Page 63 of Lovely War
On the walk home, he kisses me under streetlights and then again in front of my building. He doesn’t ask to come up. He’s letting me take the lead, thanks to my initial skittishness. I don’t invite him in either. There’s been a fair amount of kissing the past few days, but like tonight, all of it has occurred outdoors and in a vertical fashion. It’s enough, or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. Obviously, I wantmore. But I want more the same way I used to want another drink at the bar at one in the morning. More isn’t always better.
I can’t allow this thing to pick up too much speed, or I won’t be able to control it. If we keep doing this and only this, no one will get hurt.
“Okay,” he says, detaching his mouth from mine before burying his face in my hair. “I better go, before—”
I skim my teeth along his earlobe. What? It’s right there, I can’t help it.
He chokes out a muffled, frustrated laugh. “Radford. What are you doing to me?”
I duck under his arm and step away. “See you tomorrow!”
The next dayI’m in the weight room, weaving my way through the jungle gym maze of machinery, past the long dumbbell rack toward the treadmills at the back. I find JGE where I expect him, jogging at a modest pace on the last machine in the corner.
“Mind if I film for a minute?” I ask, raising my camera. “I’m doing a ‘day in the life of Ardwyn basketball’ thing.”
“No problem.” He’s not winded at all. Running before a road trip is part of his routine because his legs get restless on the bus, and we leave tonight for the conference tournament in New York.
“What about me?”
I turn around to find Quincy on the floor, stretching out one long leg and grasping his shoe. “I already got you this morning.”
“Yeah, eating,” he scoffs. “You get this guy running, and me stuffing my face?”
“You were showing the world what a nutritionist-approved breakfast for athletes looks like,” I protest.
“I’m messing with you. I have to go shower anyway.” Quincy hops to his feet. “Podcast club tonight?”
“Yup,” JGE says from the treadmill.
“What’s that about?” I ask after Quincy leaves.
“Quincy and I have been listening to podcasts and talking about them. Like a book club,” he explains. “We did a whole series about leadership skills. For tonight, we listened to this fascinating deep dive into the NBA’s collective bargaining agreement. He’s trying to convince me to do this one about the history of Super Mario next. Not so substantive, but at least he’s exploring his interests.”
“That’s great,” I say. “He’s doing well, don’t you think?” Quincy has been seeing a sports psychologist since he came back from injury, learning how to tune out the hype and concentrate on basketball. I’m glad he’s been connecting more with JGE too. He’s got his head on straight, and his focus on long-term goals is a good counterpoint to all the voices urging Quincy to cash in as fast as possible.
After I get my shot of JGE, I leave the weight room and cut through the practice gym. It should be dark and empty, but instead there’s a group of sweaty men milling around, sucking on water bottles. Eric is one of them.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, rubbing his face with a towel.
“I was filming in the weight room. The ‘day in the life’ video.”
He spreads his arms out. Dark, wet rings saturate the underarms of his T-shirt. “Want to film us?”
I shudder. “You look like you need a shower. I’m trying to attract views, not scare people away.”
“The Internet’s loss.” He shrugs, moseying off toward the locker room. “We just finished anyway. And I am going to shower.”
I look around. There are a couple guys from the athletic department, an assistant football coach, and a few others I don’t know. This is the usual pickup group that plays together every week. Which means—
“Hey,” Ben says behind me.
I turn around and swallow hard. He’s wearing gym shorts, his hair is the best kind of disaster, and he’s shirtless and covered in a sheen of sweat. I’ve never seen this much of him. He has a former athlete’s body, like a stick of butter that’s barely softened, which is a compliment. No marble six-pack or anything, but strong and toned.
Unlike Eric, I would be glad to get this on camera, for purely selfish reasons. The idea of sharing this image with the Internet gives rise to an instinctive sense of possession.Mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask faintly. The answer is obvious, but I can’t string together enough words to say anything intelligent.
He takes a sip from a bottle of Gatorade. “We wanted to get in a game before we leave for New York.”
