Since there’s not much time, we take a quick shower, our hands wandering as we wash each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of contentedness to the act. I enjoy touching Austin in a sexual way, but I enjoy it platonically too. We were friends before lovers, so this shouldn’t change. We exchange a few soft kisses under the hot spray. Then we dry off, change, and head downstairs to breakfast.

  On the weekends, the cafeteria is usually deserted in the mornings, since people try to catch up on sleep after partying. On the weekdays, it’s packed. If you don’t have fuel in your body, you’re going to have a miserable time sweating your balls off on the field in the hours before lunch.

  Austin and I sit with Christian and Manuel. We’ve become good friends these past weeks. They’re already halfway done with their breakfast, shoveling food into their mouths with a sickening display of happiness. I start on my toast, asking, “You excited for all the drills we’re doing today, or something?” Austin takes a bite of his banana, and I’m momentarily distracted by the image of him shoving something long and thick into his mouth. As if he can read my very dirty mind, his eyes shift to mine. He chews, swallows. Then he smiles, and my dick gives a twitch.

  Bastard.

  “You didn’t hear?” Manuel says. “Some of the members from Paris Saint-Germain are visiting today. They’re going to work with us.”

  Austin blinks in surprise. “Seriously?” he asks.

  “Yup.” This from Christian. “They’ll be working with us all morning, so make sure you ladies are up to your best stuff.” He grins like he just told the most hilarious joke.

  So that’s why it’s so lively this morning. Let me tell you, soccer players in the morning? We love the game, but more than that, we love sleeping. Yet we don’t improve by dreaming. It’s blood, sweat, and tears. Broken bones and pulled muscles, bruises and scrapes, concussions, bloody noses. But also the smell of freshly cut grass, that high you feel upon making a goal or intercepting a pass, the thwack of your foot hitting a ball. Comradery. Family and friendship.

  Victory.

  Chapter 17

  Austin

  Growing up, I had two heroes. I was a kid with very little stability in my life, and even less hope. My mom wasn’t around a lot of the time. Some days, there was no food in the house. Other days, I had to walk miles just to reach the soccer field where my games were played because we didn’t have a car and I didn’t have enough money to take the bus. I remember winters with no heat. Vermin and bugs in the summer. No water or electricity.

  My heroes were who I looked to in those times of need. They were stable. Inspiring. They experienced hardships but didn’t let anything or anyone bring them down.

  My first hero is my sister. I’ve never told her this, but Megan was who I aspired to be when I grew up. Though she’s a year younger than me, she has the instincts and drive of someone ten years older. It was hard for me to stay organized when our lives were in upheaval. She made sure I got to my soccer practices and games. She taught me how to read, stayed up late to help me with projects. When we had no food in the house, she went out and bought some. I never learned how she got that money or from where, but at the time, I was just grateful to have something to eat. There is no doubt in my mind that Megan is the reason I am where I am today. She was—is—my motivator, my champion. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

  My second hero is Tommy Buchanan. And right now, he’s standing less than five feet away, talking to Christian and I about what makes a good goalkeeper. He’s a tall, lanky guy with arms covered in tats and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’s been talking for probably five minutes and I don’t remember anything he’s said, as I’ve been too star-struck to pay attention. Now I force myself to focus.

  He’s talking about how he became a goalie.

  “I almost didn’t,” he says. “I was recruited for Chelsea, but two months out I broke my ankle. The bone had shattered. My ankle wouldn’t set straight.” He stares out at the field. We’re standing inside one of the goals. My other teammates work with the Paris Saint-Germain players around the turf. I catch sight of Logan with the other forwards, who work with the team’s starting striker. He’s young. Not even twenty-four, I think. He’s also one of the few openly gay professional soccer players.

  “I missed that draft due to injury.” It’s obvious the memory still haunts him. “I was twenty-five years old. A washed-up player. I felt like my chance had come and gone. They would never take me.”

  “How did you end up playing for Saint-Germain then?” I ask.

  Tommy laughs, and it honestly sounds like a horse giving birth. “It’s a funny story, actually. There I was, feeling sorry for myself. I went to a bar for a drink. Well, more like six drinks.” He smiles in self-deprecation. “So I was sitting next to this guy watching a soccer match. Italy versus Germany, I think. Anyway, we started talking. I was really fucking drunk at this point. Embarrassingly drunk. I must have said something about my situation, or told him the entire sob story. I went home that night, not remembering much.”

  Seems familiar.

  “The next morning I wake up with the hangover of all hangovers and there’s a message on my phone from a guy named Ben telling me to call him. Never remembered meeting a guy named Ben. I was pretty sure the guy I spoke to at the bar was named Steve. Regardless, I returned his call, not knowing who this guy was, or remembering if I’d met him last night. Turns out he was the president of Paris Saint-Germain, and he thought I was funny as fuck. He’d looked up my story, made a few calls to make sure I was legit. He was willing to give me another shot at making the team. So I had a tryout. I was so nervous I about pissed myself walking onto the field.” His smile widens. “Guess I did something right, because they wanted me. Two years later, here I am.” He opens his arms, lets them fall to his sides. His grin tells me he’s a lucky son of a bitch, and he knows it.

  “That,” Christian says in awe, “is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  It’s also pretty much impossible. A once in a lifetime coincidence. Some people, I guess, really are lucky.

  I don’t try to sugarcoat my life. It’s been hard. I know what struggle is. But I worked my ass off to get to where I am—with the help of Megan and my teammates, of course. Was it worth the struggle? Yes, in a way. But sometimes I can’t help but feel envious of how easy things come for other people. Tommy Buchanan is the best of the best, and he never would have made the team if he hadn’t the talent and skill. But he also wouldn’t have made the team if he hadn’t walked into the bar that night.

  “All right, let’s see what you got.” He claps his hands and puts Christian in the goal while I stand off to the side to watch. I’ve seen some great goalies in my life, and Christian is no exception. It’s like he knows where the ball will go before Tommy’s foot makes contact with it. Maybe he has a sixth sense. I hope he gets noticed by a deserving team.

  Christian stops every shot. But then Tommy shakes him up a bit by dribbling close, drawing him out of the net. The young goalie lunges toward the ball, but it’s already gone past him. Ah. See, now I know what his weakness is. Tommy begins to make shots.

  After probably twenty minutes in goal, Tommy calls for a break. He waves me over so I can hear what he says to Christian. “I don’t need to say that your long blocks are amazing. Seriously, I doubt anyone would ever get past you. But—”

  “My close blocks suck,” Christian finishes for him, one corner of his mouth tilting up. That’s one of the things I like about Christian. He’s not too proud. A good player knows when to listen.

  “I wasn’t going to be that harsh, but yeah.” He laughs, as does Christian. “They kind of do.”

  Tommy spends the next twenty minutes giving Christian pointers. As they work, I scan the field, looking for a head of dark hair, wicked speed. I spot Logan on the opposite side of the field. There’s a lot of distance between us, but I wonder if he can feel my gaze, because he turns and waves to me. I smile and wave back.

  Then it’s my turn.

  I’m king when it comes to close blocks. My long blocks aren’t half bad. They’re very good, actually. But depending on which way the ball is heading affects the likelihood that I’ll stop it. Since I’m tall, I get the high corner shots no problem. It’s the lower corner shots I struggle with—my long limbs sometimes don’t cooperate.

  As he did with Christian, Tommy starts off with long shots while my teammate watches from the side. My knees are bent, my body braced. I don’t know how to explain it, but right before his foot makes contact, it’s like my mind takes a snapshot of the picture and processes everything in less than a second: his foot placement, the angle of his hips, how far over the ball he leans, what part of his foot he uses to kick the ball. Then the trajectory starts, and it’s another second before my body has to decide which direction to leap. The ball goes right. High in the corner. A slight curve, from the way he kicked it. I’m already moving, arms reaching, flying toward it. I block it with the flat of my palms. First save. And from a pro player, no less. It might be a dream come true.

  “Nice.” He nods in approval, and I toss the ball back to him. “Great instincts. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” I nod to him, already back in the zone.

  I don’t know if it’s the post-sex high I feel from waking up next to Logan, but I stop every single shot. When he switches to close shots, I only let in one. It’s a personal best.

  Christian whistles low. “Nice, man. You’re killing it.”

  Tommy nods, seeming to contemplate something. “He is.”

  That’s when Coach Romero blows his whistle, signaling the end of our morning practice. Christian and I shake hands with Tommy, who says he’ll be in touch.

  My teammate slaps my shoulder at the end of it. “How sick was that? Getting pointers from Tommy Buchanan? I’m never going to forget this day.” He stares at his hand. “And I’m never washing this hand again.”

  I snort. “Gross, man.”

  “Serious question: Do you think people will pay money to shake my hand if I told them I shook Tommy Buchanan’s hand as well?”

  I just roll my eyes.

  With the end of our morning practice, we have time to kill until five, when our evening practice starts. Another two hours of drills, scrimmages, and sweating buckets. But I know the practice is needed. We have a game next weekend against another summer institute. It will be interesting to see how well we work as a team.

  I don’t know where Logan went to. Maybe to take a shower. I mean, I know what’s on my mind to do during our break. Banging my friend. But that’s basically all I think about these days. I’m not sure what exactly this is. Hooking up? Sure. But when we sleep in the same bed, shower together, laugh, talk to each other about our lives? I don’t know. It feels like more.

  And that’s the problem. It can’t be more. My life is fucked up enough, and I don’t want to pull Logan into that.

  Once this summer is over, it’s best to go our separate ways. Because being with me, if Logan even wants that, wouldn’t end well for anyone. He’d grow tired of my mother’s alcohol addiction. Grow tired of being with someone who can’t give him everything. I know it’s my own fear getting in the way, but some things can’t be helped.

  Since I don’t see Logan, I head to the locker rooms for a quick shower. I haven’t talked to Megan in a while, so I call her while I’m heading back to my room. It’s evening there.

  She picks up on the third ring. “Hello, brother.”

  I roll my eyes good-naturedly. “Hey, Megan. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “For you? I can give you ten.”

  We both laugh at that. “I just wanted to make sure your plans haven’t changed for coming to visit in a few weeks.” Megan, who’s never visited outside the US, same as me, jumped at the chance once I told her she’d have a place to stay with Logan and I. “Is it still a go?”

  “Um.”

  Her hesitation makes my heart jerk. “Is that a good ‘um’ or a bad ‘um’?” I sincerely hope Megan is still planning on visiting. I’ve never gone this long without seeing her, and I was looking forward to spending time with her in Paris. The last week of the academy, relatives are invited to stay, all expenses paid for.

  “I guess that’s for you to decide. I’m still coming, but is it okay if I bring a guest?”

  Her tone is off. I can’t read it. “I guess that depends on who the guest is.” I’m leery now. I’m not looking forward to housing her new boyfriend when I’ve never even met the guy.

  “Well, considering he’s one of your best friends, I’d say there’s no need to worry.”

  At this, I perk up. Rounding a corner, I pass by a fountain, a warm breeze pushing the spray into my face. The weather is too nice to be inside, so I take a detour from the dorms to wander some more around the beautiful campus. “Asher is coming with you?” I haven’t seen my former teammate in almost five months, not since the season ended.

  “Not that friend. Your other best friend.” She clears her throat. “Also known as your current roommate?”

  I stop dead. “Phil’s coming with you?” I don’t know whether to be surprised or appalled. Not that Phil isn’t a good friend, but he’s the last person I would ever expect Megan to travel with. I’m pretty sure they’re still firmly in enemy territory.

  Unless something happened while I was gone.

  I shake my head. No. If there’s anything Megan hates more than Phil, it’s being proved wrong. She will most likely deny her attraction to my friend just for spite.

  “Well, sort of. He helped me with Mom the other day, and we got to talking. When I told him I was coming to visit, he basically invited himself along.”

  Yeah, that sounds like Phil.

  Of course Phil’s welcome here. But before I can tell Megan that, I backtrack to something she said. “Did something happen to Mom?”

  “It wasn’t anything serious. Just another bad day. That was a few days ago. She’s feeling much better now.”

  My grip tightens on the phone in worry. Moving past one of the tidy courtyards, I circle back to the now-deserted field. It’s times like these that make me feel guilty for not being home when my family needs me. It’s not fair to Megan to always be the one to deal with our mother, though she says she doesn’t mind. Megan, someone who is very close to family, has no interest in leaving California, and I respect her for that.

  “Okay,” I tell her, “but if something else comes up, call me, all right?”

  “Will do, brother.”

  “I love you, Megan.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Chapter 18

  Logan

  It’s Saturday morning and the weather couldn’t be more beautiful. Cool breeze. Clear skies and sun. I’m ready to play.

  The field is empty when our team arrives. Our opponent? Our sister institute, Academy Roma. Like Academy Paris, most of the guys who were accepted to Academy Roma are already on their way to a team come fall. But for the few that don’t have the promise of a contract, this game is everyone’s chance to shine. Christian doesn’t yet have a team to call home, so I hope for his sake someone wants him.

  The guys laugh and joke around, their spirits high. Everything we’ve worked toward will now come into play in this match. It’s not a championship, but it’s competition. That’s good enough for me, and for all the guys here. It’s what we live for.

  Greg and a few others head onto the field to stretch. Christian heads to one of the goals with some forwards. Austin sits next to me on the bench, our shoulders touching.

  “Want to practice shots?” I ask, and take a swig of my Gatorade.

  “Sure. If you think you can get one by me.” He’s casual about it, but the look he sends me from the corner of his eye is playful.

  My grin is wide enough to split my face. I love it when he’s like this: carefree and alive. “Let’s go.”

  One of my favorite things is watching Austin work the goal. His presence tugs at something in me, and for a moment, I imagine the field dark and deserted, my friend bending me over and pounding into me from behind. My body tightens in a visceral reaction. As the weeks have passed, I’ve been getting more curious about anal. We do all sorts of oral, hand jobs, even some kink thrown in there. Every time I feel the burn against my prostate I beg him to fuck me in the ass, and he always says I’m not ready. But I am ready. I’m so ready to feel him inside me. It makes me wonder if perhaps he doesn’t feel ready. Though I have no idea why that would be.

  Maybe tonight he’ll finally relent. I’ve been wearing him down slowly. The guttural groans I pull from him. The hot brand of his hands. And then, when we’re done, the security of settling in each other’s arms, silent and sated and whole. It’s unlike anything I’ve felt before, with anyone. A part of me wants to tell him that what I’ve felt these past weeks go beyond friendship, but I’m not sure Austin wants to hear that. My favorite part of the day is waking up with him. We haven’t discussed the next step. That worries me.

  “Are you going to stand there or are you going to shoot?” he calls, and I realize I’ve been staring off into space.

  “Oh, I’ll shoot,” I murmur.

  Yeah, I have a dirty mind.

  I practice my left-footed shots first. It’s not my dominant foot, but it’s always good to practice your weaknesses.

  I aim for the bottom left corner, making sure my chest leans over the ball to keep it low. I guess I’m not leaning over far enough though, because while the ball goes left, it’s at the level of Austin’s waist. He blocks it easily.

  “You were leaning too far back,” he says, tossing the ball to me. Those keen goalie eyes of his miss nothing. “Try again.”

 

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