Page 63 of Almost Rotten

We’re making fucking progress.

Leaning forward, I take the less risky route and plant a kiss on her bare shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight at the game.”

I stand and stretch my arms overhead, letting my back crack and snap, then twist my torso, loosening up my spine. I ignore the incessant heft of my fully erect cock. I don’t have time to rub one out right now.

I have to get to the rink.

I texted Coach to let him know I was on my way. He sent me a fucking thumbs-up in response, leaving me to stress about what I might be walking into.

It took my three clumsy tries to swipe my student athlete ID at the back door to gain access. I’m singularly focused on keeping my body upright and keeping my breathing steady as I navigate the back hall, heading for his office.

Is this about the video? Did it get out after all?

If it did… if another soul has seen what’s mine…

Fuckin’ A.

I don’t need this kind of stress on game day.

Gulping down the throat-constricting anxiety, I knock twice on his open door.

“Come in.”

When I enter, Coach is smiling, leaning back casually, like he’s testing the stability of his office chair, both hands behind his head.

Across from him, a woman in a purple dress and a man wearing a dark suit sit in the chairs reserved for guests.

“Oh,” I say, pausing at the threshold. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”

The man and woman rise and turn, huge smiles plastered on their faces.

My defenses lock into place quickly. I know those kinds of smiles. They’re case worker smiles. Human Resource smiles. Corporate smiles, devoid of human emotion, given eagerly when the wearer is working to check a task off their to do list.

“Not at all.” The man steps forward, hand outstretched. “We’re actually here to see you. Clark Petrello, and this is my colleague, Nicole Bock.”

On autopilot, I shake his hand.

The woman approaches next, and Coach rises and sidles up beside me.

“We’re excited to be here today, Mr. Tremblay.” The woman gives me an eager, toothy grin.

At a loss for the correct way to respond, I keep my mouth shut.

“Do you know who we are?”

I don’t, and the not knowing causes my stomach to twist and panic to claw at my insides. My chest swells with painful pressure, like my ribs have outgrown my body and are trying to burst through my chest.

Flashbacks of drab offices and multi-hour meetings with unfamiliar adults pummel my consciousness.

Memories of the interviews with people from Youth Protection Services when I was removed from my dad’s apartment.

The exams. Sitting on a cold table, shivering, in nothing but a paper robe.

Being poked and prodded and talked about as if I wasn’t right fucking there.

The interviews I endured before being placed with the Davvies family.

The thick files that would come out every time a new person was brought on the case.