Fading Out Page 7

  I have to admit, the boosters outdid themselves. The school has been talking about upgrading a few facilities, the locker rooms among some of the more sorely needed, since I first started out. But money was always an issue. And time. This group of supporters has been the best the team’s had in years.

  With that thought comes a quick and uninviting thought of Arian. I wonder if she went through with joining them. I can’t see how, after what happened the other night at Jack’s. Whatever reason she had for wanting to in the first place most likely wasn’t enough after the second condom prank.

  Damn, but we’ve really turned into a bunch of dumb jocks.

  Regardless of how pissed off she was, I put an end to the pranks. I think Beck is still cursing my name—he hates squats. I’m sure the guys won’t even think of looking her way now. Which, on a completely selfish level, gives me a secret satisfaction.

  “What the…?” Beck’s voice pulls me from my conflicting thoughts. I hear him bang his helmet against the locker unit. “The fuck?”

  Groaning, I head toward him and a few guys hovering around his locker. I swear, sometimes being the QB of a college football team is like being a freaking babysitter. These guys can whine. A lot.

  “You still pissed about the squats?” I ask, lacing my arms over my chest and leaning up against the metal blue unit.

  Beck’s face flames red, his meaty cheeks fluttering with his heavy breaths as he stares into his open locker. “Who the fuck, man?” He reaches into the locker and yanks something out.

  My forehead creases as my gaze zeros in on the dark fabric in his hand.

  Then he holds it up, stretching out the lacy material.

  A thong.

  The group of guys start laughing. “You finally coming out of the closet, bro?” James says, clapping Beck on his big shoulder. “I told you that cross-dressing shit back in freshman year would stick.”

  Beck growls. “That was Halloween, you douche!” He balls the pair of women’s underwear and tosses them to the bottom of the locker. “Where’s my strap?”

  It’s finally starting to register what’s going on. I just thought that a fan stuck them in Beck’s locker. Not really getting why he’s so pissed off. Hey, stranger things have happened.

  But soon the locker room fills with curses as the laughter dies down.

  I head to my locker and yank open the door. A pink thong hangs on a hook, and next to it, a folded piece of paper. I tweak the note out:

  And just for our special QB, the leader of the pack…

  I grab the thong. On the front…or whatever you call the thickest part of the damn underwear…is a glittery R. All done up in pink sparkles.

  Gavin laughs from over my shoulder. “Dude, yours are bedazzled!”

  James says, “How the hell do you even know what that is?”

  “I’ve had girlfriends. Unlike your no-ass-getting self.” Gavin punches James in the arm.

  As they continue to bicker, I stare at the thong, knowing exactly who it's from. Damn. I just figured out why Arian wanted to join the boosters.

  “Okay,” Gavin says, gaining the attention of the room. “Joke time’s over. It’s game time! Where the hell are our straps?”

  They start the hunt. Checking the shower area, laundry bags, but I can save them the trouble right now. They’re not here.

  “You’re looking at them,” I say, and all eyes land on me. “Strap up, girls.”

  Beck’s chest heaves. “No way, man. This is bullshit. I’m not wearing that shit on the field.”

  “But you’ll wear it somewhere else?” James says, laughing.

  “Shut it!” Beck hollers. He’s really pissed off about this. But honestly, I can’t blame the guy. He’s the biggest dude on the team. A tiny thong won’t be the most comfortable thing for him. Well, not for any of us. But I consider it the last of our punishment for what’s been done to Arian.

  “I’ll free ball,” Beck says, turning to go change out.

  I hold up my hand. “None of you are stepping foot on that field without you’re boys strapped up,” I say. I make eye contact with each player. “Man the fuck up and put your damn panties on.”

  A chorus of groans travels around the locker room as the guys lower their heads and make their sad ways back to their lockers. They know I’m serious.

  I let them vent and curse, be as pissed off as they want, but they know they’re accepting this punishment. I look down at the pink thong with little plastic jewels. I have to admit, I feel a little pissed myself, but the thought that she took the time to make something—even a gift meant as payback—means she had to be thinking of me. Period.

  Despite the fact that she had revenge on her mind; wanted to see me suffer. Still, it’s the thought that counts, right?

  I suck up my manly pride, shake my head, and strip down. Working myself up to slip on the underwear. Hell.

  Hoots and whistles rise, echoing off the walls. Then Gavin streaks past me in only his tiny black thong. I laugh as the guys whip towels and tees at his bare ass.

  * * *

  First and ten. The roar of the crowd bounces off the stadium. Reverberates through my chest. We’re in the lead by four points. James touches the ground, palms the ball, ready to snap to me. I glance around, catch the eye of one of the linebackers. He sneers, prepared to run me through.

  I breathe in the fresh scent of cut grass. The crisp night air. The lights beam down on the field, casting a glowing halo over the stadium’s arc.

  This game is ours.

  Before I call out to start the play, I look to the risers. To where Arian watches. I spotted her during halftime, a beaming smile on her face as she laughed while I waddled off the field, desperate to dig the damn underwear out of my ass crack.

  And now, her smile grows. Our eyes meeting. If laughing at my expense puts that smile on her face, so be it. I’ll make a damn fool of myself if it means never having to see her hurt or upset again.

  Something has shifted. At this point, all the humiliation in the world couldn’t keep me from her.

  A fraction of the fissure running through me begins to seal itself. And it’s because of Arian. I wish I could’ve found a way to make things right with Alyssa. But it would’ve taken more than wearing a pair of thongs to correct that mistake. A hell of a lot more.

  Down the yellow line, Beck curses. I glance over to see him hike one of his legs and reach behind him to pull at his pants.

  Game well played. Arian, all the points.

  11

  Arian

  Vee’s asleep. Zonked out to the world. Offering me the solitude I need to reflect. She talked non-stop about the game. Gavin making a touchdown after a fumble. Pointing to the stands and doing a victory dance…and then digging out his wedgie.

  We almost died laughing, tears streaming down, the blistering cold freezing our faces stiff. We knew the Bobcats would be upset. Angry. Livid, even. Or maybe they wouldn’t get the joke at all…just toss the thongs away and run out onto the field to face the other team going commando.

  We never imagined that our prank would go so far as to see our school football team out on the field walking like big, muscle-burdened ducks. Digging into their pants in-between plays. I mean, why the hell did they actually wear the thongs? Are jocks really that bone-headed?

  Gavin even saluted the risers at one point, singling out the criminals—us—with a thumbs-up. Vee fantasizing he was talking directly to her. Which, I pointed out, he was. She was euphoric after that. And I was right there with her.

  I’ve never been a part of anything like this. Just the heightened anticipation, the excitement, of walking with the whole school to the stadium. The roar or cheering, thunder of stomping, the sea of blue and white—it was overwhelming. So powerful. Granted, I was only going to gloat at the players, at Ryder—but sharing that with him, feeling how he must feel when he runs out onto the field, it was mind-blowing.

  And I won’t feel guilty for indulging in the rare, carefree mome
nt. I probably won’t get many of them later.

  Now that I have some time to myself, I pull out my journals. The ones I kept during the four months at Stoney Creek. I stashed them in a box under my bed. Never really thought I’d look at them again, not wanting to read the many dark, twisted thoughts that cluttered my head during that time.

  Right this second, though, I have this overwhelming need to write about today. Just put into words this feeling that I can’t otherwise express, explain.

  Something altered this past week.

  From the moment I was kicked out of school until now, I’ve been so focused on recovery. On fixing myself. On righting my relationship with Becca and my father, trying to repair the damage I caused. Though I honestly had no idea even how to go about it. Eat more? Exercise less? Go out with one of the guys my dad keeps pushing my way? Invest more time in studies? Get a freaking life?

  To do anything not to obsess over me…and my imperfections.

  For some reason, I have a burning need to write down this liberating feeling. It’s proof that I can laugh. That I can relax. And have a life outside my obsessive angsting. As stupid as these pranks have been and as annoyed as Ryder has made me, I sort of have to thank him. I haven’t been able to unwind and just exist in the moment for a long time.

  So that’s what I do.

  I sift through the journals, months of gloomy, lonely thoughts, where I burned Stephan on many pages, until I find a fresh, untouched notebook. Mel enters my thoughts, and I think about writing her an old-school letter. I was waiting until I didn’t feel so…lost. So dismal, before I contacted her. Maybe that time is now.

  I write the first sentence that starts nothing like the one’s I’m so used to writing.

  And surprisingly, it doesn’t start with “I”. Already it’s not as narcissistic as my former entries. There’s also a description of beautiful blue eyes I can’t quite get out of my mind.

  * * *

  When the adrenaline wears off, and I’m all out of words, I decide to head to the gym. I need to do something to tire myself out. I try not to feel bad about going to the gym twice today.

  No small change is ever permanent. One thing I learned while in treatment? You have to repeatedly apply the change—over and over—until it decides to stick. Until you no longer have to remind yourself to do it.

  Baby steps.

  Exercise, though it’s not a bad thing in general, but rather the opposite, has at times gotten out of hand for me. To the point where I couldn’t walk the next day after a ruthless workout. A form of punishment if I’d indulged, or couldn’t suppress the need to binge eat. Exercise is supposed to be rewarding, giving you endorphins and energy, and helping you stay positive, creating a good, healthy self-image.

  Well, anything good can become a vice. An addiction. Or even unhealthy.

  But right now, I just need the rigorous routine to wipe me out so I can sleep. I don’t feel the need to punish, just deplete the excess, over stimulated energy.

  The steady chirr of crickets greets me along the winding path toward the campus gym. It’s almost eerie, this still quiet that is usually so full of hustle and swarm. The chilly wind stirs the elm branches, adding to the effect with a hushed rustling.

  I glance behind me, totally creeped out. This is the first time I’ve been to the gym at night, and I’m wondering if I should just head back before I’m featured in some slasher flick.

  But the drive to get my workout in overpowers my rational thoughts. Of course. So I powerwalk. And I’m already to the gym doors by the time I think of turning around again.

  The building is empty. Which, despite the earlier creep out, is nice and convenient. No one to worry about hitting on you or judging you. I don’t really enjoy gyms in general, but there’s no way to fit exercise equipment in our small dorm room. This is when I miss living with my parents. Wherever their current home may be.

  Although the tradeoff of not having to deal with their constant analysis of me is a huge benefit in favor of living on campus.

  I set my water bottle and gym bag on the floor in the corner, then set the speed and pace for the treadmill. I plug my ear buds in and scroll through my playlist on my phone until I find Adagio for Strings, Op. 11a. One of my favorite classical pieces performed by the London Philharmonic Orchestra. I need the soothing help of classical right now.

  Which is just odd, I know. Most people want an upbeat, motivational tempo, with lyrics to help them kick ass during their workout. But I’m always wound tight. My heart rate feeling as if it’s forever climbing with the ever-pressing anxiety. When I get my twenty minutes to myself to just be me, I want to float away. Walk my mind completely away from my own thoughts.

  As I walk, I let my mind drift, lost in the orchestra. Relaxing. My heartbeat ramps as the stress melts away like hot butter through my pores. Sweat drips down my back, and I imagine every disgusting thing I’ve eaten today liquefying and being purged from my system.

  Something touches my arm, and I yelp. Then my legs go weak and my feet no longer keep tread on the walker. I land on my butt and am pushed right off the machine. One ear bud is lost, and I quickly move the wire from the track so it doesn’t get sucked under.

  “Jesus, Arian.”

  I know that smooth voice. My head whips up. Ryder stands above me, his dark hair falling forward over his creased forehead, eyes squinted in laughter, and his hand extended.

  “Give me your hand,” he says, wriggling his fingers. When I don’t move, my heart still knocking hard against my chest—whether from the scare or his presence, I’m not sure—he groans and reaches down to grab my arm.

  “I got it.” I yank my arm free and push myself up. Then I look at him while I pat my aching butt. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

  His features change instantly. From concern to amusement. He shakes his head and begins walking toward one of the weight sets. “I don’t know, Arian. Probably the same thing you’re doing here.” He looks back at me and raises his eyebrows challengingly.

  Yeah, well. Okay. I get a grip on myself, putting my fingers to my neck to check my pulse. Then I climb back on the machine and set it to a slower speed so I can bring my heart rate down properly.

  “Damn. You were really giving that machine a workout,” he says as he lifts a weight from the stand. He adds it to the bar. “Like it had wronged you in some way. I have to admit, I feel a little better knowing it’s not just me that gets your wrath. Inanimate objects be damned, huh? We all pay for the ire of Arian.”

  Ugh. This guy. God, but he’s so cute in his dumb sweatpants and tank. I divert my gaze and look down at the monitor of the treadmill. “Ari,” I say. “That’s what I go by.”

  Despite my attempt not to look at him, I still witness his head jerk in my direction. “Ari.”

  I release a heavy breath through my nose, calming. Centering. “Yeah, well, if you’ve finally decided to address me properly, and not like I’m something to be devoured…” I cringe. Did I really just say that? I should have clarified the carrot cake. I absolutely do not look at him. “Then, I guess you can call me what everyone else does.” I shrug.

  A small smile hikes one corner of his mouth. “I like it. I like it even more that you’re the one offering it to me.”

  “It’s just a name.”

  He laughs. “It’s a great name. Beautiful, and fitting. I mean, it’s not as great as say, Ryder, of course. But hey, still an awesome name.” He smiles, and I roll my eyes. “You always downplay stuff. Why is that?” He cocks his head, paused, hovering over the bench before adding another weight. How much does he bench? My gaze travels over his flexed biceps, wondering… When I don’t respond, or can’t, because I don’t really know the answer, he says, “Anyway. I see we have this much in common.”

  “Great names?” I’m suddenly incapable of saying more than two- or three-word sentences. Like my brain got knocked out through my butt and sucked into the treadmill during the fall. Or maybe I�
��ve finally worn myself out, too tired to deal with his head games.

  No, I doubt that. He makes me too hyperaware. I’m always forced on guard.

  “Well that, too, but I was talking about working out at night.” He puts the clamp on the bar and then straddles the bench. “I usually have this place all to myself.”

  “Sorry I encroached on your turf.” I hit the button to slow the walker even more.

  “Damn. You’d think for someone who just got one over on the most notorious pranksters of college football, you’d be flying high right now.” He wraps his fingers around the bar, adjusts his grip to get a proper hold. I can’t help but notice the way his muscles tighten, his sinewy arms strained as he lowers himself to the bench. Why do all the assholes have to be the hot ones?

  Because, of course, they know they're hot and think they can act any way they want, I remind myself—a nice splash of cold water to ground me.

  I continue walking at a steady pace, but a small smile curls my lips despite my best attempt. “The joke wasn’t to make you guys actually wear the thongs, you know.” My smile takes over my face as I remember how Ryder and his teammates waddled onto the field.

  He does a few reps then sets the bar on the holder. Sits up. “I know. But I figured the guys deserved the full weight of their punishment. And even though I really didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your car, or your drink”—his gaze snags and holds mine—“I paid my dues for what I did say and do at the bonfire.”

  My feet miss a step, and I quickly correct my pace. He’s lying. Maybe. Or he’s just trying to lower my defenses; set me up for something bigger. But as his gaze intensifies, I’m trapped there. Caught in his sight, believing him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that it wasn’t you who condom bombed my car?”

  Finally dropping his eyes, he shrugs. “Would you have believed me?”

  No, I think inwardly. “Maybe.”