Page 6 of Nothing to Fear
I’m not openly gay at Corvus, and my teammates have no idea that we don’t always play for the same team. At least, I don’t think they do. I get some shit from time to time, especially when they notice I’m not taking girls back to hook up with.
They think I’m celibate, but the truth is, I’m just terrified of coming out to all of them. I’d love to be open about my sexuality, be free to hook up with whoever I want, maybe even be in a relationship if the right person came along. But instead, I’m stuck like I was back in high school, keeping my shit locked up tight so I don’t make anyone uncomfortable.
Would Eli still walk around with his balls hanging out if he knew I was gay? Would any of them want me to share a locker room with them? Would they treat me any differently? Just because I’m a gay man doesn’t mean I’m checking out my fellow players every chance I get.Or at all.I just want to get in here, strip, wash, dress, and onto the next thing, just like everyone else does.
Ever since my hookup at Fright Night, it’s made every day that much harder. Before, I could only imagine what I was missing out on, but now that I’ve had it? Experienced what it’s like to be out in the open about who I am? Going back into a role that is so far from who I really am is exhausting. Would probably explain why I’ve been playing like shit this week. My mind is someplace else.
Irritation starts to rise as my mind wanders, wishing things could be different than they are, and I just want to get back to my apartment and be alone. Instead of showering like I’m supposed to, I slip off my dirt-caked cleats and throweverything into my locker, grabbing my Corvus Rugby sweatshirt and throwing it over my head. Slipping into my sneakers, I grab my backpack and head toward the locker room exit.
“Not like you not to shower, Blackwood!”
“Yeah, well, feel like an extra-long one tonight since Eli used my ribcage as a punching bag. Coach won’t even notice! I’ll catch you guys later,” I shout as I dip my head down and sneak out. Once I’m outside, the October air hits me like a cold blast. The temperature has rapidly dropped over the last few days, and it is unnaturally cold compared to previous years. At least it’s a quick five-minute walk to my residence hall. As if my mood needed any more reason to be shitty, the moment I exit the gymnasium, the clouds open up and rain descends.
“Fucking figures,” I mumble under my breath.
My rainy walk to Harrow House dampens my mood even further, but when I get there and see Asher fucking Ambrose leaning against the wall of the archway, my heart drops into the pit of my stomach. His midnight-black hair is slicked back out of his face, soaked from the rain. His broad shoulders are slumped forward, and the moment our eyes connect, his spine straightens, as if he’s readying himself for a fight. Near-black eyes peer back at me, and I hate that he’s so fucking handsome.
From the moment I met Asher three years ago, I was drawn to how effortlessly he lived in his own skin. He’s openly gay, confident in who he is, and everyone fucking likes him. Complete opposite of me. I thought being friends with him would be a way for me to start anew at Corvus.
High school was rough. Rich kids like to say they’re open and accepting until they’re faced with actually having to put their money where their mouth is. I kept my sexuality hidden all through high school and stupidly convinced myself that college would be different. My crush on Asher bloomed almost instantaneously.
By luck, Asher and I had a class together, Ethics of Madness—which is ironic since it was the catalyst for me spending the next three years going mad—and I was so excited to use it as an excuse to talk with him. Until one day, when the professor asked me a question while I was staring off into space, trying to find the nerve to ask him to hang out after class. I didn’t hear the question, stumbled over my words, and Asher spoke up and answered it for me, earning the praise of our professor and doe eyes from other students.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, embarrassment washing over me as a rugby buddy clapped me on the back, coughing to cover up “ass-kiss Asher” under his breath and instead of continuing to look like a fumbling dumbass, hating the vulnerable feeling I was being plagued with, I played into it, falling back into my high school persona of the asshole jock.
Asher’s nickname stuck, I was pulled back into the closet, and my resentment toward him festered. I wanted him for myself, wanted to live the way he lived, and I couldn’t have either of those things, so my anger spread like a disease.
Here we are. Three long-ass years later, and I hate him. Hate him because after all this time, I’m still into him. Hate him because I’m so fucking jealous of him, which makes me hate him that much more.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap with barely contained rage, even if my heart is practically beating out of my chest at the sight of him, and I have to work overtime to keep my breathing regulated.
Asher cards his fingers through his damp hair in an effortless way that looks way too good. My traitorous body takes notice.
“We need to talk,” he says, his voice rich and smooth like melted chocolate. It’s pleasing and warm and makes my heartrate pick up. I do everything I can to immediately push my reaction to him back down.
“Like hell we do. Run along back to Crimson Keep where you belong.”
Ignoring him to the best of my ability, as if I’ve ever been able to do that well, I take a solid step toward the door, my hand reaching out to grasp the handle when Asher stands in front of me, putting his hand on my chest and pushing me back marginally to prevent me from moving forward. I’m slightly taller than him, and definitely wider and more muscular, but he moves me effortlessly.
I try not to notice being in such close proximity to him, but goddamn if Asher isn’t hot as hell. He knows it. I know it. Everyone on campus knows it. With his mysterious dark features that pop against pale, ivory skin, the yellow gold hoop earring pierced through his right earlobe, and his bad boy style that is so at odds with how ridiculously book smart he is, Asher Ambrose gets the eyes of everyone here.
He has no problem fitting in wherever he goes, even if he never uses it to his advantage, preferring his books to parties and large groups. His touch affects me, burning through the thick, wet cotton of my sweatshirt and searing my skin. The hell? Why does that keep happening? Am I that starved?
I can’t have that.
He can’t know how he affects me.
He can’t know how I feel.
No one can.
I smack his hand away, harder than I mean to. Asher’s cheeks pinken, his eyes squinting into slits as his anger rises and matches my own. “What the hell is your problem, Silas? Why do you hate me so much?”
Because you’re goddamn perfect and wholly yourself. Something I’m not.
“Will you just leave? Why are you here anyway?”
“Turns out your father wants to punish me for working my ass off the last three years, and now I get to spend my time tutoring his slacker son.” His words come out harsh and angry, but there’s no way he’s as affected as I am over this news. My jaw goes slack momentarily, while my brain whirls with the bomb he just dropped.
