Page 17

CHAPTER 17

MARCUS

A loud thud pulls me out of my daydream. The notes I was supposed to be making, but are really just doodles and chicken scratch, are smeared from where I laid my hand on the ink while I was reminiscing on the past. I seem to be doing a little too much of that lately. It's hard not to, when the walking, talking reminder of the hardest days of my life is constantly around.

He hasn't tried to bother me since that strange interaction in the student union cafe, although there have been multiple near run-ins in the showers. Unlike the first time he caught me off guard, I leave the moment he starts to soap himself. I found my missing body wash on a random shelf in the showers and reclaimed it. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one that uses this brand. I doubt any of the students on this campus have ever walked into a Walmart in their lives. The campus store only sells boutique brands that are not only overpriced, but they're too perfumey. I prefer my cheap drugstore stuff and its mild, relaxing vanilla and shea butter scent, with the shampoo and deodorant to match. It works for me.

And for Ashton, if he's to be believed.

Ugh.

I hear another thud and decide to investigate. Down the hall, there's a bank of elevators that everyone uses to get to the upper floors. Someone is trying to get a very long and apparently very heavy box into the elevator. But they're struggling to pull it in, and the elevator doors keep trying to close on the end of the box. Shoving my socked feet into my shower slides, I jog over to see if I can help, and immediately regret it.

Of course it's Ashton. He's inside the elevator, trying to maneuver the huge, awkward box by himself. I think for once his height is working against him. He’s almost as tall as the ceiling in the tiny elevator, and his lanky arms and legs can't seem to work together to lift the box up enough to lean it against the wall, and it's too long to leave flat on the floor.

As soon as I notice it's him, I back away, but he senses the movement and jerks his head up. "Oh, hey."

"Hey," I reply. "What exactly is happening here? I could hear you thumping around from down the hall."

"Yeah, sorry. I just… overestimated how awkward this thing would be. I should have asked for a door delivery." His lips are turned down, like he's figuring out a puzzle.

"Or you could just ask for help."

Ashton clears his throat. "I’ve got it.”

“Clearly,” I deadpan, gesturing to the elevator as it attempts to close again. “Let me guess, none of your friends want to break a nail? And no one from the maintenance staff was available at your beck and call? On a Sunday, during Labor Day weekend?"

He has the decency to look at least a little embarrassed. Huffing out a breath, because I know helping him is only going to cause me trouble, I bend down and lift the end of the box. Instructing him to lift his side high enough to allow me to skirt inside the elevator, we manage to lean the box on the wall. The doors close behind me, trapping me in with the man of my nightmares, the sound of his breaths, the smell of his cologne or deodorant or whatever it is that's both sweet and spicy and just subtle enough that I want to move closer to identify what it is. That he smells so good, especially when he's red faced and sweating, makes me irrationally angry. By the time the elevator opens again, I'm grateful for the fresh air. Except this whole fucking floor apparently smells like him.

Backing out of the elevator slowly, I help Ashton carry the box through the large open lobby. What floor are we even on? I was too distracted trying not to breathe to pay attention, and that made the ride up seem to go on forever.

"Where are we taking this?"

Ashton gestures with his chin to a door. I've never been on any of the upper floors, so I'm not sure what's up here other than dorms. It looks very different from my floor.

What I'm not expecting is for us to walk into what looks like a small apartment. There's a sitting area with a couch and television, a dismantled bedframe and queen-sized mattress set piled on the floor. Ashton leads us through a cutout door and into an empty room that I'm assuming is a bedroom. There are more dismantled pieces of furniture littering the space. He guides me to set the box down in the center of the mess, then stretches out his back.

"Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"Yeah. No problem," I say quietly. Not wanting to stay and chat, I turn on my heel to get the hell out of here when I notice an open door across from the bedroom. Is that…

"You have your own bathroom?" It's more of an accusation than a question, because what the fuck? Why has he been coming all the way down to my floor to shower if he not only lives several floors above me, but also has his own private shower? Make it make sense!

"Oh. Um—” I think for a moment that he's going to try to come up with some excuse or bullshit reason, but he surprises me by admitting it. "Yeah," he says awkwardly.

Do I even want to know?

"So, what? You come down to the first floor to shower in a stall because…" I wave my hands around, indicating for him to fill in the blanks here, because I'm at a loss. "Wait. Never mind. Don't answer that. I get it."

"What?"

"That you're fucking with me. I don't understand what your deal is. It's bad enough that you're here at all, but you can't just leave me alone and let me pretend…"

"Pretend I don't exist? After all this time, you still hate me so much?"

"Yes! You ruined my fucking life, Ashton."

He crosses his arms, and I'm too pissed to even appreciate the way it makes his biceps bulge. "I think that's a little dramatic. It's been four years. We were kids."

If I could lobotomize him with the daggers I'm shooting from my eyes right now, I would. I'm practically trembling with rage. Goddamn selfish, self-righteous, entitled fucking prick!

The incredulous widening of his eyes tells me those weren't inside thoughts, but so be it. Maybe he needs to hear the hard truth. I don't expect him to change or even care that much, but I'm not letting him off the hook.

"It took me years to get to where I am, Ashton. Years . I lost everything. While you were off gallivanting around California living like a celebrity, I was working my ass off, only to barely be accepted as a member of this team. I finally have something to show for the work I've put in, and you have to show up to take it away from me. Why? Why are you fucking here, Ashton?"

I can hear my voice getting higher the more worked up I get, and it reminds me of my father's funeral, and the way my mother broke down. It's the reminder I need to pull my shit together and get far, far away.

Ashton opens his mouth to say something, but I hold my hand up. "Don't bother. It's not worth it."

The words sting with the rejection and betrayal I felt all those years ago.

"Marc—"

"Stay away from me, Ashton."

My heart hammers in my chest, sweat pouring over my drenched body, legs aching with the effort of each step. Running on these mountain roads has been fantastic for my legs and cardio, but right now, it feels like every step is heavier than usual.

I'm so tired.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Even my relatively easy course load has felt challenging, and the semester has barely begun.

Training camp ended with the coaches looking quite satisfied that we're ready. We've moved into regular season practice, so the team is getting more time on the court together. Coach has us doing a lot of team building drills that I think are working well. Either everyone else has been as exhausted as I am, or the coach's drills are so ingrained that they're even passing to me without thinking twice. It's made a huge difference in our speed and efficiency. Last week, Coach finally pulled me from the scout squad to try me on the starting lineup. I sort of hate that Ashton and I play so well together, but it's like we can read each other's minds. We've even been doing practice drills with five players against the two of us, and we're practically unstoppable. Playing with Ashton is actually enjoyable and has made practice something to look forward to.

Last week, Coach let a few students from the school newspaper in to watch practice and take pictures, and we ended up as campus headlines. Worse, the local news picked up on it, and we're being touted as some kind of impactful dynamic duo.

While we’ve been getting along and playing well together on the court, Ashton hasn't tried to befriend me in front of the rest of the team, nor has he bothered me much outside of practice. He still stares, his dark gaze following me around whenever we're in the same vicinity. He's probably caught me staring at him just as many times as I've caught him. The way his eyes hold my gaze, serious and full of an emotion I can't read, then lower quickly, is doing something to my brain. I want to feel bad for snapping at him, for bringing up the past and shoving it in his face. Making him feel worse won’t fix what happened, nor will it make me feel better. I'd like to just leave it behind and call a truce, but I know I can’t trust him. For now, I'm trying to let playing nicely on the court be enough.

Media Day is coming up, and thanks to our newfound local celebrity status, both Ashton and I were invited to be interviewed. Coach is over the moon at all the attention the CVU basketball program has been getting, and has had us sitting down with the team liaison and the Assistant Commissioner of Communications for the school to do interview prep. The more they try to prep us for the interview, the more nervous I get. This will be my first televised interview outside of the Pinecrest local news, which were only quick court side questions and congratulations for games well played. This could make or break me in the public eye. As stupid as it is, the public’s opinion and love of a player is almost as important as the stats they put up. What if I fuck it up and look like a complete idiot? Or worse, get benched for making the school look bad by not being refined or professional enough. I wish we could skip it and just get to the open scrimmage against Appalachian on Friday.

"You're not slowing down, are you Vell?" That deep voice from my nightmares skitters down my spine as Ashton pulls up next to me, breaking me from my thoughts. "I'm pretty sure these are supposed to be uphill sprints, not a light jog."

"Says the guy that only just now caught up to me."

Ashton puts on a burst of speed, his ridiculously long legs pulling him ahead of my position by several feet. With a groan, I pump my legs harder, but the one benefit of being in constant competition with your hometown rival is that I feel no pain. A rush of energy and endorphins rushes through me, and I gain on him. We sprint, side by side, through the entrance to the campus. Coaches Burke and Weston are sitting in lawn chairs under a canopy with a stopwatch, but neither Ashton nor I slow down. I push harder, gaining an inch, only to have Ashton pull back ahead. We run like that, pushing ourselves to exhaustion, each gaining and then losing the lead by a mere inch, until we hit the grass. It's been rainy, and the grass is slick. Ashton slips a little and loses traction, falling right into me. He grabs me around the waist like he's tackling me, and we both hit the ground, hard. Mud splashes on impact, and for a moment we just lay there, trying to catch our breaths and process what happened.

"You fucker," I say, without any real heat. I'm actually making an effort not to laugh.

Ashton, of course, has no such tact. He snorts out a laugh through heaving breaths. I kick at him weakly, barely able to move my limbs now that we've stopped running so abruptly.

"You just had to take me down with you," I gripe, once I can get my breath enough to speak.

"It was an accident."

"Sure it was."

We lay there for a while longer, water and mud seeping in through our sweat-soaked shorts and t-shirts, until the voices of the rest of the team making it over the finish line float over to us.

"You don't need to be nervous," Ashton says quietly. "These interviews are always the same canned questions and responses about how well the team is doing and what our hopes for the season will be."

"Yeah, I'm good," I lie. I'm actually completely freaking out about it, and I'm a little pissed that Ashton can tell.

"I know you are. But if you're not, I'll be right there, and Coach will be behind us."

I'll be right there.

That shouldn't be a comfort to me. It isn't a comfort to me. How could it be?

I'm too exhausted to pick a fight. Instead, I force myself up, wincing at the way my shirt is suctioned to the wet ground.

Laughter cuts the silence, and I look over to see a few of the guys from the team looking our way. It's then that I notice how close we are to each other, one of my legs tucked under his and my hand on his shoulder. I jerk my hand away and push myself to my feet. At the last moment, I hold a hand out to help Ashton up.

"Yo, what's up with you and BB?"

The sound of one of my teammates talking about me makes me stop just outside the showers.

"What are you talking about?"

"Dude, you and Vell were looking awfully friendly at practice today. Seriously, nobody should have that much fun doing uphill sprints."

"Whatever, man."

"You gonna start letting him suck your dick next? Or maybe you're ready to live up to your new nickname?" There's a burst of laughter from the group, several people chiming in with their own jokes or sound effects.

Clearly, none of these guys have ever been rimmed, because that is most definitely not what it sounds like. Or maybe the slurping sound is supposed to be me sucking a dick? That would probably be accurate. I do love a sloppy blowjob…

Nope. Full stop. Not with Ashton James you don't. Especially when he's standing around a locker room, listening to his buddies make jokes at my expense. Same old, same old. It shouldn't even faze me anymore.

Then I hear Ashton laugh and make an offhand comment about me not being able to handle his dick, and it sits heavy in the bottom of my stomach. Still, I straighten my shoulders and keep my head up as I saunter through the doorway from the showers, giving them all an unimpressed raise of my eyebrow.

"What do you think about that, Vell? Ashton here says you couldn't handle what he's packing. Is that, like, an insult to your gay manhood or something?" Fucking Anderson Hearst, the worst of the privileged, snooty loyalists, loves to stir up shit whenever he sees the opportunity. Instead of rising to the bait, I rake my eyes up and down Ashton with a pointedly unimpressed, deadpan expression, and shrug.

Then, in the stupidest move I've possibly ever made in my life, including the time I let that fucker corner me then kiss me, I pull my towel from around my hips and let it drop to the floor. My flaccid cock hangs heavily between my legs, and I will it to stay as uninterested as I'm pretending to be. I don't so much as crack a smile as a ripple goes through the room, a mixture of disbelieving gasps, a few choked laughs, and one obnoxious hoot from Anderson, of course.

"Jesus Christ, Vell. What the fuck do you feed that thing?!"

"Why don't you bend over, and I'll show you," I mutter humorlessly, feeling a pang of guilt for sullying one of my favorite movie quotes with the likes of these assholes.

A chorus of " oooohhh " rings through the room, and I casually open my locker to pull out some clean clothes. It’s immature, and I know it, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it feels good to get the upper hand for once. I've seen most of their dicks swinging around this locker room, and I knew without a doubt that I'm packing a lot more heat than any of them. And while I don't actually believe that means anything, I know they do. This whole display is nothing but a ridiculous power move.

Once I've pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, I look up to find Ashton watching me. His skin is covered in red splotches from his cheeks down to his chest.

"You got something to say?" I ask him, challenging him to spar with me right now.

The dip in his throat as he swallows is the only small sign of weakness he displays, but I see it. He smirks at his friends, then back at me. "Nah, man. But don't let the officials know you're carrying that around. I'm pretty sure that extra leg is against regulation or something."

Smooth.

And just like that, everyone goes back to laughing and chatting. Except this time, I'm right in the middle of it. Landon Smith, one of the juniors who worked the scout squad with me, even invites me to join them for pizza. I decline, of course, not wanting to admit to myself that it was nice to be included.

As I'm exiting the sports complex, Ashton catches up to me.

"Marcus! Hey, man, about what you heard back there?—”

"Just drop it. I've heard worse, and I couldn't care less. It's not like I'm interested."

"I just?—”

"You just what, Ashton? You want to apologize for being yourself again?”

His mouth opens, then closes again. I scoff.

“Why do you bother talking to me outside of practice? Are you interested? Because I'll tell you right now, that’s never fucking happening. Everyone else here might get on their knees for you, but I don’t submit for anyone, much less pathetic closet cases who like to parade around like they're better than me. So unless you're about to drop to your knees, right here, right now, stay the fuck out of my way."

Pushing him back against the brick wall of the building, I stare him down, not giving a flying fuck that he's a head taller than me. I'm fucking tired of people trying to make me feel small. I'm tired of this asshole succeeding, because despite everything he's done to me, I am fucking interested, and he knows it.

He doesn't say anything, only stares at me with a wide-eyed look that's somewhere between fear and hunger. When I look down between us, there's an obvious tent in his shorts. Snarling, I walk away before my traitor dick makes itself known.

Sean: It's going to be great. Relax and be yourself.

Me: That's exactly the opposite of what Coach and the PR team want me to do. They want me to be an example of the caliber of person who attends this school.

Sean: What does that even mean?

Me: Sit up straight, enunciate more, don't talk about my past or scholarship. I feel like the chick with the Cockney accent from that old movie where they turn her into a high-society lady.

Me: Coach sent me to get a haircut at some snooty salon, and a new pair of sneakers showed up in my locker yesterday. I think they're embarrassed to have a poor person represent the school.

Sean: So why send you, then?

Me: Because of Ashton, and this whole “dynamic duo” thing that's being built up in the press. They asked for the two of us specifically, so their hands are tied.

Sean: Well, fuck 'em. Be your usual broody self, and act like you're talking to me. I'll be watching.

Sean: And if that asshole says or does anything to embarrass you, I'll put him in a head lock, and you can kick him in the balls.

Me: I'm not broody.

Me: Thanks, though.

Tossing my phone in my bag, I take one last deep breath and attempt to blot the sweat from my face with some tissue. Sean's right, of course. There's nothing wrong with who I am. I might be on the quieter side, or broody as he calls it, but I'm a nice person. I'm well educated, even if I didn't grow up going to private schools and have access to all the finest tutors. My posture is just as good as anyone else's, maybe better since I'm not as tall as some of these giants. And my background makes me exceptional, because I've had to work harder to overcome what the rest of these assholes take for granted. There is nothing I need to worry about. Except the chance that Ashton might use this as an opportunity to make himself look good at my expense. It might be slightly irrational, but I don't trust the way he's been campaigning our partnership on the court. When Coach so much as considered sending someone else in my place, he insisted that we need to give the interviewers, and the fans, what they want.

I just can’t figure out what his game is.

"Good afternoon, and welcome to the ACC Tip Off Event. We're sitting down with forward Ashton James and guard Marcus Vell from the Cumberland Valley University Cougars. Now, guys, there has been a ton of buzz and energy around CVU these past couple of years, that really exploded last season. How does it feel to be part of a team that has gone from relatively unknown to holding a number fifteen seed ranking?”

Ashton leans toward the microphone first, his trademark dashing smile stretched across his face. "It's been really exciting. Coach Burke has put together an amazing team and training strategy that has really elevated the game. I'm proud to be part of it, and I have no doubt we'll continue to dominate the court and rise even higher."

Thankfully, the interviewer hones in on Ashton as a transfer, allowing me to continue to sit back. I'm not sure what to do with my hands, so I keep them folded in my lap, but then I worry that I look as uncomfortable as I am, so I rest my forearms on the table like Ashton did when we first sat down. Then, of course, I worry they'll think I have something to interject, so I drop my hands to my lap again, wiping my sweaty palms on the thighs of my uniform.

"Speaking of dominating the court, you transferred from a top-ranking school, Golden State University, to play for CVU. How has that transition been for you?"

Ashton looks completely nonplussed, although I know he was worried about these questions coming up in the interview. "It's been great. Coach Burke and the rest of the team have really been very welcoming, and it's nice to be a little closer to home."

"Ah, yes. I'm sure your father, AJames Enterprises CEO Ashton James the second, is happy to see you doing so well at his alma mater, isn't that right?"

I'm sure I'm the only one that notices how tight his smile is, but Ashton nods and agrees politely. "It's been a great experience so far. I'm excited to be part of the CVU team and bring my skills to the court this season."

It's pretty impressive the way Ashton casually lets the interviewer know he's done with that line of questioning, without much more than the slightest change in his posture and voice. I'd be surprised if the viewers at home picked up on the tension at all.

"And Marcus, you've been described as a bit of an underdog, also joining CVU as a transfer last year. Despite not seeing much court time last season, you’ve really proved you have the chops to make it all the way. How have you approached this season, knowing you've caught the attention of fans and scouts alike?"

While I expected to be asked about my unconventional path to my position on the team, the part about fans and scouts throws me. I stammer for several seconds, trying to get my brain back on track so I can remember how to make words happen. Ashton's leg leans against mine, the slight bit of pressure and warmth of his skin seeping in through my shorts. I blink down at our legs touching, then shake myself out of it and pull away.

Looking up, I smile nervously. "I don't know about all that. But I've worked hard during the off-season to improve my game and prove myself as a member of this team, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to help CVU succeed."

The interviewer looks at Ashton again, and I think for a moment that I might be done. No such luck. "Ashton, Marcus has gotten a lot of press lately for his rise to fame in the college circuits. What do you think of his rags to riches story, and what is it that Marcus brings to CVU's basketball program?"

Fuck. Me. Are you serious? I cringe inwardly, waiting for him to compare my experience with his, to say something to try to humiliate me or point out how much I don't fit in with the other players on our team.

"I think Marcus brings versatility to the team, both offensively and defensively. Coach Burke basically built an entire training drill around him, because his skills are unmatched. He adapts quickly to different playing styles and brings a different kind of energy to the court than anyone I've played with before."

Uh… say what now?

"What do you mean by that, a 'different kind of energy'?"

"Marcus doesn't do anything half-heartedly. Whether it's a game, or practice, or even a casual pickup game, he puts everything into it. He's unstoppable."

The interviewer looks impressed by Ashton's answer, and maybe more than a little curious. My ears are so hot I think I might be sending out pulses of radiation. There's a funny lump in my throat that I can't swallow down, and I have a concerning urge to run screaming from the room.

"What do you think about that, Marcus?"

"Um, uh, yeah. That's nice to hear. Being appreciated by a teammate is… nice." I chuckle awkwardly and clear my throat. "Every player on the team has put their heart and soul into making this season the best we can."

"We've heard reports that the two of you have become quite the dynamic duo on the court. What specific aspects of Ashton's game have impressed you the most, and how have those qualities contributed to your success as partners on the court?"

That's a good question that I don't think I have a good answer for.

"Well, um, Ashton has a healthy sense of competitiveness." He’s a stubborn jerk. "And I think our experiences playing against each other has helped us understand each other's tendencies." And you know… spending most of my day imagining hate fucking him has made me keenly aware of his every move, both on and off the court. "Ashton has a single-minded determination to go after what he wants, and I think that allows him to read other players and make smart plays. We push each other to do better, work harder, and I guess it's paying off."

"Indeed," the interviewer says, nodding, apparently satisfied with my answer. I let go of some of the tension I've been holding, my leg muscle relaxing and touching his once again. I swallow and, for whatever reason, don't pull away this time. His body heat radiates into me, sending a surge of unfamiliar comfort through my body. It rests in my bones, coaxing my body to relax slightly. "Finally, for both of you, what are your personal and team goals heading into this season, and what message do you have for Cumberland Valley Cougar fans?"

Ashton's heavy hand comes down on my shoulder. "Well, I think I can speak for both of us, and the team as a whole, when I say that the fans' support means everything. The excitement and energy around this program is what boosts us to do better and make everyone proud this season. Go Cougars!"

My fist comes up in a half-enthused wave, which Ashton turns into a fist bump. I smile and thank the interviewer. It’s not until they signal for a commercial break that I realize I’m still leaning into Ashton.

Fuck. How noticeable was that? I didn’t even realize I was doing it.

Trying not to freak out, I pull away and nod to the staff before making a beeline out of the building. I need some fresh air before I keel over.