15. Cruz

It's never easy for me to relax on a plane, but with last night's conversation playing on a loop in my mind, it's virtually impossible.

I still can't believe Liam and I have both lost someone close to us. It's not exactly a common thing for people our age to have to deal with, and while I hate that it's the hand we've been dealt, it's also a relief to know there's someone else out there that gets it.

Even if the only thing we've actually said aloud is ‘I get it.'

There's so much truth in those three little words we don't have to go any deeper, but if we do feel like talking, we can without worrying. Other people feel the need to walk on eggshells around us, but we don't have to do so around each other.

That makes me feel anchored, like I've got a connection to my old life. It also makes me feel a little conflicted since Xavier used to be that anchor, but I'm hoping he'll forgive me for that since he's the reason I feel this connection with Liam.

Unfortunately, as grateful as I am for that connection, it's also wreaking havoc on my ability to turn my brain off. I'm pretty sure that's because of what happened before we discovered the similarities in our past, which I still haven't been able to sort through or even talk to Liam about. We passed out the moment we got home last night, and I left for a road game this morning. There wasn't time.

I got hard.

Got a blow job.

From Liam.

The memory has my cheeks flushing, so I keep my gaze pinned to my lap in the hope that if I don't make eye contact with anyone, they won't notice it.

God…Talk about a mindfuck.I mean, one minute I'm helping him out like I've done several times before, and the next I'm turned on.

How did that even happen? Why? And the big one, why did it happen with Liam? Why not any of the other people I've tried hooking up in the past? I've never gotten further than kissing or rubbing our hips together before giving up. I haven't even kissed Liam, and he may have been grinding on me, but I wasn't trying to grind on him. I wasn't trying to do anything but make sure he found his relief. Is that why it was different? Maybe I was trying too hard before.

The longer I spend trying to understand what happened, the harder it is to explain. And I guess I don't need an explanation, I've come this far without having any answers about myself, but I also only had one question: What's wrong with me?

Now, that one question has bloomed into dozens.Am I a late bloomer? Am I gay? Do I want to be with Liam again?

Liam is my roommate. My friend. And yeah, I take all my friendships seriously, but after learning the extent of what we have in common, there's another level of trust and understanding between us that I don't want to lose. If we add sex into the mix, too many things can go wrong, and I stand to risk the only person I've truly bonded with here.

But sex with Liam…

I swallow down the lump that's suddenly lodged in my throat.

Who knows if it would be the same a second time around, but given the way people talk about sex, I'm inclined to think it would be. And if that's the case… Hell yes, I want to do it again.

For all I know what happened could've been a one-off. A fluke. I'd do well to remember that, so I don't get too far ahead of myself.

Oh shit.

If I'm over here questioning the significance of what happened, what's Liam thinking? He knows I'm ACE, or maybe gay ACE, and he knows last night was the first time I've gotten hard with another person. Will he assume he's the reason? Will he feel obligated to do it again, or pressured to achieve the same result?

Have I ruined what could've been a good friendship already?

God, why does my body have to be so fucked up?

My mind spirals, and it's not until I realize that I'm panicking over losing my friendship with Liam–and not beating myself up over filling the void Xavier left–that I pause. When did Liam become my first priority?

I've tried so hard to balance fitting in and finding my place without getting close enough to anyone to replace Xavier, but I get one erection and my first instinct is suddenly to think of Liam. Is that normal—to put a new friend in front of a lifelong friend because they turned you on? Considering I felt like Xavier chose Piper over me after just a few short weeks, I think it might be. And I'm not sure I like it.

I could say it doesn't matter since Xavier isn't here, but that feels like a convenient excuse, and nothing about his death is convenient. Plus, Liam doesn't deserve to come second to anyone through no fault of his own. Does that make it okay for me to dismiss Xavier for him the way I was dismissed for Piper?

My guilty conscience says no, but my—some other voice inside me—says it's not that simple.

Fuck! I never thought I'd say life was easier when I thought I was fully ACE, but adding attraction into the equation makes everything murky.

This is not a great way to start a road trip. I should be concentrating on the game, studying our opponent, or visualizing the outcome. I should be channeling these nerves in my stomach for good, like fueling my adrenaline, not curling into my seat like some anxious flier.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe slowly. In through the nose, count to four, out of the mouth.

"You good over there?" Bennet asks from his seat across the aisle.

Shit. I knew the plane would be a bad place to get lost in my head.

"Long night. I think I ate something weird." I make up an excuse on the fly.

"You aren't gonna puke, are you? If I get even a tiny whiff of that I'll lose my breakfast. Grab one of those bags and be ready."

"I'm not gonna puke."

"You better not. I can't afford to be anything less than a hundred percent for this game." The set of his jaw tells me he's not just saying that.

"Isn't that true for every game?"

"Yeah, but it's even more true for this one, especially."

Since we're not going against a divisional opponent, I'm not following. "Is there some sort of rivalry I'm not aware of?"

"No. I just don't want to lose to them again."

"Aren't we favored?"

Bennet glares at me like I should know better. "That doesn't mean shit if we don't play well. And we were favored last year but came up short. I do not want to hear Damien gloating again."

"Who's Damien?"

"The fucker who's been a pain in my ass since high school. Always telling me I look scrawny and slow."

I give Bennet a once over, trying to figure out why anyone would say that about him. He's not as big as me, but he's not small, and his forty is faster than Jagger's.

"Well, clearly, you're not either of those things." I gesture to all of him like I'm pointing out the obvious. "Don't let him get in your head."

"That's easy to say when you're not the one he's chasing down."

"He plays defense?"

"Corner." Bennet"s voice drops to an ominous whisper as he leans toward me, "Fucker is fast even though he's big, and he knows he can shut me down. I wouldn't care if he was cool about it, but he's a dick. Always gloating about getting the best of me, ever since we were kids. I cannot handle losing to him again."

"We won't."

Bennet and I spend the rest of the fight talking about how to shut down this Damien guy, which finally gets my head in the right place. By the time we're in our hotel and it's time to crash, my mind is settled enough to get some sleep.

***

It's the fourth quarter, and we're only up by seven when we should be up by at least twice that.

Bennet was right about Damien. The guy's a menace. Always in position, always anticipating the play—and because he's got a few inches on Bennet—always managing to get a hand on the ball before Bennet can.

We're up because of our run game, which they aren't as good at defending, but they aren't bad either. It's just frustrating because our passing game is usually so hard to defend against, but Damien is so efficient he's a step ahead of us every play. It's like he knows the playbook as well as we do.

We've thrown to some other receivers, and I've taken a few short passes over the middle, but instead of big gains we're creeping forward inch by inch, and we're exhausted. So we try to end things with a long bomb down the sideline, only for him to disrupt the play again, putting us in a third and fifteen that could very well be our last play of the game if we don't convert. Since there's just enough time on the clock for them to mount a final drive, it's left us feeling sort of deflated.

"Goddam that fucker," our quarterback, Scott, grumbles. "Where did he come from? I've watched their film and he's never played like this."

"He always plays like this," Bennet disagrees as he pants to catch his breath after a long run.

"He's always a factor, but he doesn't shut down other receivers the way he's shutting down you," Scott says, totally missing how that makes Bennet wince. But it gives me an idea.

"You've played him all your life, right?" I ask Bennet.

"What?"

"You said you've been playing against him since you were kids. He's probably been studying you for years, so he knows exactly what you're gonna do."

"Okay, so I'll throw somewhere else," Scott says.

"They'll be expecting that since Bennet's been shut down all day," I say.

"Yeah, but even if they don't expect us to go to Bennet, that guy will be ready," Scott retorts.

"He will. But he'll be ready for a long bomb. And that's what we're gonna make it look like we're doing. But if Bennet runs twenty yards down field, then turns back without warning he might have a slight advantage where he can catch the ball right at the first down marker."

"That would be unexpected," Bennet agrees warily. "People are used to me trying to outrun the defender, not haul ass back toward the line of scrimmage."

"Fuck it," Scott shrugs. "Coach called a downfield pass so we'll give him one, just not the one he wanted."

I can still smell the fresh grass on my palms as we all clap hands and break the huddle, then line up and wait for the center to hike the ball. As soon as he does Bennet shoots off the line, running as fast as I've ever seen him down the sideline. I lose him while I'm trying to buy time for Scott to make the pass, but when the defender on me breaks away I know the ball is in the air, so I look downfield to see if it worked.

Bennet is coming back to make the catch, Damien hot on his heels but not quite close enough to get in front of him and get a hand on the ball.

As the ball hits his chest Bennet wraps his arms around it and tries to round the corner to take it toward the end zone. He gets one step, two, before he's tackled from behind, both he and Damien going down in a heap. For a second or two they're both still, then Damien gets up, hovers over Bennet—offering some choice words no doubt—and jogs away. Then Bennet holds the ball triumphantly overhead.

Fuck yes!

We all rush to Bennet to congratulate him, knowing that since we secured the first down we can run out the clock and take the win.

When I finally get close enough to slap him on the back, I give him a one-armed hug instead. "Nice catch."

"Nice play calling."

"What'd he say to you afterward?"

"Thanks for finally giving me a challenge," Bennet says, his voice grave, which I assume is supposed to mimic Damien's.

"What a jerk. I'm glad we got a win for you."

"Me too." Bennet winks and jogs off with the ball. It wouldn't surprise me if he intends to keep it as a souvenir.

Later, at the hotel, a few beers are passed around the room, courtesy of some of the guys old enough to drink. They bought Jagger, Cameron, and I a case before going out. But it's the two-word text from Liam on my mind as we all reminisce about the win.

Good game.

He's never done that. Not once has he reached out during a road trip much less made a comment about how we played. And that simple text has my stomach fluttering almost as much as it did right after we won.