Page 5 of 2-Point Conversion (Season of Change #5)
You know when something is very clearly happening, but you are too scared to give into it because it could just be an illusion or mirage or a melatonin hallucination?
The last few weeks of my life have been exhilarating, leaving me confused and horny.
When I force myself to stop overthinking, I’m pretty sure Brandon and I are dating.
However, that is absurd, and I’m obviously experiencing a psychotic break and should seek medical attention quickly.
But…if that is truly what’s happening, I’d rather just go fucking nuts and savor my time with Brandon before I’m drugged up and put in a padded room.
We workout together in the mornings, eat dinner together several nights a week, hang out on the weekends, and we are in constant communication via text message and stupid memes.
And I’m not going to lie; this is probably one of the healthiest relationships I’ve ever had and he’s not even gay, nor have either of us acknowledged said relationship. How does that even happen?
“Dude, we are NOT getting Greek again!”
My bottom lip sticks out and I blink up at him with big, innocent eyes.
He just laughs and finishes getting dressed.
We finished our workout and then came back to shower.
I made up an excuse about needing to respond to an email and waved him to shower, then I got mine when he was done.
The other night when he sat on me and then stayed there for the remainder of the movie, commented on my erection, both of us ignoring his…
it feels different. I want to see him naked and wet and soapy, but I fear I might lose control and jump him, and the locker room shower at our place of employment is not the place to do that.
He didn’t argue though, today or yesterday, so I know he understands and probably feels the same.
Of course, I could still be hallucinating.
“It was really good! You liked it!” I argue, earning a shake of his head.
“It was. I did. However,” he draws out the word and I grin up at him from my seat on the bench.
“You were apparently impregnated by some alien creature, and its baby was making a valiant effort to escape the confines of your inhospitable body!” I gasp in outrage, my eyes widening that he would call me out like this. “Through your anus!”
“It did not!”
“Oscar, you used the second-floor bathroom in my house instead of the one down the hall from the living room…and sound carries.”
I brush my knuckles under my nose and sniff haughtily, my face flaming red. “I was snooping.”
“You were pooping.”
“Fine. No Greek. How about Indian tonight?” Brandon nearly chokes on his own tongue, his expression incredulous and clearly thinking I must be crazy.
Join the club, buddy.
“What the fuck is going on in here? Why are you in my locker room, Mr. Kusner? Are you lost? Are you harassing my assistant coach? Trying to turn him?”
“Turn him?” I ask, out of everything he just said, that’s the one that seemed most important.
“Beiler is a football coach, a man, and doesn’t need you prancing around distracting him with frou-frou shit.”
“Heacock.” I’ve never heard Brandon sound like that before. A rush of arousal skitters down my spine at the lethal tone coming from his plush mouth. “You are out of line.”
“I’m out of line?!?” Heacock’s face reddens at an alarming rate, and I stand in case he has a heart attack.
There’s nothing I can do if he does, but I don’t want to be sitting at any rate as he lets vitriol fly.
“You’re the one parading around town with a known gay, begging for speculation, and bringing shame to the team!
” I step back when Heacock takes a quick step closer, his hand swiping at me, his nails catching on my arm.
My back smacks into the lockers. I know I can defend myself, but I shouldn’t have to.
His anger is disproportionate to the situation and I’m not sure what he’s capable of.
Brandon moves in front of me, blocking me from Heacock.
Brandon tilts his head slightly. “Oscar, get your things and go to practice.”
“Brandon, I don’t want—”
“Go. Please.” Shit. I’m not hallucinating, this isn’t psychosis, this is real life, and it sucks.
I should have kept my distance from Brandon.
I did it well for a year. Football is riddled with toxic masculinity, and I know better than to invite that kind of shit into my life, let alone compromise someone’s job and reputation.
Being gay isn’t a big deal anymore in most places, but sports is still a touchy arena… except for women’s soccer. Go figure!
I sigh in defeat, quickly stuff my bag with my dirty workout clothes and toiletries, then step out from behind him.
I feel Heacock’s glare and the heat of Brandon’s gaze on my back as I leave the locker room and head through the athletic complex.
Band practice is starting in less than half an hour, but my mind is in that locker room fervently hoping that Beiler doesn’t do something stupid to jeopardize his career. I’m not worth all that.