Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Cam
Mason Gray, your face is mine.
I mean that fondly, of course. Now that I’ve had a few weeks to get to know Elwood High’s new varsity football team water boy, I’ve decided to offer him a taste of what it means to date a strapping young lad.
It should be the easiest “yes” in years. I’m single. He’s single, probably. I’m spectacularly attractive. He’s symmetrical from the neck up. I’m a big fan of all the genders. And he wears beanies and rainbow gloves, so I’ll eat my own ass if he’s not a little fruity.
Most importantly, I know Mason Gray has eyes for me. Whenever I glance over from the field, he’s watching me from the sidelines in his water boy jersey, tapping his clipboard. Clearly trying to be as cute and dainty as possible to fit that soft boy aesthetic that drives women feral.
“Well, Cameron,” he said politely when I called him out for his hungry gaze just last week, his smile never reaching his eyes, “I’m probably watching you because you’re the quarterback, so you’re usually holding the ball.”
His pitifully obvious desire for me is bursting at the seams, so I’ll spare him time to get to know me. Because I’m a good person.
“He’s going to say no,” Darius—our biggest linebacker and team captain—tells me as we jog a warm‑up lap around the track wrapping the football field. The Southfield Hawks aren’t here yet, so I have plenty of time to acquire Mason as my boyfriend and make out with him passionately behind the bleachers. It’s usually the first thing my partners ask of me, anyway, so I’m fully prepared to get it out of the way if it means I can proceed to stare at him unblinkingly without being labeled a creep.
“Why would he reject me?” I ask with a cheeky smile. “I think he’d be honored. It’s the first time in years I’m asking someone out, rather than the other way around.”
Darius wipes beads of sweat from his warm brown forehead, or maybe he’s massaging away the headache he likes to pretend I give him on a weekly basis. “Sorry, why exactly do you need to pursue the guy who has a track record of rejecting everyone who wants to date him?”
“His face.”
“What about it?”
“It’s high-quality,” I say with a scoff, because shouldn’t that be obvious? “And it looks soft. And he has nice skin.”
He really does. Mason is more pleasant to look at than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s a smooth plain of pale ivory, and his lashes are long and as deeply obsidian in color as the feather-soft hair constantly rumpled atop his head. His eyes are big and round and perfectly spaced apart and a sweet honey brown. My carnal desire to stare at him means I must be attracted to him.
Which means his face is mine.
“Don’t do this, Cam,” Darius pleads, slapping a beefy hand on my shoulder. “We need your ego for the game.”
As if anything could wound my rock-solid ego.
Five minutes later, I approach Mason. He’s writing on his clipboard, pretending like he can’t see my hulking figure in his peripherals, his cheeks appropriately flushed considering my proximity. “Hey, water boy,” I say.
Mason spares me a glance. “Yes, quarterback?”
His eyes are astonishingly cold in comparison to the warm color of his irises. “You and me,” I say, jabbing a confident thumb into my chest. “I’ll be the sun to your moon if you’ll be the tides to my beach.”
Fucking nailed it.
Mason scrutinizes me with measured intensity. “Are you having a stroke?” he asks.
Uh . . . hmm. Can’t say that’s ever been a response to my poetry. “I’m asking you out,” I explain, in case he’s not well-versed in romantic dialogue like I am.
“Why?” Mason asks.
Yet another response that catches me off guard. I’m starting to feel like a deer in headlights. But okay, fine, he’s making me work for it. I can respect the game. “Because you have bewitched me, body and soul,” I say with a gleaming grin.
Mason gives me a contemplative nod. “You like that movie?”
“What.”
“Pride and Prejudice,” he says, his arctic eyes unblinking.
Damn it. Of course I’d pursue the one person alive who’s into that romancey shit. “Just because it’s not my line doesn’t mean I can’t mean it,” I point out.
“Okay. What about me, exactly, has bewitched you, body and soul?” Mason’s maintaining his eerily pleasant, robotic expression.
It’s possible I’m starting to squirm. Some of the benchwarmers gearing up nearby are snickering as they listen. The fluorescent stadium lights come alive, and though they illuminate the entire grassy field and gunmetal-gray bleachers, I feel like they’ve activated specifically to pin me under a spotlight. “Your face,” I squawk.
Mason blinks at me.
“I fuck with it,” I clarify. “Please go out with me.”
I’m not used to tacking on a “please” for anything, but fine, I’ll throw him a bone.
Mason Gray’s narrow shoulders deflate, like he’s just released a sigh, and then he returns his harrowing gaze to his clipboard. His face hasn’t flinched once, despite how high his flames of flustered passion must be writhing. He opens his mouth, and I massage my vanilla-flavored lips together, preparing.
“That’s an awful idea, but thank you.”
. . . Oh.
Okay, it’s okay, he’s just playing coy. Which means I need to lock into full-force seduction mode. “How can I sweeten the offer?” I ask, leaning over him with a knowing smirk, my eyebrows waggling. He’s at the perfect height that I could rest my chin atop his head. “What do you desire from me, water boy?”
“Distance,” Mason says flatly. “Stop breathing on me and jog another lap.”
I think I choke on my next inhale. The heightened laughter of the huddled juniors is like acid in my ears. Coach Barnett, who’s been yelling at people nearby but also eavesdropping, kneads his fuzzy eyebrows. Clearly they don’t understand we’re locked in a game of cat and mouse, which Mason is dragging out to make the end result more satisfying.
“Is this environment not romantic enough?” I ask with charmed laughter. “I know a perfect restaurant down the street. Low candlelight, soft music, waiters with accents. Shall I give you a ride after the game?”
I notice a muscle work in Mason’s jawline, and he closes his eyes, folding his clipboard into his chest. “Cameron Morelli,” he says, as soft as he looks, “I would sooner star as the lone twink in a porno featuring the entire football team before ever accepting an invitation to dinner with you. Does that clarify the situation?”
. . . I don’t. Understand. “You don’t want to date me?” I ask, just to be certain.
“I do not,” he confirms.
“Are you, like, sure?”
The words are pathetic, and they’re also mine. To which Mason Gray continues smiling his polite smile, the kind that doesn’t show his teeth or crinkle his face, and says, “Yes, but thank you for the opportunity.”
What . . . do I do.
I decide to run another lap to sweat this off, my brain scrambling to extinguish the short circuit fire roaring into its fleshy folds. Why? Why? Why—
“Told you,” Darius says beside me, sweat shining on his temples, matching my pace as I sprint around the track’s inner ring to flee my demons. “He’s out of your league, anyway.”
I wheeze in protest. The sentence has never been uttered, yet there it is, another verbal backhand to my opposite cheek. Who’s the one with the eyes often described as “sea blue” and “cerulean” and “sapphire” depending on the lighting? Who’s the one with the golden-brown hair streaked with glittery highlights? Who’s the one with the perfectly cut midsection that could be mistaken as a bed of skin-colored rock?
Oh ho. So Mason thinks he’s out of my league?
“No,” Darius says. “I’m telling you that as a fact.”
Well, he’s going to regret it.
“Sometimes I think you don’t know when you’re talking out loud, Morelli.”
I finish my lap, skin shimmering beneath the humble luster of sweat, and beeline for Mason, who’s peeling back the film over a case of water bottles. “Hey, water boy,” I say sharply.
His chest swells with a fatigued inhale, and he cranes his neck back. His black hair is swept over his brow like it’s been molded by a gentle, flattering breeze. “Yes?” he asks with infuriating calmness, as if he didn’t just knee me in the sack moments ago.
“You . . .” The words tangle in my throat.
“Me?”
“You.” I hack through the blockage and spit. “Am I not sexy enough?”
He blinks a few times. “Um.”
“Sexy,” I say impatiently.
“Yes, I heard that part.”
“Is that why you turned me down?”
“No,” he says.
“So I am sexy?” I demand.
Before Mason can confirm, Anup Kumar, wide receiver, glides into the conversation like a lubricated dildo. He folds one massive arm around Mason’s skinny shoulders and gives him an affectionate squeeze, his shaggy black curls restrained by a bandanna. “Is this guy bothering you, babe?” he asks sternly.
“I’m very bothered!” I snap. “Ask Mason why he hates me!”
“You’re out of your damn mind if you think I was talking to you, Cam.”
“Are you bullying our precious assistant, Morelli?” Jody Jackson, punter and pastiest blond man alive, sidles up to Mason and fondly pats his beanie. “Leave Mason alone. Can’t blame him for not wanting to date your ugly ass.”
“Ugly?” I shriek.
Mason shakes his head in earnest, though his perfect level face isn’t giving anything away. “Cameron is attractive, sure, but—”
“You’re dating a sexy college girl?” Anup asks.
Mason’s snowy-white cheeks start to redden, and he lifts his hand self-consciously over his mouth, like he’s concealing inaudible laughter. “I’m single.”
A direct punch to my throat. So being single is better than being with me. Got it.
“That’s not it,” Mason says in exasperation, and maybe Darius is right about the whole talking out loud thing. “It’s nothing to do with your looks.”
“So it’s his fuck-ass piece‑of‑shit personality,” Anup figures.
“The personality doesn’t help,” Mason says, kicking me directly in my esophagus.
“Or you’re straight,” Jody suggests.
“I’m not,” Mason says, cleaving my chest open.
“So it is the fuck-ass piece‑of‑shit personality.” Anup gives Mason a hearty smooch atop his beanie, oblivious to the critical hits I’m suffering. “It’s okay, baby. I expect he only wants you for your brain cells, anyway.”
Unfortunately, Mason doesn’t get the chance to defend my intelligence. Coach Barnett notices the congregating mass and blows his whistle, shattering the sound barrier. “Morelli! Kumar! Jackson! On the field!” he yells, and so we sprint away to complete our high knee jogging, side lunges, and assorted tortures. All the while, I can only contemplate my place in the universe.
Why did Mason Gray reject me?
There’s this uncomfortable nagging in my chest. Cam Morelli is supposed to be . . . well, perfect. He’s well-liked by everyone, a shining star among a dome of murky darkness. I’ve put years of work into this face, this body, this personality, to solidify my position as one of the most respected seniors in school. Everyone knows my name because I’ve hand-carved a positive reputation for myself.
Why doesn’t it work on Mason?
My skin feels prickly. I can’t remember the last time I asked somebody out—usually, people are propositioning me every month, and I go along with it for a few weeks until we break up. I don’t care about the connotation that comes with it. It’s better that I’m too romantically active than otherwise, and it’s better that the negativity is based around my number of partners rather than the queer thing. I tested the waters and “came out” last year by dating one of the JV lacrosse guys, and thankfully people seemed more gossipy about the fact that he was the fifth person I had dated in three months than the fact that he was a guy.
Every popular person in school has at least one negative feature attached to them, whether true or false. It’s better that I can control what that feature is—in this case, being hard to tie down.
I was shit out of luck in middle school. It’s better this way.
Is that connotation the only reason Mason isn’t interested in me, or is it something else?
Eventually, people begin to flood the stands—students dressed in Elwood High merch, faculty members, and parents. Not mine, though. Today is the first game they’re missing because they’re busy swapping saliva over a dinner table for “date night.” The sun melts into the horizon, bathing the sky in a crisp October orange despite the lingering September date, and the other team arrives to warm up beneath the looming scoreboard. I’m still heated.
That’s an awful idea, but thank you.
I readjust my shoulder pads, secure my face mask, tie my cleats tighter, and try to get serious. I can’t start slacking because I’m in a bad mood. Especially because Coach Barnett has been in contact with a scout from the University of Alpine who’s been observing Darius since freshman year and just caught wind of me when I joined the team last year as a junior. I have to keep on top of my game if I stand any chance of earning myself a full ride, or the last two years of obsessive training and bulking will have been for nothing.
As the hum of roaring high schoolers washes over the field, annoyance plucks at my veins. Seriously, it’s not like I have a crush on Mason. I don’t get those. Butterflies? Not in this chiseled abdomen. If anyone is pining nearby, it’s probably for me. I’m one of the tallest and most well-built seniors in school, thanks to my dad’s one good gene and the aforementioned obsessive training and bulking. My skin is a natural, flattering golden brown, which gives me the mysterious and sexy air of an ethnically ambiguous man.
“You are tan, white boy,” Anup tells me whenever I bring it up.
But basically, with my long eyelashes and dagger-sharp jawline, I’m irresistible. What happened here?
It’s the fourth quarter when everything goes wrong.
I huddle up behind Nate, our center, eyes wandering the sea of white helmets clashing with the brutish red of the opposing team. Everyone is braced, waiting for the call. My gaze flicks to the sidelines, where Coach Barnett is massaging his peppered goatee. Mason stands beside him, expression neutral as ever.
Nate snaps the ball, and I close the leather between my gloves while the crowd wails with excitement. Anup is trying to escape the guy on his flank—Ravi’s down the field, faster than the player targeting him. We’re about to score. With twenty seconds left, we’ll tie the game, and all Jody has to do is score the extra point for the win—
Suddenly, a heavy weight collides with my side, drilling me into the ground with enough force that the air nearly leaves my lungs. I blink blearily, looking into triumphant eyes behind a garish-red helmet. “Stay down, bitch!” he yells.
He’s done it. He’s cracked me. I don’t know where it comes from, but suddenly, I’m not on the field anymore. The turf is a coarse bedroom carpet. The people looming over me aren’t football players—they’re other students. Eighth graders. Laughing, speaking behind hands, looking down on me with amused, disgusted eyes.
Do you think he’s . . .?
Like mother, like son . . .
I’m not that kid anymore. I’ve taken appropriate steps to ensure I won’t ever find myself in that position again. But knowing this matters little. The pure, unbridled rage that spills out of me would be extremely ugly if I wasn’t . . . well, me.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, and I’m tearing my helmet off, and so is he, and my fist lands on his face before he can even curl his hand. He staggers beneath my knuckles and hits the grass, blood spurting from his nose.
The chaos that follows is flattering, actually. As his team surges toward me with an explosive battle cry, my team rushes to keep them off me.
Just like that, the game is over.
