ONE
LUKE
I normally have bad ideas.Embrace them, even.
My parents expect a fuck-up, so that’s what I give them. Aside from my football scholarship—which still seems to confuse the hell out of them—I’ve done absolutely nothing to make them proud. Coming out as gay at thirteen didn’t help. Neither did leaning all the way into the femboy vibe throughout high school. Definitely not their dream-son arc.
I’m sure when they found lingerie in my room back then, they assumed it belonged to someone else. There was no way their son bought it for himself. Not when being gay was a phase, according to them. It’s probably why my mom would quietly wash them and fold them, leaving them on my dresser to return to the girl they hoped I was banging.
It was always little things like that—small rebellions, quiet acts of survival. Anything to keep from suffocating inside their very religious home. If there is a God and I’m not sure if there is, I don’t think loving someone would be on the top of his or her sins.
College, though? College has been liberating. I canbreathe here. Be myself. Well, mostly. I still don’t wear skirts in public—not because I don’t want to, but because I already draw enough stares without flashing my thighs around campus. It’s my magnetic personality, I’m sure.
Even though, let’s be honest, I’drockthat look. Tall black boots. Short skater skirt. Nylons. I’d have half the campus drooling.
Maybe the other half, too.
Instead, I settle for my makeup. My armor. My favorite sin, according to my deeply disappointing parents.
I lean closer to the mirror, dragging eyeliner across my lash-line with the precision of a surgeon. Which is fitting, considering that’s the plan. Surgeon. Millionaire. Savior of lives. Maybe even specializing in bottom surgery—just to give my parents one finalfuck youwhile actually doing something that matters.
With a satisfied sigh, I lean back and study my reflection. The eyeliner turns my eyes a sharp, piercing blue—intense enough to make people uncomfortable if I hold their gaze too long. And the shiny lip gloss I’m about to put on makes my pouty lips just that much more pouty.
Yeah. I’d fuck me.
“Are you done yet, Luke?” Ty grumbles from the couch in our new home for the year, eyes glued to the game he’s been button-mashing for the last twenty minutes.
Living with my two straight best friends is probably going to be a disaster of epic proportions. They love me—but they also had their own space the last two years, and this is…an adjustment.
“Almost,” I say, popping my lip gloss open.
Will flops down beside Ty with a dramatic groan. “I thought you were alreadyperfect.”
“I am, fuckwad.” I swipe on a glossy coat and pout at myself. “But perfection takes maintenance. Plus, I plan on getting laid tonight, and that’s not gonna happen unless I can snag some horny masc. And horny masc’s love guys who wear makeup—they like watching it run when?—”
Will shoots a hand up. “Nope. Absolutely not. Finish that sentence and there will be rules, and we both know you hate those.”
Ty makes a gagging sound and lobs a controller at me. “Jesus, man. The visual. It’s like visualizing my sister with a dude.”
I cackle, ducking easily. “You love me.”
They both roll their eyes, but they’re smiling anyway. Straight boys. My favorite kind of chaos.
“Are you sure about this?” Will asks after a beat. “Training camp starts early tomorrow, and we all know how you are with mornings.”
Ah, yes. Back to the bad idea.
The one where I meet a guy from Prism tonight—a guy I’ve only talked to for two days and whose profile picture is nothing but a whiskey glass and a tanned, tattooed hand.
My type, basically. Dangerous. Secretive. Probably older.
I grin at my reflection, grab my keys, and blow them both a kiss. I grab my favorite jacket—the cropped black leather one that still smells like last weekend’s club—and shrug it on over a black mesh crop top. It clings just right, showing a flash of abs and the line of my tattoo when I move. The jeans are spray-on tight, black denim that leaves nothing to the imagination.
If I drop something tonight, it’s staying on the floor.
“I’ll be back before we have to be on the field. It’s not like Coach is going to ride us hard tomorrow. It’s the first day.”
“Whatever, man, your funeral,” Will grumbles.
