Page 21 of Play With Me
Unknown Number:
You wear my jersey yet?
Fuck, I didn’t answer him. I pretended he didn’t exist. And he does. He very much does.
Unknown Number:
Take a picture and show me.
With just that on and nothing else.
Like fuck I’m going to do that.
I so fucking won’t.
I throw my phone onto the chair next to my bed and turn onto my side.
I won’t do that.
Absolutely not.
His request sits in the back of my mind. I obsess about it. During class. During rugby practice.
He doesn’t ask for it again. And I don’t respond.
I can’t make myself.
My mom’s Pride flags and rainbow paraphernalia appear in my campus mailbox just like I knew they would, and I shove them under my bed. I’m not ready to display something like that. I don’t even know that Iamgay, queer, or what.
Colton’s jersey sits with the other stuff as well.
It’s not until a day later that I realize I should give it back. Not the stuff my mom sent, but the jersey. I don’t want it. I don’t want it taunting me from beneath my bed.
The only problem is, if I show up at his place, he may tell me I need to suck his dick like he said he would. And I don’t want to do that. I really don’t.
So, I find a time I know he’s at practice and head over there. I don’t have much time. It’s almost over, so I’m just going to toss it on his bed and then leave.
But when I arrive in his room, I can’t help myself. I end up searching for my coin again. And my jockstrap. I know he has them somewhere in here. I fucking know it.
He’s definitely a thief. He takes what he wants when he wants it. I just need to look harder. I want back what belongs to me. I throw the jersey on the bed and get to work, scouring every nook and cranny. I peer behind blinds and under the mattress. I even run my fingers along the shelves to see if some secret compartment opens up for me.
I see a few new things there. A crocheted giraffe? Did Ferris make it for him?
I’m on my hands and knees, looking under his bed, when the door opens.
“Ha. Fucking knew it. Could smell you from the hallway,” Colton says smugly as the flick of a lock resonates in my ears.
I lurch up so quickly, I hit my head on the edge of the bedframe. My hand goes up to rub the sore spot as I push myself to my feet.
“Fucking hell,” I murmur.
“That’s what you get. Snooping around without permission.”
His eyes move up and down my body, and he wets his lips. He’s damp from the gym shower, his body still flushed from his workout.
“And no one forced you here. You came, Witkoff. On your own. You know what that means.”
“It means nothing. I’m just looking for the shit you stole from me.”
