Page 2 of King of Pain

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Crazy how fast it’s gone by. You gonna help me make this one count? It’s my last hoorah.”

Butters stands and grins, that easy confidence radiating off him. “You know me, man… The. Butterball. Is. Always. Ready,” he says, exaggerating the last five words as he grinds his hips, making his junk bounce against the towel in his bestMagic Mikeimpression. I divert my eyes to the floor but give him the chuckle he’s earned.

“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re always ready. I just hope the pro league is ready foryou,” I joke.

Ryan’s eyes widen, and he quickly turns toward his cubby to knock three times on the wood exterior. “Broooo, don’t fucking jinx me, man.” he says, pulling shorts and a tee out of his locker. “I’m just focused on a winning season and nothing else right now.”

I give him my best eye roll. “Oh, come on, you’re one of the best QBs in the co—”

“Nope. No. Fuck. La la la, I can’t hear you.”

I snicker, shaking my head. I should find his practiced mix of cocky modesty annoying, but it’s hard not to like the guy.

“Just promise me you won’t be one of those dickbag douche pro athletes that are all ego with no care for the community whose support pays their salary,” I say to him as he pulls his clothes on and tosses his towel in the laundry bin.

“Never,” he says and punches me lightly on the shoulder before grabbing his bag. And I believe him. He’s one of the good ones.

I shoot an up-nod to Butters as he leaves, grab my towel, and head to the showers to rinse the sweat and stench of practice off my body.

Leaving the locker room, I head across campus toward my dorm, and try to keep my thoughts in check. The campus is already buzzing with students moving in and gearing up for thesemester. This is a sunny college town in a state that’s warm nearly year-round.

Everywhere I look, there are guys: guys running shirtless, guys hauling boxes shirtless, guys just standing around… shirtless.

I consider allowing my gaze to linger, but that thought is quickly squashed by the voice that has been my constant companion since puberty.

You’re not actually attracted to men. You’re not inherently like that. They made you this way.

Another voice—one that’s gotten increasingly louder since I left home for school—tells me it’s not that simple. I’ve spent years trying to outrun all of it, trying to bury it under football, school, and a carefully elusive façade. If I just avoid sex, it’s a non-issue, right?

Some days I believe I can listen to that other voice and separate trauma from true inherent nature. But fear and doubt are always there. Waiting for me in a dark corner. Wearing all black with one square of white.

Them.

When I reach the dorms, I swipe my key card and push open the heavy door, stepping into the cooler temperature of the quiet lobby. My floor is on the third level, and I take the stairs two at a time, my legs still humming with the ache of practice. Right now, all I want is food and some sleep.

The room is exactly how I left it: half-organized chaos. Textbooks are stacked haphazardly on the desk, a pair of sneakers lies abandoned by the door, and my bed is unmade.

I toss my bag onto the desk chair and stand in front of the mini fridge debating whether a bottled protein shake, or a snack is worth the effort. The shake wins out, and I down it in a few gulps.

With a dramatic grunt, I flop onto my bed, football in hand, and fix my gaze on the ceiling. The hum of the AC fills the quiet room as I toss the football into the air and catch it over and over. My thoughts drift to Butters and his shot at the pros. There’s no bitterness there. He’s the most talented QB I’ve ever played alongside, and I’m genuinely proud of him.

I let go of any dreams of pro football shortly after getting run over on my bike at eight years old. The doctors called it a growth plate fracture. They told my parents it may disrupt bone growth or even cause deformities, and I might not be able to put the kind of strain on my leg that most athletics require. I was just a kid that loved football—and had big dreams—but it still hurt.

I refused not to try, though. So, I practiced. I practiced and pushed myself. Grade school, junior high, high school, and now my final year of college football. I’m grateful for the time I’ve had on the field, and I’ve been lucky with how long I’ve been able to play. But I set my heart on different career dreams years ago: working with athletes like Ryan “Butters” Buterbaugh.

I’ve gotten better at focusing on the positives, but my thoughts sometimes drift back to that day.

To that time.

To that place.

To…them.

I force myself to sit up, shaking the thoughts away. Dwelling on it won’t change anything. It won’t undo the past. It won’t make me normal. Grabbing my laptop, I settle back against the headboard and pull up my homework. A nap will have to wait. There’s a marketing project due in a few weeks, and I need to start outlining my pitch. Something to keep my mind busy.

TRACK TWO

Video Killed the Radio Star