Page 9 of Most Valuable Player
I push into my room and walk right past my six-foot-tall poster of Beau Rainey, a recent college football player who was one of the firstopenly bisexual Division I athletes in male sports. I’ve had his face plastered on my wall long enough that the edges are curled inward and the tape is peeling the paint. He decided against pursuing the NFL, but that hasn’t stopped me from worshipping him since I discovered his existence.
I can’t look him in his cavernous black eyes right now, so I flop onto my bed and drag my phone out of my pocket. I have a message from an unknown number.
Hey! This is Mason. Meet me at my place tomorrow. There’s a cute coffee shop we can study at. Let’s say 10 a.m.? Here’s my address.
Fucking gross. I swipe the message away, growling. Down the hall, I hear Mom burst into laughter, probably because of some joke her clown husband just told. Which maybe sounds nice, even if that traitorous man is the one making her do that. With them being so busy lately, it seems their moments of genuine joy are becoming fewer and fewer.
Whatever. If the college conversation is off the table, I’ll need to get over this rat’s ass of a situation and focus.Fine, I type back.
My phone buzzes again before I can pocket it.Looking forward to seeing you! :)
I groan a cuss, slamming my face down into my pillow.
Chapter Three
Mason
“I appreciate what you do here, Gray.”
I blink out of my daze, eyes lifting from the shoulder pads I’ve been disinfecting, palm crinkled under the dampness of the cloth. “Huh?”
Mr.Barnett, who’s been counting helmets on the nearby rack, turns to me with his tablet tucked under his arm. Now that the other players (Cameron Morelli) are gone, his strict coaching expression has softened to its tired-dad state. “You’ve been a huge help,” he says, swinging his keys around his finger. His “time to go” signal. “Keeping those hooligans in check.”
I smirk. “Never heard someone use that word before.”
“It’s an adequate description of these players.”
I hike my backpack over my shoulder and follow him out the locker room door. It’s a crisp late-September day, a welcome contrast to the hair-frizzing mugginess that’s been assaulting the town. My fingers tingle at the thought of October on the horizon—cozy sweaters, pumpkin spice lattes, scary movies, bonfires.
“So, this situation with Morelli,” he says as I climb into the passenger seat of his maroon minivan. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug, which encompasses my feelings about the situation. “It’s fine.”
I’m not sure it is, but it’s another excuse to be out of my house andit’s a distraction from my unruly thoughts, so I’ll take what I can get at this point. Even if it means having to spend my time around a sleazy jock who apparently prefers to punch his way through his problems.
Mr.Barnett gives me a skeptical look.
“I’m notexcitedabout it,” I admit as he pulls out of the parking lot. “But the team needs Cameron, even if he’s…like that.”
Mr.Barnett nods solemnly, clearly wishing this weren’t the case. “I know he’s a lot, but once you get to know him, I think you’ll find something more complex hiding beneath the surface.”
Complexity in a single-brain-celled organism like Cameron Morelli? An enticing thought, though I’m keeping my hopes low. “Mm,” I acknowledge, leaning against the window and watching headlights roar to life on passing cars as evening rolls over Elwood.
Mr.Barnett chuckles at my cynicism. “He’s ditzy and arrogant, but try to be polite.”
“Obviously,” I grumble. Being polite, neutral, and boring is my entire personality. It’s why I knew Cameron only wanted to date me because he liked my face. Nobody but one person has ever been attracted to me beyond my appearance, has ever gotten to know me through more than just small talk before asking me out.
I’ve been told I have one of those universally nice, androgynous faces. Long lashes and big doe eyes and thin brows and smooth skin that apparently doesn’t harbor the right conditions for body hair to adequately grow. A straight nose, slender lips, and an angular face that probably looks sharper than usual because I lost so much weight last year.
People are more likely to call me pretty than handsome. But I’ve never been addressed as anything other than “sir” and “mister.” I’m just feminine enough that I’ve heard my name passed around at parties by straight guys when they inevitably got asked who they would fuck if they had to choose a guy in the school. Yet I’m masculine enough thatsome girls seem comedically astonished (even offended) when I tell them I’m mostly attracted to men, except on a blue moon. As if every queer guy in the world needs to have some kind of physical or verbal indicator that exposes their fruitiness, and if they don’t, it’smisleading.
It sounds like a silly problem to have. I’m not sure itisa problem, considering everything else I’ve been dealing with.
But it’s precisely because of what I’m dealing with that it’s becoming more disconcerting. The way people look at me. Having to wonder who’s genuine and who’s not makes it all the harder to move on.
We had problems. Plenty. Authenticity wasn’t one of them.
Basically, I’m not surprised Cameron Morelli asked me out, despite most of his former interests being girls. At least I didn’t have to drag the truth out of him. He willingly admitted he asked me out for my face, unlike others who dance around their reasoning when I ask point-blank.
