“What...” Shit, she’s scary when she’s like this. “Dad said you should tell me yourself what happened.”
“Oh, did he? Our father is a homophobic asshole, that’s what happened. You want to know why I have to leave? That’s why I have to leave.” She slams three photos down on the table, but from where I’m standing, I can’t see what’s in them. "Yes, that’s a woman, yes, we’re kissing. No, that’s obviously not accepted here in this company. So, little brother, if you want to keep your chances of taking over here, never get caught with a cute boy." And with those words, she storms out of the office.
I stand there frozen. Does she know I like boys? Does she know I’m gay? Does she know what that means for me?
Chapter 3
David
17 years
“Hey, who’s that?” Finn jabs me roughly with his elbow and I turn around, admittedly more pissed than curious. My gaze immediately collides with that of a stranger’s—his large dark brown eyes stare at me defiantly, pulling me in. Fuck, it’s hard to look away.
“Dude, what are you doing? Stop staring, that’s hella creepy!” Finn says as his sharp elbow connects with my ribs again.
“You heard him, David. Stop staring.” The stranger teases, one eyebrow raised, while the other curls mockingly. “You couldjust ask me if you want to know what I’m doing here. Or you could ask my name.” I swallow hard. Shit, his mouth is bigger than he is. And while Finn next to me is choking back his laughter, trying to not completely break down, the stranger doesn’t even flinch.
“How do you know my name?”
He tilts his head pityingly. “Please, we go to the same school, you’re a year ahead of me,David.”
The way he says my name combined with his challenging gaze does something to me. Nobody talks to me like that. Not that I’d ever object, of course not, but still.
Fuck. My pants are getting tight, or rather not tight unfortunately, because sweatpants are not made to hide one single thing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My cheeks are getting hot, and I can feel myself blushing. Fantastic! Thanks, body! Traitor…
Slowly, the boy’s head moves, his gaze wanders over my body and stops abruptly at my crotch. His eyes dart up searching for mine. Gone is the hard stony look, now there is a fire raging behind his eyes, impossible to hide, impossible to content.
Or am I seeing things? I have no idea; I’ve never done this before. I know I’m into guys, I’ve known for a while now, but I’ve never met anyone who feels the same way. He does feel the same way, right? He has to with the way he’s looking at me.
A slight grin plays around his mouth, pulling the corners of his lips up slightly and softening his provocative, aloof facade. His tongue dips out and his teeth pull in his lower lip. All in just a fraction of a second.
“Hey, I know who you are!” Finn interrupts the moment and draws our attention with his loud voice. Our connection is broken. The fire in his eyes is gone with his next blink. “You’re our new pivot. Louis, right? You’re awesome, I sawyou at the tournament last weekend.”
“Louis Delfosse, nice to meet you. And yes, my height works to my advantage in this position.”
I’m not huge myself, Louis is easily five inches shorter, but he has broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs. Small and agile, but with enough substance to stand his ground against his opponents. The perfect physique for handball.
He resolutely extends his hand to us. Finn takes it first, then it’s my turn. Our eyes meet for the second time and it’s official, I never want to look away again, I’m captivated by his dark coffee-brown eyes. My hand slides into his and my heart skips a beat when his rough palm touches mine. We hold each other’s hands for a moment longer than necessary. As if neither of us wants to break the connection. He’s like me, isn’t he?
Chapter 4
Louis
16 years
Phew, my new handball team is intense. Practice is much more strenuous, and the pace is much faster. That was to be expected, after all, I didn’t just move up from the U17 to the U18 team, I’m also playing in a higher league now. Practice is three times a week, but it’s fun. The others are all really cool guys and they’re all pretty good. The level of competition is incredibly high, and I look forward to it every time I pack my bag.
And I’m nervous. I feel a tingling sensation in my stomach and my heart is beating a little faster than necessary. But that haslittle to do with handball and more to do with the person who passes me said ball as if he could read my mind. David. I’ve hardly ever played with anyone before like I do with him, and if I have, it wasn’t after such a short time. When I run free for attack, the ball is already in the air when I turn around, and when I intercept a ball in defense, David is already on his way, waiting for the fast break. Everything is easy, everything runs smoothly. His green eyes hold me captive, and I am powerless because whenever he looks at me, there is always this fire in his gaze, this flicker, this blaze.
He wants me, right? But he doesn’t know what to do. Neither do I. I know I’m into guys; that’s nothing new, but I’ve never had the feeling that any of the guys I liked were interested in me. I do with him, and every time our eyes meet, my heart skips a beat.
Why does he have to be so damn handsome? Every movement is deliberate, executed with strength and elegance. When he catches the ball, the muscles in his forearm tense, visibly contracting from his elbow to his wrist, twisting with every quick movement. His shoulders look even broader when he raises the ball in his right hand up to his head and throws it in jumping. Damn, I’m glad I’m not on the line when he flies toward the net.
Despite his size, he moves so easily, so quickly, so smoothly, like a cat. Not a tabby cat, a big one, like a tiger or a panther. Always ready to strike.
When a play has gone particularly well, he jogs over to me, holds my gaze, and high-fives me. His hands are rough and I’m sure they’d feel fantastic on other parts of my body as well. And then there’s his smile. Cautious, reserved, shy. A smile that doesn’t seem to fit the dominant young man on the court, but that makes me even more curious.
No, I don’t imagine grabbing his T-shirt and pulling him down to me. Pressing my lips to his and sliding my hand under this unnecessary piece of fabric to let my fingers glide over each single curve of his six-pack. Nope. Definitely not. No chance. I don’t push my hips forward in search of something that might bring me relief. Absolutely not.
