ash,” George said gently. “We’re your friends. Let us help.”

I swallowed around the lump in my throat and smiled. “You already have. I’ll be okay. I just need to talk to my mom.”

“If it’s any consolation, he’s a toad now. That spell always works.” George lifted his coffee mug in a toast.

“He’s not the bad guy, George,” I sighed. “And that’s the hard part. There really is no bad guy. It’s just bad timing.”

That was my theory, and I was sticking to it.

My mother’s office building was blissfully quiet on Sundays. I rode the elevator to the fifth floor alone, making sure to check my reflection in the mirrored interior before the doors slid open. I’d showered and changed into khakis and an oxford shirt. There was no sense in causing undue alarm by showing up in my PJs. I looked…presentable. And that was the best I could do for now.