The Junior (College Years 3)

“Yeah,” I admit, my voice soft. He’s bare chested and I drink him in with my greedy gaze, wishing I was with him. Touching him. “I’m tired.”

“Me too. We practiced hard today. I think they’re worried we’re going to lose.”

“Who’s worried?” I ask.

“Our coaches.” He scratches at his chest, his lips curled into a lazy smile. “You look pretty.”

My heart warms. “Caleb, do you hate me?”

He chuckles. “I could never hate you, G. My dick wants you too damn much all the time to ever hate you.”

I laugh too, though his words hurt a little. But I know what he’s doing. He’s cracking a joke and making it about sex between us. Too afraid to admit his real feelings, I guess.

I’m the one who’s going to have to go out on a limb and admit everything first.

Which is fine. I can totally do it.

Maybe?

Ugh, uncertainty is real and it is currently swamping me.

I decide to change the subject.

“Are you worried about the game tomorrow?”

“Nah, I feel really good about it, actually,” he answers.

“Really? That’s great.” Sometimes he can get worked up. Same with Eli. All that pissed-off testosterone in our little apartment can be a bit overwhelming at times, but I’m getting used to it.

“Yeah.” His voice softens, as does his expression. “I wish you were here.”

Oh, if he only knew. “I wish I was too.”

“When I get home Sunday, we need to talk.” He hesitates for only a moment. “About us.”

“I totally agree,” I say.

We just stare at each other on our phones, giddiness rising inside of me, telling me it’s all going to be okay. I’ve got this.

I’ve got him.

Thirty

Caleb

The roar of the crowd is fucking unbelievable in this stadium. The first time we played UNLV, it was just after Allegiant Stadium opened, and I was just a freshman. I spent the entirety of that game on the bench, in awe of the giant crowd screaming for the Rebels—and for us.

Last year we played them on our home turf—and we barely kicked their asses.

Now, here we are back in their stadium, and I swear to God, the crowd is bigger. Louder. The space is buzzing with barely restrained anticipation, making me feel jumpy. Anxious.

“You can’t stop moving,” Tony chastises at one point, when I’m hopping up and down in one spot as we wait to run out onto the field.

“I can’t help it,” I complain. “Something about this game is making me antsy.” I jump up and down in place for emphasis, like I really can’t stop moving. Which is sort of the truth.

“Bro, you’re being ridiculous.” Diego shoves his way toward us, a scowl on his face. “Get serious. We’re about to play the game of our lives.”

“Isn’t that a bit much?” Tony asks, sounding amused.