His eyes widen in horror as the idea takes root in his brain. “Holy shit, she is, isn’t she? She’s cheating on you. Holy shit. Oh my god. Don’t hurt me.”
Elliot looks like he’s about to hyperventilate or piss himself—or both—so I take pity on him.
“No, she didn’t cheat on me with you! Jesus Christ, we’re not even dating.”
His shoulders sag and he breathes out a long sigh of relief. “Thank fucking god!” Confused brown eyes meet mine. “Wait, then why are you so mad?”
“I…”
I don’t know.
“I…have no idea.”
Elliot’s head tilts as he studies me, takes measure of my stance and expression. “Hold up. Oz, do you… Are you in love with her?”
“Love?” I scoff a little too loudly. “No. Hell no.” But I find myself hesitating on my next words just the same. “She’s just my friend.”
My friend.
Just my friend? The words make me ill and suddenly I want to vomit.
“Dude. You should see yourself right now; I can’t freaking believe this.”
“What?”
“You do like her. Like her, like her.”
“Shut up Elliot, this isn’t fifth grade.”
“Don’t let your lobster get away, man.”
My lobster? What the hell is he talking about? “Please don’t ever say shit like that in my presence again or I will have to punch you.”
“Wow, I can’t believe this; Oz Osborne, Iowa’s prodigal wrestling legend, actually has a heart.”
“I said shut up, asshole.”
But he doesn’t shut his hole. Not even close. “You have actual feelings for someone. You don’t just want to bang her.”
“Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?”
“Look man, I really don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry. Shit. If I’d known, I never would have…”
He never would have slept with her; I know that now.
How do I know?
One, because he’s loyal and isn’t ruled by his dick—unlike the rest of us. Elliot is ruled more by emotion. So if he slept with Jameson, it’s because he genuinely likes her. Two, because he knows if he fucks me over, I’ll beat the fucking shit out of him.
So the simple fact remains…it sucks more knowing she chose to sleep with him.
I just don’t get it; I’m awesome—how can she not see that? Where the hell did I go wrong with her? Was I too pushy? Did I scare her off? Don’t hate me, I hear her pleading. See her tears. Jameson is weeping, wet drops dampening her beautiful face. My eyes water, too, and I reach for her, grasping as tears stream down my cheeks, but there’s nothing there to hold. I didn’t know it would hurt you, she sobs. I didn’t know... Please Sebastian, I’m falling for you.
“Then how could you fucking do this to me!” I cry. “I’m falling in love with you and you ruined it. You ruined everything.”
Sebastian, I love you. Sebastian, I love you.
Sebastian. Oz, can you hear me?
Oz.
Oz.
“Oz, dude wake up.”
I gasp out in a sob, jerking myself awake. “Holy shit!”
A large, meaty palm is clamped down on my shoulder, squeezing hard and, startled, I jolt, the back of my head hitting the cold window of the bus, my temple cracking against the hard glass. Sonofabitch that hurt!
“Oz, is everything okay man?’
I become aware of the sensation of damp, streaking tears staining my cheeks, and I briskly wipe them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Freaked the fuck out—but fine.
I rub the spot where I just clocked myself, fingers grazing through my sweaty hair, and glance around at my oblivious teammates, most of them still asleep, save Cory Phillips playing on his phone and Tanner Frank reading on his Kindle under the overhead light.
I exhale, leaning back in the seat, and swipe at another stray tear.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jonathan Powell’s head reappears over the seat behind me. Lights from the campus parking lot come into view, illuminating the interior of the bus. “Sorry to wake you up and freak you out, but we’re pulling in.”
“Yeah.” I massage my scalp. “I’m good. Thanks for waking me.”
It was just a dream.
The whole thing was just a dream. A shitty, messed up dream.
In a trancelike state, I stumble off the bus. Go through the motions of dressing, storing my gear, and checking in with the coaching staff. Get my schedule for the upcoming week.
Barely remember the car ride home.
By the time I’m falling into the house, I’m exhausted. Zeke’s continued badgering the five hours it took to get us home has taken its toll, coupled with my emotionally taxing dream. Zeke criticized. He fumed. He bitched until my head lolled to the side and I popped on my Beats to drown him out with music.
I lumber into the kitchen, glancing around cautiously.
I’m tired.
I’m starving.
I’m ready for warm food and a soft bed, but being here, in this house after that wacked out dream feels way too fucking weird.
This all feels way too real.
Just like in my dream, it’s quiet when I drop my bags in the laundry room, still the first one back at the house. Just like in my dream, I hang my duffle and remove my jacket, make quick work of taking my shoes off and setting them aside so no one trips on them.
Flipping on the kitchen lights, I walk to the fridge, yank it open, and bend at the waist to peer inside. Three-day-old spaghetti sauce and no noodles. A half-eaten hamburger from Malone’s. One yogurt. Ketchup. Beer.
A half-gallon of chocolate milk (perfect to help prevent a hangover). There’s also a gallon of orange juice left, some filtered water, and an open bottle of Dr. Pepper.
Having no appealing choices, I settle for the leftover Malone’s hamburger, the yogurt, and the gallon of milk, slapping everything onto the counter.
Where the hell is everyone? I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to my roommates.
Oz: Where are you?
Zeke is the first to respond: Stopped for food.
Okay. That’s weird as shit and kind of freaking me out.
Oz: Grab me something would ya. Starving.
Zeke: Yup. Back in thirty.
This whole thing is just way too bizarre to be real.
I lift the lid on the garbage can and dump the burger, grab my bag, and head down the hallway, wavering in front of Elliot’s door. I stop. Take a deep breath. Give it a few short raps.
“Yeah?” his voice answers from inside.
“You awake?” I hesitate to open the door.
“Uh, yeah.”
Gradually, I turn the knob. Give the door a gentle push. Stick my head partially inside, like a father not wanting to walk in on his teenage daughter. “You decent?”
“Dude, what’s your problem?” Elliot laughs. “Yeah I’m decent.” He’s sitting at his desk staring at me like I’ve sprouted two cocks and a vagina. “What’s up?” He spins in his desk chair, resting his arm on the back of it, idly waiting for me to respond.
“Letting you know we’re back.” Obviously.
“Okay.”
“Everything good?” I can’t help it; I throw several shifty glances into the recesses of his bedroom, browsing for a glimpse of…
My eyes land on the bed and stay there.
And stare.
Everything appears to be in order. Navy blue comforter pulled into place. Pillows at the headboard. A short stack of clean, folded clothes at the footboard.
No black patent leather shoes. No white cardigan. No naked Jameson.
No fucking has taken place here, I’m sure of it.
After an awkwardly long silence, Elliot clears his throat. “You’re being really weird. Are you sure you’re okay?” He pauses. “Do you want to, uh, talk or whatever?”
His appalled tone says it all: please say no.
“No, I’m good.” Elliot’s shoulders drop in relief. “I just thought I saw…nothing.”
Visibly relieved, my roommate continues to regard me curiously loitering in the doorway. “So…anything else?”
“Huh? No. We’re good.”
He’s not convinced but he’s not going to press. “All right, welllll.”
And that’s my cue to leave.
“Right. Well. G’night.”
Stoically I trudge down to my bedroom, close the door behind me, and flop down, face first, on the bed.
Sebastian
Here’s where it gets really shitty: I can’t even look at her.
Sitting across from me, Jameson glances up and nails me with that cute little smile, her top front teeth playing peekaboo beneath her pretty top lip when she bites down.
Instead of smiling back at her like a normal human being, the image of her face when she climaxes fogs my mind and I glower.
“Wow.” She grins. “Such a sourpuss today.”
I fixate on the word puss, because it sounds like pussy and I can’t keep my mind out of the damn gutter—but I don’t dare tell her I’m crabby because thoughts of her kept me awake all night, because I’ve been daydreaming about her during the day, on the bus between matches, during practice—and every minute since.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
The smell of her gorgeous hair.
The way her sweet, conservative sweaters cling to her fantastically round boobs.
Her smile when she finally catches sight of me walking into the library toward our table.