“Mason and I are not fucking. We never so much as touched dicks.”
“I know. Mason’s many things, but subtle isn’t one of them. If you two were banging, he’d have hired skywriters by now.” Drew drains his coffee and holds out the mug for more. “So, work today?”
“Yeah, in a couple hours.” I give him a refill and top off my own. “You?”
“Nothing planned until this afternoon. That gives me plenty of time to die and be resurrected.”
I shift my weight again, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my ass throb. No luck.
Drew notices. “You sure you’re good to work? I swear you’re about to keel over.”
“I’m fine. My body’s just not used to being used in such a manner. Probably need a shower and six more coffees before I’m back to normal.”
“And a cushion for your ass,” he adds helpfully.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”He’s not wrong.“Want me to wake up the others? Might as well get the hungover masses caffeinated.”
“Let them sleep a bit longer. They deserve it.”
“Fair.” Drew heads for the door, then pauses. “Hey, Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you got laid. You’ve been wound tighter than Kyle’s asshole all semester.”
“That’s…an image I didn’t need.”
“You’re welcome!” He disappears into the living room, and I hear him poking the freshmen. “Rise and shine, champions! Coffee’s ready, and Oliver finally gothis back blown out!”
“DREW!”
His cackle echoes through the house as I head for the bathroom.
We won the championship. I finally ended my dry spell. And summer stretches ahead, full of possibility and guaranteed fun with my friends.
Life is good, even if my ass is not.
3
RYAN
Ten years ago
My bed is nothing more than a mattress on the floor. The frame is in three pieces, leaning against the wall. Boxes of my belongings towered around me in the form of miniature skyscrapers.
I was supposed to have all my stuff unpacked before dinner. But we’ve already eaten—lukewarm casserole straight from the cooler, nobody talking, the table barely assembled—and my progress has stalled. My dad will throw a fit as per usual, but I couldn’t care less. Right now, my attention is on the boy next door. The window faces his house, and I can see him in the backyard through the gap between the fence. He’s bouncing on a trampoline, full of energy and completely unafraid of breaking a bone or snapping his neck.
I’m not the only one in the house defying Dad’s orders tonight. Marvin, my older brother, has been holed up in the bathroom for the past half hour. He walked by my open door with a glossy magazine rolled up under his arm and told me not to disturb his “reading time.”
I’m ten, not stupid. I know he’s not reading articles aboutfishing. But I also know better than to rat him out. Marvin is sixteen, has arms as thick as tree trunks, and a temper shorter than Yosemite Sam.
Blue light fills the hallway, telling me Dad has settled into his one-man couch—one of the few pieces of furniture he insisted on putting together today—to watch the six o’clock news.
I don’t need to venture out there to have the picture painted for me. The thunk of heavy boots hitting the floor has already echoed down the hall, followed by that relieved sigh he always makes. By now, his sock-covered feet will be propped on the coffee table, right ankle crossed over left, the toes slightly curling and uncurling to a beat only he can hear.
I turn back to the window in time to witness Oliver’s body rotating in the air. He lands on his feet and throws both fists above his head in a victory pose.
