Page 15

CHAPTER 15

MARCUS

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This can’t be happening.

Despite my stoic attitude, I really try hard to stay optimistic about my lot in life. I prefer to look at the bright side of things, like the great opportunity I've been given to come to a school like Cumberland Valley University. I knew from the moment I considered applying that I wouldn't fit in here, and transferring in for my Junior year probably didn't help. I'd hoped that getting financial aid and not wearing the trendiest, most expensive training gear wouldn't matter at this point in our lives. I hoped that I'd be able to integrate into the team dynamics by being a standout player. If there's one thing I'm not a stranger to, it's working hard to prove myself.

As a player, I think I've done that well enough. Coach Burke has nothing but good things to say to me and has found ways to utilize my skills without causing tension with the team. When players graduated last year, I was hoping this would be my chance to make it out on the court and actually play, rather than just be a practice dummy for the team. But it is what it is. The team throws everything they've got at me in practice—targeting me to be fouled, making overly aggressive passes, taunting me about everything from my social and financial status to my sexuality. Off court, I'm mostly ignored.

Honestly, none of that bothers me very much. Whatever bullshit people throw at me is worth it to know my future will be secure.

What does bother me is having to be in close proximity to Ashton fucking James every day for the next year. No matter how much I tell myself it's just one year, one year until he's off to the NBA and I'm starting grad school or internships. One year until I can go back to pretending he doesn't exist.

He's trying so hard to get my attention, but all I can think about is the way he froze up when Anderson walked in on our standoff outside the showers. It was too strong a reminder of what happened the last time I gave him an inch.

The last thing I need is to drop my guard and end up benched before the season even starts, or worse, kicked off the team because I fall for his stupid pretty face. Again.

I despise how fucking attractive I find him. He has the looks of a carefree California surfer boy, with a deep tan and messy blond hair that he wears mostly in a topknot. When he gets out of the shower, he leaves it down to drip onto his tall, lean form, making his golden skin glisten. I have nightmares about his cocky smirk and where his light brown happy trail leads… what it would feel like to rub my nose in it and follow it down, down, down…

Nope.

I can deal with douchebag teammates. I can deal with working ten times harder than everyone around me for less credit. I can deal being treated like I'm beneath everyone else around me. But after only two weeks of being on the same campus, I know I have limits. What I can’t deal with is Ashton catching me checking him out and giving me that knowing smirk that makes my stomach flip. I can't deal with his persistent attempts to get my attention, the way he seems to lurk around every corner, or meet my eye across the court during practice or in the locker room. And with my awareness of him on overload, finding out that he's staying in the same building as me has me constantly on edge.

Case in point: Ashton is in the shower stall next to mine right now. I felt his presence the moment he walked in. I knew it was him, knew he'd foiled my plans to keep switching up my schedule so he can't catch me off guard like he did after our first practice. I saw his feet as they walked past my stall in his brand name shower shoes. I could tell by the delicate shape of his toes and the sureness of his gait that it was him.

And now he's humming along to whatever song is playing in his head, filling the air with the hypnotizing scent of his expensive body wash, sandalwood and something bright and fresh, like lemongrass. Instead of washing quickly and getting out, all I can do is stand here and watch the suds fall to the floor, considering which parts of his body they ran down before they fell.

I am pretty sure I've never found feet attractive. I’m not kink shaming, it's just not my thing, but as I stare down at the only part of him I can see, I can understand the appeal. I'm not saying I want to suck his toes or anything, but I wouldn't completely dismiss the idea either. His feet are long, with a high arch and a sparse dusting of light hair on the tops of his perfectly shaped toes.

The water continues to slosh onto the floor in trickles and splashes as Ashton washes and rinses his body. I find myself wondering which parts of him he's washing currently, imagining what his lithe body looks like covered in suds and rivulets of water. I'm broken out of my reverie by a familiar rhythmic squelch and slap that answers my question.

My breath catches. I want to be mad. Why can't he do that in his own room? Does he know I'm in here? Why else would he choose the shower stall directly next to me in an otherwise empty bathroom if he wasn't here to taunt me?

I want to be mad.

I should be offended or scandalized. Disgusted.

But I'm not.

No. Instead, I've got a tight grip around my dick, hand moving up and down my shaft, keeping time with the rhythm he's making.

A moan echoes through the space, and goosebumps erupt over my skin despite the hot water beating down on me. My eyes fall to my dick, rigid and aching, then cut to movement on the floor.

Ashton's feet have stepped closer to the wall, now facing me instead of towards the shower head the way they were minutes ago. Long fingers curl over the top of the stall wall, squeezing the partition hard enough that his knuckles are white. His stupid ostentatious class ring reflects the light, making it impossible to pretend it could be anyone but him.

Why can't it be anyone but him?

I back away until I hit the opposite wall, but I don't look away. I'm ashamed to say I don't stop stroking myself either. The slapping sounds of Ashton jerking off grow faster and louder. His fingers flex, toes curl. I imagine his head pressed against the inch thick wall between us, imagine his body heat seeping through the material. Unbidden, my hand raises and presses against the middle of the wall. It's shaking with the force of Ashton's movements, making my mind fly to places it really shouldn't. Like what it would be like to be between Ashton and that wall, taking his thrusts instead of his hand.

A deeper moan releases from him, and I answer with a half-choked sob, trying not to let him know I'm taking part in this stupid game. I watch, open-mouthed, as streaks of cum land on the floor between his feet, tracing them to the drain the way I did the suds. Biting down on my lip hard to keep any sounds at bay, I tremble through my orgasm, painting the wall between us in thick spurts of cum.

Ashton chuckles darkly, belaying any hope he wouldn't find out I had any part in this madness. His feet turn back towards the shower head. I take the opportunity to flee, barely so much as wrapping the towel around my waist before running, barefoot and soaking wet, back to my dorm room. The sounds of feet slapping against the wet tile chase me out, but I manage to get out and behind my locked door before I have to face whatever that just was. Before I have to look him in the eye.

The next morning, my shower supplies are lined up outside my dorm room door, except for my body wash, which is missing. Ashton works even harder than usual to catch my eye, while I do everything in my power to pretend he's invisible.

It's hard though. Really hard. Especially when, days later, he's following too closely behind me in line at lunch, his body heat brushing up against my back at the salad bar. His attempts to get my attention work when I hear him inhale deeply and groan. Warm breath sends a shiver down my spine when he leans forward and whispers behind the shell of my ear.

"The smell of your cheap body wash gets me so fucking hard," he whispers huskily. I’ve resorted to showering at the sports complex and using the basic body wash they provide since mine is still missing.

Ashton buries his straight, regal nose in his cupped hand and inhales again, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

I choke on the cherry tomato I'd mindlessly popped into my mouth as a diversion. Several people scowl at me like I might have a communicable disease. They're probably worried that I've infected the general vicinity with poor.

Ashton thumps me on the back, laughing heartily that he finally got a reaction out of me. The look I shoot him could melt glaciers, but his smile just widens before he winks and walks away. He heads towards the table where most of the basketball team typically sit together. As usual, I take my lunch to the courtyard, choosing to sit in the shade of a large oak tree while I scroll my social media.

"Hey, bud." Greg’s voice pulls my attention, and I squint up at him with a smile. "Ready for another semester?"

"Are you?"

He winces, and I laugh. I've taken to stopping by his office now and again when I have an extra moment between classes, helping him make copies and staple syllabi. He's tragically unorganized for a professor.

"Mind if I join you?"

"’Course not."

Greg is silent for a long while, tucking into a sandwich and fruit salad. He's down to his last few grapes when he speaks again. "I can't help but notice you're not eating with the rest of the team." He eyes me. "They seem to be having a fun time being rowdy in the dining hall."

I shrug, because it's no big deal. I didn't come here to make friends. I came here with a purpose, and that's to set myself up for a better future. Whether or not my teammates want to share a meal or a laugh with me, invite me to parties, or talk to me at all outside of basketball practice, makes no difference to me. Good riddance.

"You know, a lot of the connections you make in college can follow you throughout your life. Especially the kind of connections you make at a place like this. Most of the people here are on the fast track to run the world."

"I appreciate the advice, but I don't think they want to be connected to the likes of me, and to be honest, it's mutual."

"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt you to open up a little. Maybe try smiling? Or if that's too far, you could simply go for not looking like you'd rather chug toilet bowl cleaner than be here." I snort, because he could be right. Maybe. A little. I can't help that I have resting bitch face. It'd probably look unnatural if I smiled. "Can I, uh, ask a personal question?"

Is he about to ask me about dating? He has dropped one too many hints about the different Pride groups and dating apps that are popular around here. And I'm not about to have a conversation with my stepdad about whether I've used said apps to arrange a quick blowjob now and then. That's a little too much sharing for me.

"Is there something going on between you and the James boy? Ashton?"

Heat burns my ears, betraying my nonchalance towards his line of questioning. I'd honestly rather talk about blind hookups.

"There's nothing happening. We have some history, and now we have to be teammates. That's all."

Greg makes a face. He knows the basics about what happened in high school, and the aftermath. "It's really none of my business. I just don't want to see you get caught up in his brand of trouble again. That family…" He shakes his head and huffs in frustration. "They've been known to cut corners and betray people to get ahead, including friends and even family. Not that you need to be reminded of that, after what both you and your father went through with those people." He pauses. "I'm not saying Ashton is necessarily like his father, but?—”

"Oh, he is. I have no doubts or hopeful notions otherwise. And I'm not interested in a friendship or anything else with that backstabber, or any of his pompous, ass-kissing buddies, either."

Understanding my scathing tone for what it is, Greg nods and lets the conversation go. Instead, he diverts us back to talking about school. We talk about how well I did on my final exams for the summer semester, and he gives me insider knowledge about my professors for the upcoming semester. I barely hear a word of his rundown on which professors are the hardest and how to get on their good sides. My thoughts are once again stuck on Ashton and the way he makes my blood boil.