Steamroller

“How are you eating again?”

She shrugged, and Jeff offered me a taste of his ice cream. Pete and Rick were right behind them, arguing about whose turn it was to do the laundry, and Greg was last, asking if anyone knew if Judy Coleman was a lesbian.

“Yeah, she is.”

We all turned to Carson Cress at the exact same time. He was standing beside Matt, smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry, man,” he said to Greg before he gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You’ve got no chance there. Her girlfriend is way hot.”

“Cress,” Matt whimpered. Not his finest hour.

“Hi,” Tracie managed to get out.

“Hey.” He grinned at everyone before turning to look at me. “So, uhm, you’re coming to the party at the frat tonight, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, and I appreciate you inviting me because I fixed that printer last night.”

“Well, you saved my life.” He sighed, reaching for me but crossing his arms instead. “I wouldn’t have had my posters up in time if they couldn’t get printed.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” I conceded with a smile.

His eyes locked on mine.

“So I’m gonna bring these guys with me.”

“Yeah,” he replied under his breath. “Sure.”

I could feel my friends looking at me, but I couldn’t do anything but stare. I was caught in his violet gaze, held there, unable to move.

There was a blast of music—a rapper I didn’t know—and Carson’s name was called before the blare of a car horn.

“Okay.” He gave the fake smile that didn’t do anything for his eyes. “I’ll see you.”

“Yep,” I got out quickly before he jogged away from me and across the street.

I watched him move around the front of a huge SUV, all black and chrome with those rims that cost, like, a grand each. His center, Eric Rice, was driving, and there were three other guys, other football players, in the back seat, but I couldn’t see their profiles, so I wasn’t sure who they were.

Once he was gone, the punch on my arm broke the spell and I was suddenly looking at Matt.

“What?”

The look told me he wasn’t buying any of it.

“I saved his life.”

“Obviously.”

4

In my race to make out with Carson Cress again, I had forgotten all about my friend Kurt’s birthday party and my campaign to get my hands on Phillip Brooks. I was reminded, later that afternoon around three, when I was helping Matt put his stuff away and there was a knock on the door. Expecting maybe Greg or Pete or Rick back, I was instead faced with Kurt Butler.

“What?” I was confused because he was scowling at me.

“It’s my birthday, bitch.”

“Well, happy—oh shit.” It had crossed my mind earlier to wonder how in the world I had a Saturday off. That never happened. But now, here suddenly was the reason. I’d asked for it off because I was supposed to be making a feast.

“Oh shit is right. The party’s in six hours. You better get your ass in the car so we can go pick up all the shit so you can start cooking.”

“Did you just say cooking?” Matt sounded confused as he walked up beside me.

“Aww, crap, that’s today?” I groaned as the memory of what I’d committed to stomped all over me.

“Yes, it’s today, and nice, by the way. I feel really fuckin’ loved right now, asshole.”

“No, I didn’t—”

“You’re such a dick.”

“What exactly is going on?” Matt wanted to know.

There was no way out of it. I had promised, and in all honesty, what really was the alternative? What was my master plan? To seduce Carson Cress? Could that actually happen?

I had seen all the specials on ESPN. I knew he was from old money, knew his hometown was Branson, Maine, outside of Rockland. His family was in the yacht business and had been shipbuilders and things like that in the past. They had the funds to groom his natural talent, find the best coaches to train him and nurture his gift. But they were also about charity and supporting their community, and Carson, as the youngest son, had embodied their philanthropic ideals. He was beloved there, and now, at school, had brought together rich and poor alike as the boy with the golden arm. People spoke of him like the Second Coming. They saw big things for him, a football career and then a political one. He could be—people were quoted as saying—“whatever he wanted.” Everyone loved him. But that would all change if he were bi.

Where was he going to be drafted if he liked boys just as much as girls? He was going to do what, if he was outed? Professional athletes were not bi, or gay, or anything but straight as an arrow, until they retired. And yes, there were some exceptions to the rule, but quarterbacks? Were there any of those?

So… what was I really giving up if I didn’t meet him at his frat? A one-time hot roll in the sack? The worst-case scenario was that I would enjoy sleeping with him so much that I would throw away my own pride, step inside the closet with him, and lock the door. If I did that, became his secret, where would my self-respect go? Not that he would probably want me anyway, because this wasn’t serious, it was just fucking and then forgetting, and did I really even want the hassle of….