6. Lane

"It won"t happen again."

The words have echoed in my head for the past three weeks.

Things are quiet, but it's been relatively pleasant in the dorm. We've cultivated an awkward, tension filled peace that somehow manages to be more stressful than fighting all the time. So far, if we're not at practice, Noah's planted on the couch playing video games or screwing around with Miah and a few other guys from the team. And I stay in my room or go for a run to avoid them.

He and Miah are there now, lounging around like slobs and playing a video game rather than filling out the schedules that his dad got us to keep track of classes and assignments. Mine was completed as soon as the syllabus for each class was posted, and I've been working hard on getting ahead with course readings. Academics don't come easy to me. I often need to read something multiple times to memorize it, plus added research for things I think I know, but might be wrong about, is an added layer of anxiety.

There's so much information and not enough hours in the day to get it all done, not to mention everything else we've packed into the last three weeks of training and exhibition matches. There have been academic meetings and sessions with nutritionists, forced socialization, and last weekend we did community service at a local park after we got back from our exhibition match. It's overwhelming.

I can't focus on studying. I need to make sure I'm ready for our first day of classes tomorrow, but with those two screaming about blowing stuff up every few minutes, I can't concentrate and it's stressing me out. My eyes are pulsing from the tension, and my nerves are getting the best of me. I'm about to blow my top.

"I"m going for a run," I say, stuffing my feet into my running shoes. I eyeball the discarded shoes that are scattered around the rack specifically designed to hold shoes, but refrain from saying anything. At least they took their shoes off. When I glance up, Noah tries to look away and cover his smirk, but I"m certain he knows what I"m thinking.

Two days off from training and being cooped up has my patience running thin. Working off some nervous energy usually helps. It's hot outside, but I dislike the dorm gym because it's always packed, and I'm pretty sure everyone hates me.

I didn't make a great impression at the team dinner and I've been trying to make up for it by being the best player I can be. The team captain, Sam Triviano, seems pleased, and so does Coach Carr. They even tried me out on the starting eleven for our last exhibition match before the season starts, and I played well. If I keep proving myself, I'll get a lot of field time this season, even though I'm just a freshman.

The other players aren't warming up to me much. I overheard Noah and Miah saying something about me being a brownnoser a couple of days ago. I've been trying to figure out where the line is between being a suck up and being polite. It"s impossible. Thank God I'm not here to make friends.

I'm here to work towards a better future. Harrison University has one of the top Division Ⅰ NCAA men's soccer teams in the nation, and the prestigiousness of the university name will look good on job applications. My time here will impact my life, and I need to make the most of it—get the best grades possible, cultivate networking opportunities, maybe push for an early Master's program. Then I can get a good job and make something of myself. Have a normal life, with a nice house in the suburbs. A wife and kids—a family that will count on me to provide for them. A normal life, where Isaiah Warren never existed.

Deep breath in through the mouth, out through the nose.

I'm doing it again. Overthinking every tiny detail of my life. Logically, I know that I"m focusing on things that don"t matter because I feel out of control. The therapist I"ve been seeing since I left the compound says it"s a common defense mechanism for people that grew up in very strict households. That"s an understatement for what I grew up in, but her rationale makes sense.

Despite having the option for virtual sessions, I haven't scheduled an appointment with Dr. Fenton since the raid. Despite avoiding her, I"m still working on being more mindful about where my thoughts go when I"m struggling. And I'm definitely struggling. I just don't want to talk about my grandfather anymore, or the other church leaders, or how I feel about the raid.

I don't want to think about it. Instead, I run until my legs are protesting and the only sound in my head is my own heavy breathing.

My phone chimes with a text from Noah, and I slow my pace to read it.

Noah: We ran into some players from the women"s team. They"re having a party tonight. Wanna go?

Lane: Classes start tomorrow.

Noah: All they're going to do is go over the syllabus in every class.

Noah: We don't have to stay late.

Lane: I"ll pass.

There's no way I"m going to a party the night before classes start. How dense can he be? Even if he"s not drinking, which I really hope he"s not stupid enough to do, he"ll still be out too late. We have the same class on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, so I know he's got to be up, ready, and across campus at eight o'clock. That's not a problem for me, but Noah isn"t a morning person. He should be having an early night.

It"s not my business. It's not my business. It's not my business. Focus on your own issues, Lane.

"Do me a favor, son, and help keep Noah in line? He gets in his own way sometimes."

Scott"s request, and the way I felt when he called me son, have me slowing to a walk. How can I help someone else when I don"t know how to help myself? Even more, how can I focus my attention on someone that intimidates me as much as Noah does?

Noah"s cocky attitude, the way he"s so carefree and sure of himself, are like kryptonite to me. I"m caught between feeling inadequate and annoyed, in awe and infuriated. Everything about him is a contradiction. He doesn"t have to try at all, and just seems to effortlessly skate through life. People like him even though he does nothing to try to impress them. He gets decent grades even though I"ve never once seen him study or do homework. Even his messy hair and too-casual sense of dress works for him. If I walked around in sweatpants all the time, I"d look sloppy, like I"d just rolled out of bed. Noah can actually roll out of bed and look effortlessly cool. Every room he enters, people gravitate to him, falling over themselves to be liked by him.

The worst part of it all is that he's aware of his effect on other people. He knows he has everything and uses it.

"It won"t happen again."

After three weeks of not so much as a glance in my direction, I believe him. But instead of feeling relieved, I feel weirdly bereft.

I didn"t like it. I didn"t. But how wrong is it that he was right about one thing—I did need it. I do need it. Or something.

I balked at those words when he said them, but the more I think about it—and I"ve been thinking about it a lot—it always seemed to happen when my stress was at its highest. When my head was so overloaded with thoughts going in every which way, and the pressure was reaching a breaking point, that"s when he would approach me.

Without me realizing, he helped me find a release I"m not capable of providing for myself. He gave me an excuse and someone to blame to reach that release, both physically and mentally. Never mind that I felt like trash afterwards. I slept straight through the night with no nightmares whenever it happened.

"I"m here if you need me, bro."

Looking around to make sure I"m alone, I sit on a park bench and look at my phone. I know for a fact Noah watches pornography on his phone, surely I can get away with searching the internet for innocent questions without anyone finding out.

I don"t find any serious answers to my queries, but I find a lot of articles about toxic masculinity and the lack of gentle and platonic touch in men"s lives. I fall into a rabbit hole, taking several screenshots and notes to discuss with Dr. Fenton the next time I eventually see her. I haven"t told her about what happens between me and Noah, and I don"t plan to, but some of these articles really do shed a lot of insight on what my issues might be.

I"m not gay, I just grew up in an environment where physical touch was only for anger. Same sex affection of any type was wrong, even when it was non-sexual. I don"t even remember being hugged as a kid, which is probably why it makes me feel so much when Scott hugs me. It feels big and uncomfortable, but it"s normal. Or it should be.

None of it answers my initial question, but I"m having trouble typing out the words. Like if I spell them out, even where no one but me can see them, it makes them real. Just like the time Noah made me say he gets me hard.

A hard twitch below the belt has me glaring angrily at the crotch of my shorts. Don"t even think about it.

I try again, forcing myself to type out the words, ‘is it gay to masturbate in front of another guy,' and find myself down a new rabbit"s hole.There are quite a few forum discussions that suggest it"s not uncommon for young men to masturbate together. There are even terms used that make me chuckle, like ‘buddy-bating' and ‘brojobs'. I can"t find anything about only one person masturbating while the other watches, but the fact that Noah doesn"t seem to get sexually excited or engage seems promising. A good portion of the internet seems to think it"s only gay if the two men in question desire each other. The idea of Noah desiring me is laughable, so I think we're pretty safe there.

But then I come across some comments that stop me in my tracks, and I fall down another kind of rabbit's hole. One of guilt and self-hatred. I read comments and articles and sermons, all discussing the perils of temptation.

This is how the devil works, Isaiah. He makes you believe you are normal and healthy. He recruits medical professionals and therapists to validate behavior like masturbation. And once you fall into his trap, it"s nearly impossible to climb back into the light of God"s grace.

I browse and read contradicting headlines and articles until my head hurts and I get a warning that my battery is low. It"s late in the afternoon, I"m hungry, and I"m carrying more stress than I was when I woke up this morning.

By the time I get back to the dorm, my head is pounding. I push past Noah, nearly knocking him to the ground on my way to my room, where I slam and lock the door, ignoring Noah"s knock and the gentle way he asks me if everything is okay. I chug a bottle of water and lay down, stewing in my misery with a pillow over my head. A while later, I hear the door close when Noah leaves, and I relax a little, knowing I"ll be fast asleep by the time he gets back. I'll feel better in the morning. I just need a good night"s rest.

Sleep doesn't hold me for long. I wake up, restless and uncomfortable, after only a couple of hours. My head still hurts, but it"s not pounding quite as fiercely as before. My mouth is dry, and whatever nightmare jerked me out of my restless sleep tastes bad. Smells bad too, considering I"ve sweated through the shirt I also wore to run in. Peeking out my door, it"s obvious that Noah hasn"t come back yet. It"s only eight pm, but if he"s smart, he"ll be home soon. I consider texting him, but remind myself that he's not my responsibility and harping on him isn't likely to rein him in.

I force myself through a quick shower, brush my teeth, and change my sheets. I drink a ton of water and take some melatonin to help me get back to sleep. But I"m too restless. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. I try leaving the door open like my room at home, and that helps, but I still can"t sleep. My thoughts are too loud.

I try cleaning, but after scrubbing every inch of the communal areas of our barely-lived-in apartment, I still can"t settle. Where is Noah? He should be back by now.

It"s almost midnight when I finally decide to text him.

Lane: Where are you?

I wait for several minutes, but he doesn"t see the message. I try again.

Lane: We have class in the morning.

This time, the message is read, but he still doesn"t answer.

Lane: Fine. Don't expect me to pull you out of bed in the morning.

Lane: You're an idiot.

Seriously, what does he think he"s doing? It"s making my anxiety worse, and I'm edging on what feels like a mini nervous breakdown. I don"t know why I care. Maybe this is, once again, my brain focusing on things that are out of my control.

I practice some of the breathing and mindfulness exercises that Dr. Fenton taught me, but I"m so anxious I think I might vomit. My headache is threatening to worsen with every too-hard beat of my heart. My chest feels tight, like it can"t contain the bomb inside.

Pacing is helping nothing, so I try some brisk exercise to help refocus my mind. I do jumping jacks, burpees, and mountain climbers until I feel so dizzy the edges of my vision darken and I"m in danger of passing out. Laying back on the couch, I close my eyes and sink into the spinning feeling that washes over me.

My frantic heartbeat muffles the loud pounding I can hear in the distance, but the sound is too far away to determine if it"s coming from inside my head or not. Pounding, then a crash. Shouting. Then a soothing, deep voice next to my ear lulls me to sleep, and I succumb to the darkness swimming behind my eyes.