Page 30 of Most Valuable Player
Shit. Okay, I can make this situation fine. Maybe it doesn’t matter if he knows hints from my past—just telling him about a few incidents shouldn’t mean that my ruse is up. Besides, it’s pretty clear he’s onto me, so if I give him something to latch on to—an excuse for this behavior he finds bizarre—it’s possible he’ll stop prying.
“There were some issues. We lived in an aggressivelytraditionalsmall town in the middle of nowhere,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and indifferent. “My mom was an out-and-proud bisexual woman. Had the bumper stickers and shirts and fridge magnets and everything. I was an easier target than her, so…”
Even mentioning the barest details of the conflict makes me feel like the walls of my chest are closing in. Mason examines me studiously, like he’s attempting to read past my purposefully vacant expression.
“Anyway!” I hack through the awkward silence and say, “I tried building muscle during the summer I moved, then in ninth grade. Ittook a while, but I bulked up, edited my life, and now I’m a fucking pleasure to be around.”
Mason’s thin lips furl upward. “An absolute pleasure,” he agrees, though he drawls the words enough that I know he’s being sarcastic.
“When I tried jumping into bulking, I made myself miserable. My body hurt all the time. I did more research and found out that the excessive training I was doing was more likely to stunt my growth than help it, so I had to slow down and start from square one. Trust the process or you’ll damage your body.”
Mason fidgets, despising this truth I’m forcing him to acknowledge. “Okay,” he says softly.
I’m buried so deep in my own confusion that I hear myself blurt something genuinely uncalled for. “Is it your parents?”
Mason tips his head again. With his face lightly flushed and the scant amount of sweat shimmering on his forehead, he’s even nicer to look at than usual. It’s distracting. “What about my parents?” he asks suspiciously.
“I…uh…” Damn it, how do I back myself out of this corner? It’s been nestled in the crook of my brain since that phone call at the restaurant, but I’d decidednotto stick my greasy (though perfectly sculpted) nose into his business. “You’ve been cagey about why you wanted to bulk up, and I wondered if it had to do with your living situation,” I decide to say.
Mason’s muscles seem to snap tight and strain in his limbs. For a moment, I think he’s getting angry. Despite this tense situation, my heart still thuds faster because I can’t help but want to see it. He’s shown that he can be annoyed and prickly and exasperated and amused but only in faint, dull bursts. It’s like he’s wrapped his emotions in a thick cloak, barely allowing them to poke through when they start rising.
I want to see them. His emotions.
Just as I’m thinking he might spit infuriated words at me, it’s like someone pops his building pressure with a needle, and suddenly he’s going lax, his posture slumping with exhaustion. “My parents have a rough relationship,” he mumbles. “My mom loves yelling and throwing things, but it’s never been physical. So. Nothing to do with them.”
Then what?I want to ask, but I feel I’ve pried deep enough, and an attempt to dig further will strike a concealed nerve. Even if I’m curious to know what might happen, evendesperateto know, it’s probably better that I don’t make him more uneasy than he already is. Despite his knack for bantering, his body language hasn’t loosened much since we arrived. Something about this situation unnerves him.
“Has someone at school been giving you trouble?” I try.
“Of course not,” he says stiffly.
I don’t know him well enough to determine whether he’s lying. To lighten the mood, I reach out and ruffle his damp black hair. “I’ll come up with a training plan,” I say, smirking when he swats my hands away with a scoff. “We’ll come here after studying for light exercises. Once your body gets accustomed, we’ll step it up a notch. And so on, until you’re where you want to be. But.”
I shoot my index finger into the air.
Mason winces.
It’s subtle. Brief. Nobody else would probably notice.
I do.
I see myself in his eyes.
I’m eight years old. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen.
I freeze, finger hovering.
He’s watching it.
I used to do that with their knuckles.
Stare. Wait. Anticipate.
I lower my palm. Slowly.
He returns his eyes to my face.
Okay. I see.
