Page 14

CHAPTER 14

ASHTON

A prickle of awareness has me searching the common room of the athletic dorm. My eyes move past the guys standing around me, tuning out their conversation. What were we even talking about? Something trivial, probably. Considering the company, it was either comparing expensive cars or talking about girls—in roughly the same manner. One upping each other to establish a social hierarchy on our first day as teammates. Trying to impress me, which I can't decide if I appreciate or not.

The dark, pathetic parts of me that have been cut off from this lifestyle the past two years are reveling in the attention. I went from being treated like royalty wherever I go, to being just another guy. I'd never had to prove myself before, and it was definitely an unsettling experience. I was no longer the tallest, strongest, most popular player on the team, and most people I met didn't give two shits who my father was. Sadly, the only people I could say I made friends with at Golden State were my frat brothers, and they really only hung around for the social status, not because they found me likable.

I hate it, and it's made me second guess everything about myself.

As nice as it is to walk into a room and have everyone treat me like I'm somebody again, I know I can't trust it. None of this is real. None of these people are real.

My father keeps reminding me that attending a university like CVU is more than getting an education. It's where future leaders go to forge bonds and partnerships that will pave the way to success. Most of the people at Cumberland Valley University come from rich, powerful families like mine and will follow in their parents' footsteps as the elite members of society. They'll become the investment bankers, political leaders, judges, and executives that run the world. And the wives of those powerful people, of course. Because this is where I should start looking for an appropriate wife, as well. Even if it's just for show. There are expectations, after all.

Ashton James Jr was the king of campus during his years here. He was the president of Alpha Omega Psi and still maintains the connections he made as part of the elite fraternity. He met my mother at a fraternity mixer. As the son of one of the richest CEOs in the country, I might as well be coming into a throne. All I need is a queen to bear my heirs so I can continue the family line of wealth and power.

It's exhausting, and frankly, it’s gross. My parents know I'm gay, they just don't care. Other than preventing me from being publicly outed and potentially embarrassing them, they seem to make a point to not acknowledge it.

" Involving yourself with that boy will only drag you down." "Their family is nothing but trouble, I thought I told you that." "He probably did it on purpose, so he could get you on camera and blackmail our family."

I’ve never stopped thinking of that night. My involvement might have been wiped from the records, but it was never wiped from my memory.

Turning towards the large open doorway to the lobby, my gaze locks on a pair of brilliant blue eyes I’ve never been able to forget.

Marcus freezes, his face contorted into shock and confusion. I'm likewise frozen, but for a different reason. I knew I'd see him today. I'd expected to run into him before now, but I got in late yesterday and he wasn't at the dorm welcome party last night.

Despite being on edge since the moment I got to campus, I'm still struck dumb by the sight of him.

The shock on his face dissolves, replaced by a cool demeanor that barely covers his seething anger.

Standing, I straighten to my full height and step away from the circle of guys, who have stopped their conversation to see what, or who, has captured my attention. As soon as I take three steps toward him, Marcus breaks eye contact, eyes shifting around the room to the rest of my teammates. Our teammates. Shaking his head like he's knocking something loose, he backs away and makes a beeline out of the common room.

I run after him, ignoring the curious looks and calls for my attention. As soon as I'm through the front doors of the building, I shout his name, but he's too far ahead to hear me. Or maybe he heard me and doesn't care. I'm sure he's surprised to see me. He probably needs some time to process before he'll talk to me. After everything I did, I can do that for him.

Despite the setbacks my friends caused him, Marcus landed himself at one of the top colleges in the United States, on a team that is shaking up the NCAA. It's been over three years since everything happened, and we were young and stupid. Mistakes were made. Surely we can move past it enough to talk to each other. We're going to be teammates, after all.

"Ah, I see you're familiar with the team Bitch Boy?"

My eyes are so wide, the summer breeze stings as I swivel my head to Anderson, one of my teammates and fraternity brothers. "What did you say?"

"Vell," he says, gesturing with his chin to Marcus, who is entering the sports complex. "He's Coach Burke's little pet. Thinks he's better than everyone else. You'll see."

Eyes narrowed, I follow the rest of the team into the sports complex. Almost everyone is already suited up, so we drop our bags in our designated lockers and head out onto the court, where the assistant coaches direct everyone to sit on the bleachers. When Coach comes out, the players all whoop and cheer. Even Anderson, who basically accused Marcus of being a brownnoser, is cheering emphatically. What a douche.

Of course, that douche sits right next to me like we're best friends, grinning and nudging me as Coach quiets everyone down to give an impromptu speech. I'm late to join summer training, the rest of the team has already been here for a week. It seems odd that we wouldn't head straight into practice, but maybe he has a few announcements to get out of the way for the beginning of a new week.

"Gentlemen! Welcome to a new week. You might be wondering why you're not on the court right now, and we'll get to that. I just wanted to give a formal welcome to what is sure to be the best year in CVU Basketball history. With the roster of players we have, the perseverance, skill, and dedication I have seen on this court even in just the last few days, I have no doubts that we will make it to at least the Sweet Sixteen. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if we go all the way."

The shouts of excitement are near deafening, and it takes several minutes to get everyone calm enough to continue.

"This year, we will work harder, run faster, push farther, and pass quicker than ever before. You will reach new heights, not just as basketball players, but as students of this fine establishment. And we will bring glory to the Cumberland Valley name." He smiles and nods through more applause, looking more like a politician than an athletic director, down to the full suit he’s wearing. "And to help us reach those goals, you might have noticed that we've added a new player to our roster of excellence. I'm sure he needs no introduction, but please welcome Mr. Ashton James III to our Cougars Basketball family."

This time the applause is for me, and I have to make a concerted effort not to show my embarrassment at being singled out. Aside from one guy sitting several rows down, round ears blazing red with anger, they all seem happy to have me, excited even. Despite their warm welcome, I can't help but feel like an imposter who’s come running to my daddy's home turf with my tail between my legs. I might be transferring from a championship team, but I had little to do with that success. My college basketball career hasn't been the breakout success I was expecting, and coming to this team is a last resort to stand out for NBA scouts. I'm thankful Coach didn't mention my placement on his team also came with a hefty donation, one that will ensure I see the court a lot more than I have these past few years. As ashamed as I am to resort to using my father's influence, I need my senior year to be huge. My dad thinks he's winning right now, but this is my last chance to make it big so I don't have to follow in his footsteps.

Coach Burke welcomes me again, letting me know that Coach Weston, his second in command, will walk me through how they do things. Then a whistle blows, and the team scatters, all of them except Marcus patting me on the shoulder or back to welcome me to the team.

"Mr. James, I'm Horace Weston, Associate Head Coach. It's nice to meet you in person."

"Thank you, sir. I'm glad to be here," I say, shaking his offered hand. It’s a stark reminder that I’m back in the world I grew up in, that one of my coaches is calling me Mr. James.

"Let's start with a tour, and I'll walk you through the basics of how Coach Burke has elevated the Cougars to a championship-bound team."

"Sounds good." I don't tell him that my father and I already did a tour of the facilities last month, when we negotiated my transfer prospects. It's nice to look at everything without my father's critical input.

What I'm impressed by the most, however, isn’t the facilities or amenities. It's watching the team practice, specifically Marcus, that holds my interest.

Watching him on the court is like watching an artist sculpt a masterpiece. One by one, the team lines up to challenge him, but he can't be beat. I wonder if I could still measure up. Shaking my head out of my memories, I wonder out loud why Marcus is wasting away on the scout squad rather than on the court.

"Marcus is a great player, but the rest of the team doesn't mesh well with him."

Maybe because the coaches are hell bent on pitting him against his teammates. They have to know that won’t endear him to any of the other players, don't they?

After a while, I'm eager to get out on the court with the rest of the team, if only so I can get closer to Marcus. I really just want to talk to him, but he's steadfast in his determination to pretend I don't exist. I'm so busy trying to get his attention, that I play like shit. I need to shake it off and get my head in the game before I embarrass myself any further. The last thing I need is Coach Burke calling up my father and telling him I'm slacking off, or not worth the effort of making changes to his team roster.

The excruciating practice ends after several rounds of what feels like interviews with the various coaches and players, and we're sent to the showers. I make a beeline for the locker room, hoping to corner Marcus, but Coach calls me back before I can reach the door.

The raised eyebrow and crossed arms let me know just how unimpressed he is with me right now.

"Coach, before you say anything, I know I was off my game today. I'm getting the lay of the land and watching how the other players play. I promise, you'll see a vast improvement at the next practice." I promise I know how to dribble, but every time Marcus Vell gets within three feet of me, I forget how my limbs work.

Without making eye contact with me even once, Marcus made a complete fool out of me on that court today. I let him make a fool out of me, and I can't let it happen again. I won't. Not just because I don't want to hear from my dad that I'm a bad investment, because, of course, his only interest in me is an asset to him and his business. But I really need to push myself if I'm going to make my senior year good enough to move me up to the next level.

Coach doesn't say a word, just stares me down for a long moment. I meet his stern gaze with confidence. I'll take accountability for my shitty performance today, and I'll make an effort to do better, but that doesn't mean I'll stand here and be scolded. If there's one thing I've learned from my father, it's how to never be intimidated.

Finally, he grunts a dismissal, and I make my way back to the locker rooms. A lot of the guys have already finished their showers and are talking about going out for dinner as a team. Most everyone is accounted for and nearly dressed, with only a few people missing, Marcus being one of them.

Pointedly averting my eyes out of respect to my new teammates, I take off my sneakers and head towards the showers. Thanks to exorbitant donations like the one my father made, the CVU athletics department has some of the finest state-of-the-art facilities and a locker room shower setup that rivals some professional teams. Rather than having one large communal shower, the CVU facilities have separate, walled-off shower rooms. Fresh towels are stocked in each stall, and they're cleaned spotless every night so there's none of the grossness of a locker room shower. It even smells like a spa, rather than a bunch of sweaty jocks.

Walking down the row of stalls, I check the lock indicators for an empty shower. Towards the end of the row, a door opens, and Marcus steps out. He's fiddling with the drawstring on a small bag. If it had been anyone else, I would have side-stepped them and kept walking, but my brain completely shorts out at the sight of him. I've never seen this much of him bare before. Every other time I've been around him, he's been in some version of athletic gear.

He's wearing nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. His wet hair looks even darker than usual, the short curls dripping onto his muscled chest and torso. He's got a bit of a farmer's tan, and the sight of it makes my mouth feel dry. Maybe it's the light, but it seems to accentuate the curve of his biceps. He has one small tattoo on his chest, a crooked horizontal line that I don’t realize is a heart rhythm until I’m close enough to touch it. My eyes are too busy greedily absorbing the sight of him and committing it to memory to signal to my brain to stop walking, and we collide.

Marcus face plants into my chest, and my hands instinctively reach out to steady him, settling around his hips. I have the urge to hold him there, but Marcus flinches back, apologizing.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying atten— Oh ."

I cock an eyebrow at him. " Oh ?"

His face rearranges itself into that flat, unaffected expression he's worn since the initial shock of seeing me in the common room wore off. He tries to step around me, but I hook him around the waist and pull him back in front of me. His back hits the stall door.

"Can we talk?"

"No," he answers simply, trying to move around me again. He's a full head shorter than me, but he's stocky. He could easily push past me if he wanted to, but he doesn't. I'm choosing to rationalize it, deciding he wants to hear me out.

Except, what do I have to say?

I've rehearsed what I would say to him so many times in my head. My apology, my excuses. But now that I'm here, none of it feels good enough. I desperately want to pretend like none of it happened so we could start over. Everything except the kiss. I never want to pretend like that didn't happen.

I've been searching for that feeling, that spark, all this time, but haven't found it anywhere. I thought maybe it was the excitement of the moment, the chance of being caught. Then maybe I thought it was because Marcus was a boy, that it confirmed something about myself that I’d always suspected. But no matter how, where, or who I experimented with, I never experienced the same thrill I got from kissing Marcus Vell.

Was it a fluke?

Marcus' pink tongue appears between his lips, wetting them before his top lip curls into a sneer.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snarls.

"What? I'm just?—”

"I really need you to back the fuck off right now, Ashton. I'm not doing this with you. I'm not interested in whatever it is you have to say. I just want to get on with my life."

"Marcus—”

"Why are you even here? You're supposed to be showing off at Golden State."

I open my mouth to explain, but snap it shut. A small grin stretches my lips. How does he know I’ve been showing off? "You been checking up on me, tough guy?"

He scoffs. "You fucking wish." Marcus fills his lungs with a deep sigh. "Move, Ashton."

"I just want to apologize."

"For what?" The look he gives me is scathing, daring me to say the words. My tongue feels heavy.

"You know what, Marcus. Don't fucking be this way."

"I'm not being any way, Ashton . I'm just trying to be . But you desperately need me to give you your moment so you can hear yourself speak. So go ahead," he says, gesturing for me to get on with it.

Again, I stutter.

Marcus rolls his eyes in frustration.

"You were a fucking coward then, and you're a fucking coward now," he spits.

He takes a step up to me, bringing our chests only inches away, his face looking up at mine. Despite being shorter, his display of dominance works. I feel sufficiently small, cowed by his indignation.

You're right, I was a coward. I should never have let any of that happen . Just as I'm about to spit the words out, my new bestie Anderson steps out of a shower a few doors down from where we’re standing.

"Everything alright?" he asks, looking between us.

I take a step back and nod. "Yeah, everything's fine."

"Is it?" Marcus says, stepping past me and looking me up and down, finding me wanting. "Or did you want to actually help hold me down this time? Maybe get a hit in before you get me kicked off the team?"

"What? No, of course not, I?—”

But he's not listening. He's already turned his back and walked away.

That could have gone better.

"He giving you trouble?" Anderson asks.

Despite clearly being one of the best players on the team—if not the best—I overheard a lot of bullshit that I couldn’t believe the coaches didn’t shut down. Not only do they refer to Marcus as Burke’s Ball Bitch , but they rag on him behind his back, calling him ‘the charity case’, because Marcus is here on scholarship. People like this can smell wealth, or the lack of it, and think it means something.

Frustrated that the coaches seem perfectly fine with letting their team bond over hating on the only scholarship student, I had to say something. Without making it too obvious that I had a vested interest in Marcus Vell, I'd shrugged and said he must be pretty good to have gotten a scholarship to a school like CVU, because it's widely known that this elite private university doesn't give them out often. But Anderson told me Marcus was only considered because his stepdad is on the faculty and apparently is very close friends with one of the assistant coaches. They barely consider him one of the team.

It filled me with rage, but of course I clammed up. It’d only make him more of a target if I drew more attention his way.

However many times he’s shown them that he's here for a reason, it won't stop them from looking down their noses at him. Aside from winning the lottery or otherwise coming into a very large sum of money, he won't be worth their attention. And even then, they'd talk shit behind his back about being new money and how it was obtained. As if any of them did anything other than be born into the right family to earn what they have.

I realize I'm one of those assholes too. I thought and talked the same shit. It wasn't until I spent any time with Marcus that I thought twice about it. Worse, it wasn't until the night of the biggest fuckup of my life that I started behaving differently. If only I ever grew the balls to stand up for other people, even Marcus.

“No, it’s all good. We were just talking.”

Anderson doesn’t look convinced, considering the tension he walked in on.

“We’re from the same hometown, so there’s some history,” I explain. It’s not until the words come out of my mouth that I realize how that sounds. “Not, like—” I stop myself, deciding I don’t care.

While I choose not to make my sexuality a talking point, I also don’t care to be in a closet. Anderson can think whatever the fuck he wants. Right now, all I care about is finding a way to get Marcus alone. To talk and clear the air between us. I need to apologize and find a way to show him I’m sincere. Never mind that I still find him incredibly attractive. Or that ultimately, I made the decision to transfer schools because I found out that Marcus was here.

I need to make things right. But he seems determined to maintain his anger. To hate me.

“He’s an alright player, but that doesn’t make him one of us. We’ve got your back, James.”

Once again, I stand in stunned silence rather than say anything to defend him.