4. Josh

4

JOSH

I fumbled the weight in my hands and barely caught it before it could crash to the bench, wincing at the loud clatter as I hoisted it back onto the rack. It was my third fumble since stepping foot into the gym this morning, which was three too many when dealing with weights.

“Trying to get out of practice early by landing yourself in the infirmary instead?”

I glanced over to find Ansel Slater watching me with an arched brow. The track star had his usual pre-workout smoothie clutched in one hand—some weird green shit he swore by—while his other gripped the strap of his gym bag.

“Just distracted,” I muttered. I really needed to get my shit together.

“I noticed. You’ve been staring at that same spot on the wall for five minutes. Except when you nearly dropped that weight on your toe. Pretty sure the wall’s not gonna start giving you answers no matter how hard you look at it,” he teased.

Ansel set his smoothie and bag down on the bench beside me and started his meticulous stretching routine. It was the same one and in the same order he’d been doing since I’d met him freshman year. I’d teased him back then about adding a little variety, but he’d shrugged and said routine bred success. I guess he wasn’t wrong though, since he was one of the best all-around runners the U had ever seen as far as I could tell. I’d gotten to know him last year in Bio 101 when we’d been paired as lab partners. Now we shared a Tuesday/Thursday marketing class, which was probably the only reason I knew about his track schedule. That, and everyone seemed to know about his training regimen. The guy was like a walking advertisement for athletic dedication. Sigma had wanted him as a pledge, but he’d forgone it, afraid it’d mess with his focus.

“Eh, it’ll crack, eventually. Give it another minute,” I joked back, then sat up and grabbed my water bottle, taking a long pull to avoid Ansel’s scrutiny. He had this way of looking at people like he was doing complex calculations, probably timing my rest periods in his head and finding them lacking. Dude took his training that seriously.

“You’ve had about twelve of those minutes in the last five.” He dropped into a runner’s lunge, muscles coiled with the kind of control and flexibility I usually associated with gymnasts. “You coming down with something? If so, don’t get any closer. Got a big race on Saturday.”

“I’m not sick, promise.”

“Is broodiness contagious?” He offered a playful mock frown.

“You tell me. I’ve definitely seen you ‘broody’ before.”

“That’s just me concentrating.”

“Ah, mm-hmm. I see.”

“For real, man. What’s up?”

I debated deflecting, but Ansel wouldn’t buy it anyway. The guy didn’t miss much, maybe because of the amount of time he spent analyzing his run times or whatever. Plus, he had this kind of stealth wisdom vibe about him I’d always liked. Maybe I could use some of that right about now, and since we were casual friends, but not attached at the hip or anything, he’d probably be more objective. I’d been mentally running back and forth through my tutoring sessions with Logan for a solid week. “You know Logan Jenkins?”

“The tutor guy? Our year?”

“Yeah, he’s tutoring me in physics now.”

“Small world.” Ansel’s mouth quirked. “I’m pretty sure he’s tutored half the track team through physics, so you’re in good company. They talk about him like he’s some kind of miracle worker.” He paused his stretching to eye me critically. “You don’t like him? Does he suck as person or something?”

God, I so didn’t need that image in my brain right now.

“No, he’s as helpful as everyone says. Just… distracting.”

“I can tell. Your form’s worse than the time you tried lifting after that Lambda Chi party.”

“You weren’t even at that party!” I laughed.

“I didn’t have to be. Pretty sure you were exhaling half your weight in booze fumes with every bicep curl.” He smirked when I flipped him off. That’d been a rough day. “So your tutor is distracting you by… being an excellent tutor.” Ansel arched a dubious brow, waiting for me to elaborate. I wanted to. I started to, and then the words evaporated on my tongue, felt clumsy in the back of my throat.

Ansel was perspicacious enough to read the meaning behind my silence, though. A gentler, half-smile curved his lips. “When I’m training, I have to focus on one thing at a time or my times suffer. Maybe you need to figure out what you want first.”

“Says the guy who analyzes every millisecond of his runs.”

“Exactly. I know what I’m talking about.” He transitioned smoothly into another stretch. “Sometimes the hardest part is admitting what you want in the first place. It’s even harder when you haven’t figured out what that is yet.”

I thought about Logan—how my stomach did backflips every time he fiddled with his glasses. Or forgot that he was trying to make a physics problem more relatable for me and slipped into physic-y terms like “projectile” before hurriedly correcting himself. About how I still wasn’t sure what any of that meant for me. I had a lot I needed to mentally unpack. “Yeah, maybe.”

Ansel nodded, then grabbed his smoothie and took a sip. “You heading home for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah.” I wiped my face with a towel, grateful for the subject change. “Looking forward to it, actually. Got some stuff I need to talk to my folks about.”

I hadn’t exactly planned it, but the words felt right as soon as they left my mouth. Maybe getting things straight—or not so straight, as the case may be—with my family was the first step for me. The thought of telling them I was bi twisted my stomach into knots, but in a good way. Like the moment before a big game, that last deep breath I took before running onto the field.

“Sounds serious.”

I shrugged, trying for casual. “Hard to say.” What I didn’t say was that every tutoring session with Logan made me more certain about who I was. Who I wanted.

“Well.” Ansel finished off his smoothie with a noisy slurp. “Just remember, you can analyze something to death, but eventually you have to take the starting position. Or field.” He hitched his bag on his shoulder. “Though maybe work on your form before you try anything else. You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep lifting like that.”

I flipped him off, but I was grinning. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Anytime.”

“Maybe I can return the favor someday.”

“Psht,” Ansel scoffed sardonically. “I’ve got my shit figured out.”

“Famous last words.”

“See you at Winter Fest?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “The whole frat’s working it.”

“I heard there’s gonna be pie throwing.” The glint in his eye told me he was planning to take advantage of that fact.

“Maybe save the competitive streak for regionals,” I called after him, and he laughed before flashing me a peace sign.

I turned back to the weights, Logan’s face floating through my mind again. But this time, instead of messing up my reps, I channeled some of Ansel’s focus. One thing at a time. First Thanksgiving break. Then my parents. Then maybe…

My mind skipped ahead to Winter Fest—all those carnival games and bonfires. It might be the perfect time to test the waters with Logan, see if he maybe might…my stomach did that backflip thing again.

Take the starting position. I snorted at myself for letting Ansel’s track metaphors get to me. But he had a point. I just needed to get through the next couple of weeks first.