“How did it not count? Please explain it to me.”
“It just wasn’t the same,” I say weakly.
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously, it wasn’t the same. Because you didn’t care about them. But this isn’t some experiment you can shrug off. The way you two look at each other…” She fans herself with her hand. “It’s intense, babe.”
I bury my face in my hands. “Caty.”
She softens, then asks gently, “Did he hurt you?”
I look up sharply. “No.”
“Did you come?”
“Caty—”
“Well, I heard sometimes people don’t their first time.”
My ears burn. “It was good.”
Inside, the truth rolls through me with dizzying clarity. It was more than good. It was incredible. Mind-altering. I loved the way he held me, the way he told me exactly what to do and how to breathe, how careful he was when he was in control. I loved how it hurt for just a moment and then felt better than anything in my entire life. I loved how out of my head I got, how I couldn’t stop moaning or clinging to him, how he whispered praise in my ear like he meant every word.
What I’m most embarrassed about, and what I’ll never admit to Caty or anyone else, is that afterward, when the adrenaline dropped out from under me and I felt soft and open and ruined in the best possible way, I couldn’t look him in the eyes.
Not because I was ashamed.
But because I knew one glance at those stupid sky-blue eyes would make me cry.
And that’s the last thing I need right now.
I watch Brody constantly, my gaze snapping toward him every time he moves, but I manage to avoid being alone with him. Or being close enough to smell his shampoo. Or making prolonged eye contact, which was hard at first, but he seems to have stopped trying so hard.
He seems down, and I know it’s my fault. There’s just nothing I can do about it. All I’d do is make it worse, because I’m not ready to admit how he made me feel.
I’m glad he seems to have found good friends in Jay and Aaron. They’ve been sticking close to him at practices, conditioning, and in the dining hall. Hell, even if I wanted to be alone with Brody, I’m not sure those two would let me. I wonder what he’s told them. Why they’ve suddenly turned into overbearing bodyguards.
At practices, I keep things professional. I pair Brody with Matt Young for drills, claiming that wrestling someone a weight class up will prep them both for West Virginia’s lineup. It’s not a total lie. Matt is a strong grappler with explosive moves and tough-to-break holds. Brody doesn’t balk at the switch. He doesn’t blink or argue or have any reaction at all.
Meanwhile, I focus on the underclassmen, barking corrections and forcing my attention anywhere but on the way Brody moves. If I look too long, the memories punch back with brutal clarity. The way he kissed me afterward, slow and deep, and the way he whispered that I was good, so good, as if he’d been waiting forever to be with me like that and I’d surpassed all of his expectations.
And I can’t handle that right now.
Not when everything inside me feels so raw.
Our first dual away from home is in Lincoln, Nebraska. It also happens to be against the school that Brody transferred from. I can tell he’s nervous, but I can’t bring myself to say anything about it.
Just before we get on the flight, Coach McCoy hands us each a packet with information about our prospective opponents, which I already know by heart, as well as a list of room assignments.
Naturally, as the only two in our weight class, Brody and I are roomed together.
I spend the entire charter flight pointedly staring out the window or at Coach McCoy’s bald spot, refusing to risk eye contact with Brody. Every time I consider asking Coach for a room reassignment, my brain conjures the question he’ll inevitably ask, and I can’t come up with a solid reason whymy apparent dislike of Brody Miller is enough to make Coach change the entire room assignment. So, I say nothing and dread every mile that slips by.
It's the shortest flight of my life, and before I know it we’re dragging our bags down a long hotel hallway, branching off as we find our rooms. I feel like I’m being marched to my death, or worse, to give a speech on accepting your sexuality to a group of millions of disapproving parents who all have my father’s judgmental eyes.
Coach gave us strict instructions to take quick showers and lights out. We have an early morning tomorrow, and it’s been a long, tiring day. I flee to the bathroom, shower fast, and change into pajamas.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Brody is sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. He looks up and watches me nervously fold my dirty clothes before putting them in my laundry bag.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
