Page 7

CHAPTER 7

ASHTON, AGE 17

If there's one thing Marcus Vell is good at outside of basketball, it's keeping a stone-faced expression. This is the third time we've met on the court since the summer we almost kissed, and it's the third time he's treated me like we're complete strangers. He's so convincing, I almost question if it happened at all.

He never came back to basketball camp, much to my dismay. When I heard about his father, I called my dad and asked if there was anything we could do for them. Unless I'm very mistaken, he sounded legitimately upset to hear about Roman Vell’s death. I think Mimi sent flowers, but I never heard whether they did anything else actually useful to help them.

Since there was nothing else I could do to reach him, I found a new obsession stalking Marcus’ social media pages. I tried sending him a private message through his Instagram page, but never received any indication that he'd received the message. Eventually I got brave— okay, desperate —enough to follow him, then waited on pins and needles for him to accept me and follow me back. He didn't. His privacy settings make it so only his profile name and picture of a basketball being spun on a middle finger can be seen. I have no idea if he even uses his profile. And since we go to different schools and run in completely different circles, I have no way of contacting him.

It's clear by the way he's ignored me any time we've run into each other on the court that he's not interested, and that's fine. But does he have to pretend I don't exist?

And , okay, the fact that he's grown up a lot since the last time I saw him definitely has me feeling some kind of way. His hair is cropped short now, into a much more stylish cut that compliments his chiseled jawline. He looks hot as hell, but I hate it. I never got to touch those messy curls, and I'm unreasonably upset about it. He's taller than he was, but not quite as tall as me since my last big growth spurt. He's filled out a lot more than I have. He probably has forty pounds of muscle on him compared to my lean frame. His size doesn't slow him down on the court, though. He's formidable.

My eyes catch on the rainbow sweatband around his wrist. Is he out?

Remembering the way he challenged me when we played one-on-one makes me squirm. It has me looking over my shoulder at the other team's sidelines to see if he ever catches my eye. Finally, I catch him glimpsing my way and can't help but grin.

"Yeah, I see you looking," I say with my eyes. All he does is glare, but for some reason, it gets my dick up. If I don't quit looking over there, I'm going to be dribbling the ball with it.

I seek him out on the court. Target him. Put myself directly in front of him so he has no choice but to notice me. Luckily, I'm one of the few guys on my team tall enough to challenge his position, so it seems strategic.

The more frustrated he gets, the more I push. So much so, he makes some aggressive plays and ends up fouling me. I fall to the ground, as one does , and wait for the ref to call the penalty. One of my teammates jogs over to pull me up, while several of his pat him on the back, telling him the call was bullshit. Just to fuck with him, I give him a wink and a kissy face as the ref tosses the ball to me and turns towards the goal. Marcus’ indignant glare distracts me, and I miss the first free throw.

My second shot is clean, and I give Marcus another smirk that he pretends not to notice. The moment the ball is back in play, I'm on him again. He has the ball, and I move around him, hard pressing him so he can't make a shot, accidentally-on-purpose brushing myself against his back. Truth be told, I'm more focused on bothering him than I am getting the ball, but my non-strategic approach to annoying him does the trick enough that I'm able to steal the ball. When it's his turn to guard me, he keeps his distance, waiting for an opening that I'm not going to give him easily. He's too focused on the ball for my liking. I advance forward, faking a crossover before spinning around and passing to an open teammate. I don't even watch them take it down court, I'm too busy eyeballing #29.

"This is fun," I say, just as I notice someone from the other team has gotten possession. I give Marcus another wink before making a fast break to tend to the goal. I'm able to intercept the shot and block an attempt to rebound before he catches up to me again.

We're able to pull off the win, just barely. My team is busy jumping up and down, celebrating our path to the regional championship. They're acting like we wiped the court with the Timberwolves, but they almost had us. They're a good team and we're on their home turf. I can't help but glance over to their sidelines and notice the way they're shaking their heads at us. Marcus raises an eyebrow, and I can feel the judgement from here. Between the overblown celebration and the loud, stupid comments about the state of public high school facilities, it's no wonder everyone outside of Easton Academy thinks we're pretentious. It's made even worse by the mess the team makes of their guest locker room, continuing a chain of disrespect that I'm embarrassed about.

As team captain, I should do more about it, but the coaches pretty much dismiss me when I mention the team should clean up before we leave. There’s no point in pressing it, and I’m not brave enough to call them on their bullshit. They're all patting me on the back and cheering how I "showed up" the Timberwolves best player. I think I hear a joke about how Marcus probably liked having me at his back all night, but I don’t know how to respond to it. It’s thinly veiled homophobia, but they could easily get away with saying they didn’t mean it that way. The word "trash" is thrown around a lot, and how shitty this side of town is.

“God, I hope your dad keeps bulldozing this whole side of town. I think this shitty school would make an excellent condo development, don’t you?”

My stomach is sour, but I don't say a word. I don't stop them. It wouldn't accomplish anything anyway, not when even the coaching staff is laughing and all of this is treated like normal locker room talk. All it would do is turn them away from me.

When we're finally making it towards our bus, I see Marcus in the parking lot with some of his teammates. He gives a couple of them fist bumps and bro handshakes as they head to their cars. Turning his head towards us, he catches me staring and holds my gaze before turning around and heading back inside the building, which is mostly empty at this point. Passing my bag to one of the students loading the bus, I tell Coach I left something behind and run back inside before he can stop me.

I find Marcus leaning against the wall in the hall outside the locker rooms with his arms crossed.

"What is your problem?" He asks, brows furrowed and blue eyes blazing. He looks so serious, so different from how he used to. But I can still recognize the little boy with the wide grin and messy hair behind this grumpy facade he's putting on for me.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Like you didn’t just spend that entire game messing with me. Why are you here right now?"

"It seemed like you wanted me to follow you inside," I say with a shrug. With a swallow, I drop some of my bravado. "Did you not want me to?"

"Why would I want you to follow me in here, Ashton?" I like hearing him say my name, even if it's in anger or annoyance.

"To finish what we started?" I ask, my voice dropping low.

For a moment, I hope he didn't hear me say that. It was bold. Bolder than I've been around anyone else since the last time I was alone with him.

My sexuality isn't something I'm afraid of, but it's something I'm still figuring out. I had a girlfriend for a while, a cheerleader with dark brown curly hair, small, perky tits, and long legs. But she didn't do it for me. Eventually, she got bored and broke up with me. Girls are always trying to get my attention, but I ignore them for the most part. Somehow, acting aloof and uninterested seems to make them more interested. Meanwhile, I have no idea how to explore this other side of me. The only person I've ever really been interested in is standing in front of me right now.

Marcus doesn't say anything. He doesn't confirm, but he doesn't deny, either. The way his eyes dart to my mouth and then back up to my eyes makes me think he wants this too. Maybe he's been thinking about it for almost two years, like I have.

I step forward, closing the distance between us. I'm too afraid to think too much, so I just act. Another inch closer and my lips touch his.

He doesn't move at first, and neither do I. I try to remember the mechanics of kissing from all those times I made out with Brooke. My lips part slightly and close again, pulling on his bottom lip. His lips are tight and unyielding, but I'm desperate for this. I’ve been haunted by the thought of almost kissing him that night outside the camp courts. I don't back away. Instead, I press more firmly, bracketing him with my hands on the wall on either side of his head. A small huff of air leaves him, and he finally softens. His mouth moves against mine. The entirety of my body breaks out in goosebumps, and I drop a hand from the wall. It caresses down his face, cups his jaw, pulls the back of his neck to press him harder into the kiss, then rests against his chest. Through the thin layer of his t-shirt, I feel the frantic thumping of his heart, matching the intensity of the beat ringing in my ears.

I know without a shadow of a doubt that this moment, his lips against mine and our hearts beating wildly, will stick with me forever. I feel a piece of me slide into place, and I know there's no coming back. This is the moment everything changes.

The bubble bursts with a loud slam of the doors being swung open. Before three of my teammates and so-called friends darken the doorway, I rip my mouth away from Marcus' and step back. My hand is still against his chest.

The way my friends react, it must look like we're fighting instead of quite the opposite.

And I'm a fucking coward.

I let two of my friends pull me away, as if they're dragging me off him. Kent, one of my best friends at school and on the team, gets in Marcus' face. I don't know what he thinks he's defending, nor do I hear most of what he yells, I only watch as disbelief melts into hurt in Marcus' expression. His eyes never leave mine, and the disappointment I see there makes my chest ache. I shake myself out of a daze and shake my teammates off, pulling Kent back by the back of his shirt.

"Dude, stop. Come on, let's get out of here." Finally, I say the words that dig my grave. "It's not worth it."

I don't mean it the way it comes out. I don't mean to imply that Marcus isn't worth it. I meant that fighting and making a big deal out of whatever they walked in on isn’t worth it. I rack my brain to find a way to explain that we weren't fighting, but I stammer, not sure how to say the words, unable able to come up with any explanation that wouldn't out me before I'm ready.

Blue eyes darken, morphing from hurt to steely anger.

"Fuck you, Ashton," he says in a low, menacing voice that I feel in the pit of my stomach. "And fuck you, too!" he yells at Kent.

Kent rears back and fucking spits on Marcus. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you? What? Couldn’t get my boy here to give you any, so now you’re trying to get on my dick? As if any of us would fuck trash like you."

"Jesus, Kent?—"

Before I get a chance to call Kent out, Marcus swings. I hear the thud of his fist against Kent's face, and watch his head snap to the side with the impact.

Shit. This keeps getting worse.

All three of my teammates go in for the kill, taking turns holding Marcus down while they punch and hit him. He’s crumpled on the floor before I can shake myself out of my stupor, pushing myself in front of Marcus and shouting for my friends to back off.

But Marcus doesn't want my help. He forces himself up and pushes me away, into the wall of muscle standing in front of me. I turn around to tell him to calm down, that I'm trying to help. But the look of vitriol on his face, the blood pouring out of his nose, and the sneer on his lips—the same ones he was just kissing me with—stops me in my tracks.

"My dad was right about you."