Tank studied my face. “You okay, man? You seem weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been weird since that bus ride home Friday night. What’s going on?”
The urge to tell him everything was almost overwhelming. Tank was my best friend, my roommate, the guy who’d seen me through homesickness and academic struggles and the pressure of trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. If anyone would understand, it would be him.
But I wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not yet. Not when I was still trying to figure out what any of this meant. “Nothing’s going on other than that I’m tired.”
“If you say so.”
He went back to his textbook, but he still glanced at me occasionally. Tank knew me well enough to know when I was lying, but he was also smart enough to back off and give me space.
I tried to focus on homework, on the essay I had due for Professor Edwards’ class, on anything that might distract me from the memory of standing too close to Nils during training. But my mind kept circling back to the same questions.
Did he know? Had he figured out why I’d been acting strange? And if he had, what did he think about it?
The not knowing was driving me crazy.
By seven o’clock, I’d given up any pretense of studying. Tank was about to head out to dinner with some guys from the team, and I didn’t want to come. But it meant I would be alone with my thoughts and a growing sense of frustration that felt all too familiar. It was the same feeling I got when I couldn’t figure out a play or master a technique: the need to do something, to take action instead of sitting around thinking about it.
I grabbed my keys.
“Where are you going?” Tank asked as I headed for the door.
“Out. I’ll be back later.”
“Adan—”
But I was already gone, taking the stairs two at a time and heading for the parking lot. I needed answers. And there was only one person who could give them to me.
The drive to Nils’s neighborhood took ten minutes, during which I tried to figure out what I was actually planning to say when I got there. But every script I came up with sounded stupid or crazy or both.
Hey, Coach, I realized I’m attracted to you. Are you attracted to me too?
So, I think I might be bi. And I think you might be too.
I can’t stop thinking about you and it’s driving me insane.
None of them sounded like things a sane person would say to their coach on a Monday evening.
By the time I pulled up in front of his apartment, I still didn’t have a strategy, but I was committed to this course of action. I’d driven all the way here, and I wasn’t going to chicken out now.
His living-room window was lit up, and I could see him moving around inside. Probably reviewing game footage or doing whatever coaches did in their spare time. Or maybe he was trying to build more furniture and that thought made me smile.
I stood there for another minute, gathering my courage. Then I got out and walked to his front door before I could change my mind.
The doorbell echoed, followed by footsteps. A pause, probably him looking through the peephole, then the sound of locks being undone.
The door opened, and Nils appeared, looking completely shocked to see me standing on his doorstep.
“Adan? What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
He was wearing sweatpants and a gray sweater, his hair slightly messed up like he’d been running his hands through it. He looked good. Really good. The realization hit me again with the same force as Friday night on the bus.
“We need to talk.”
“About what? If this is about today’s session, perhaps we should discuss it at the arena?—”
