Page 30 of Golden

I shake my head. “I chickened out, and now it’s weird.”

“It’s only weird if you let it be weird. Ask him out.”

My eyes widen. “Ask him out?”

“Is that not what you do when you like someone?” Zak scrunches his fingers through the two inches of tight curls on top of his head. “I swear it’s like you’ve lost your game now you’re bi.”

His words send a jolt of unease through me. It’s comforting how he’s accepted this potential new side of me without question, but it’s not a label I feel anywhere near being able to wear. He and Alex might be fine with the idea, but I’m not naïve enough to think that everyone will share their supportive enthusiasm.

“If you won’t ask him out,” Zak continues. “Go and see him. Speak to him.”

I nod, but the more I think about it, the more I feel it slipping away. It would be so much easier to just stop. Do I even need to explore this side of myself? I’ve gone almost twenty-two years without knowing. I close my eyes and drape my arm over my face. Maybe I can shove these feelings back in to wherever they were hiding before they came spilling out, making my life a fuck ton more complicated than I needed it to be.

“Don’t,” Zak says, tugging my arm from my face and waiting until I open my eyes and look at him. “Take your time, but don’t hide from this. That’s what college is for, right? Figuring shit out?”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, equally annoyed and impressed at how well he knows me.

Hopefully Dean Mason will come back to me with a response about our meeting and, if nothing else, it’ll give me an excuse to go and see Wes on Monday when he’s back from his meet. What happens after that, I have absolutely no idea.

WES

My muscles are screaming by the end of practice, my lungs begging for relief, but I can’t stop. I need the clarity I only seem to find underwater, even though it’s not doing a damn thing to help this time.

“Bowers!” Coach McMann barks as I come up for air. “Time to get out.”

Gripping the edge of the pool, breathing hard, I shake my head. “Just a few more, Coach.”

He scratches his neatly trimmed beard, his thick, dark eyebrows scrunched as he stares at me. “Ten more minutes. Don’t be a wanker about it.”

I give him a thumbs up, then take a deep breath and push off underwater. Coach McMann is hot. A former British Olympic champion, he came to the States on a sports scholarship after high school and never left. His accent is muddled as hell, but it adds to his cocky charm. He’s a tough coach, but he’s also a total ex-frat boy. Even though he’s in his early thirties, it’s easy to see exactly what he would have been like ten years ago. I bet he was like Alex Rainer. A total womanizer. But then, aren’t all the Wolves like that? How many women has Sol slept with at Franklin West?Fuck.

It seems I can’t go more than fifteen minutes without thinking about Sol Brooker.

Turning in the water, I switch strokes from front crawl to butterfly. I love the way it pushes my body, the rush of the powerful pull through the water, but does nothing to deter my train of thought.

I touch the side and flip, swapping to backstroke. It was stupid to think he’d come and find me. It’s been almost two weeks since Thanksgiving. Minutes after he didn’t reply to my message, I knew in my gut it was over. I’ve met guys like him before. Usually closeted. Happy to flirt by text, but when shit gets real, they disappear faster than a puddle in Phoenix. That’s why I gave him a get out. Doing the proposal without him meant he didn’t have to see me. Now things are back to professional.

Even if I did spend three times the amount of time I should have on it.

It's better this way. I need to concentrate more than ever this year, even with a job offer on the table. Mom and Dad might be desperate for me to bring someone home, but I’m not planning on a serious relationship until at least thirty, so they’ll be waiting a while.

I reach the end and flip, going back to front crawl. Two breaths in, I notice someone sitting in the stands. Probably Coach, getting ready to shout at me if I go a second over the ten minutes he’s allowed me. But as I draw level, I can tell it’s not.Shit.

Sol sits, watching me, from about halfway up the stands. My already pounding heart goes into overdrive and I almost swallow a lungful of water.

Even though I was planning on stopping after that lap, I choose to keep going, using every second of my ten minutes. If he wants to talk about the fundraiser proposal, he could have emailed me. Maybe he’ll go away.

But no. When I reach the end of my ten minutes, gripping the side of the pool, and heaving air into my lungs, he’s still there.

Climbing out, I rip off my cap and goggles as I grab my towel from the bench. Over the sound of the water dripping from my body, I hear Sol’s footsteps as he jogs down the steps between the bleachers. Part of me doesn’t want to turn around. I haven’t seen him in a week, and I’ve built up a fairly sturdy wall, blocking the details of what happened that night. He’s definitely not as good looking as I remember. Or as his lacrosse team profile photo makes him out to be. The photo I definitely haven’t looked at. Or bookmarked. I bite back a groan as I tie the towel around my waist and turn around.

“Hey.” He lifts his hand in a half wave. “Got a minute?”

A lopsided smile graces his chiseled jaw, and he leans against the barrier in a way that shows how built he is, even beneath the dark-green Franklin West hooded sweatshirt he’s wearing. Fuck. If it’s possible, he’s even better looking than I remember.

“I was about to hit the showers,” I say, refusing to step closer.

His smiles fades, and what might have been hope extinguishes in his eyes. “I can wait.”

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