The Friend Zone (Game On 2)

I snap my head up and catch his gaze. It’s a game of chicken but I don’t blink. ’Londo might be fast as fuck, but I’m bigger and a better tackle. I will take him down in a minute and let him know that with a look.

Scowling and muttering under his breath, Rolondo drops onto the bench next to me. “What, then?”

I almost smile at his petulant tone, only this night has officially gone to shit and I just want it all to end. My fingers lace as I sit there. “In high school, I had this friend, Jason. He played receiver. He…ah…” A lump fills my throat and I have to clear it. “Sophomore year he tried to hang himself.”

Utter silence expands between us. Until I clear my throat again.

“He couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t face his dad, his team, thinking they’d reject him because he was gay.” My hands clench. “I was his friend. I suspected. But I never asked. I didn’t want to upset him. But I knew he was troubled about something.”

Rolondo’s voice cracks when he speaks. “Why are you telling me this?”

I risk a glance, find he’s gone ashy gray. My eyes burn. It hurts thinking of Jason. “I want to be clear. Do not think for a second that I’d turn my back on you, think of you any differently. And do not even imagine that I’d tell anyone. That’s your business.”

He glances away, then nods. Once. Sharp. And I breathe a little easier. But I don’t say anything more, knowing that he’ll talk when and if he wants. We sit together for a full two minutes before he finally decides to talk. “It’s wearing on me. Hiding. Pretending to be something I’m not.”

“I feel you.”

Rolondo laughs low and without humor. “Not hardly, G. I’m a southern, black man who plays football.” He licks his lower lip in agitation. “Hell, my mama is already bugging me about when is she gonna get some grandbabies? What do you think she’d say about this?”

We both deflate a little and stare at the floor in silence.

“That guy…” I glance toward the showers where I’d found them. “You love him?”

I feel ’Londo nod but it’s abrupt as if he’s still fighting his feelings.

I want to help, but what can I tell him that won’t sound trite? He’s in a shitty position and we both know it. I pinch the bridge of my nose and think of Ivy. She’d know what to say to make it right.

“I get being afraid to take a stand, change things,” I say. “I think… No, shit, I know that I’m falling for my best friend.”

“Tell me something we all don’t know, G.” For the first time tonight, Rolondo sounds like his old self.

I fight a smile. “Yeah, well, she pretty much thinks I’m a manslut so…”

“Again, tell me something we don’t all know.”

I glare at him, and he laughs. I deserve it, though. I have been hiding behind a party-guy persona for so long, everyone in my life thinks it’s who I really am. And it doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Sure, that guy has gotten me laid countless times. But I am tired of being shallow.

Shaking my head, I lean forward and rest my arms on my knees. “It’s probably for the best. What the fuck do I know of relationships anyway?”

Rolondo snorts. “You’re asking me?”

“I’m saying we’re both screwed.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, almost smiling. “Yeah, I guess we are. I’ll tell you this. You better figure out how to deal with her dad if you do make your move. Mackenzie will kick your ass, for sure.”

It might be worth it. Sighing, I straighten and roll my tense shoulders. “I’m gonna head out. Just… You’re my friend and my teammate. Whatever you do, I’m with you. One hundred percent.”

“Thanks, man.” It’s barely a whisper. But I hear it.

My face feels hot from too much emotion flowing through me for one day. I stand, give him a brief tap on the shoulder, and walk away. Despite what I said, my stomach is queasy with uncertainty. Everything is changing around me, so quickly it feels as if a rug has been pulled from under my feet.

* * *

Ivy

Gray lives with a bunch of his teammates in a house near campus. Normally, I’d look forward to visiting his home. I’ve tried to picture it several times. Gray at his desk doing assignments, or in bed, doing… So, yeah, I want to see where he lives. But now with our fight still fresh in my mind, I hesitate to get out of my car.

We haven’t seen each other in days, not since that night. Gray has been practicing and then watching game footage like a fiend, learning his competition’s strengths, weakness, and playing style.

A few texts are all we’ve exchanged. But now he’s heading out of town for his conference championship game, the first stop on the road to the National Championship. I promised to come by before he goes.

With a deep breath, I leave the quiet confines of my little car—it still carries Gray’s scent.

The house is a white, center-hall colonial, the type which could be stately and welcoming, but with its peeling paint and barren lawn, just looks kind of forlorn. The four recycle bins, filled with empty soda, Gatorade, and beer bottles, fairly screams “group house.”

The sound of explosions and gunfire echo from behind the door, and a bunch of guys shout and laugh. I bang on the door hard, hoping someone will hear me over the blasting video game.

Gray opens on the second knock. I don’t think I’ll ever truly get over how big he is. He dwarfs the doorway, his broad, defined shoulders visible beneath the threadbare team T-shirt he wears. Sweats hang low on his hips, and his toes peek out from a pair of sports flip-flops. I don’t know why I fixate on his toes and the fact that they seem strangely vulnerable, all bare to the elements.