Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I shoved another few fries in my mouth and studied my best friend when I noticed admiring gazes and shy smiles from a few passersby. Christian was six four with broad shoulders, a lean, muscular body and a killer arm. He had short brown hair, pretty blue eyes, and even features. I was only three inches shorter, but I had a slightly thicker build, short dark hair, and hazel eyes. We were both considered handsome, I guessed, but Christian rocked an all-American-kid look while my olive skin and last name gave away my Latino heritage.
Happiness looked good on Christian. His eyes twinkled and his face lit with an inner contentment that seemed to be part of his new persona. Christian had always been a chill guy. As Chilton’s star quarterback, he had to be cool under pressure. But facing the public ordeal of coming out at a small college had changed him. He’d already been a well-respected athlete before he was outed, and now he was a fucking celebrity.
Christian was a big fish in a tiny pond. I supposed we both were. We were fourth-year seniors, popular athletes, lifelong best friends, and roommates. Almost no one knew we’d been secret boyfriends for five years too. Most people probably figured we were a couple of jocks who happened to have a lot in common.
I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t know Christian. We grew up in the same small Southern California town, went to the same schools, and attended the same church. We didn’t hang out much until we were teenagers. Christian was more reserved and a little uptight. I was the class clown with the loud mouth who always got in trouble. He told me he steered clear of me in grade school to avoid getting pulled into the principal’s office for doing stupid stuff like setting off fire alarms…just because.
Everything changed when puberty hit. I thought something was wrong with me at first. I didn’t get excited about girls’ boobs the way the guys on my Little League team did. I remembered telling my parents how frustrated I was that our pitcher couldn’t get the ball across the plate when our junior high cheerleading squad came to our games. My dad ruffled my hair and grinned. “Someday you’ll understand, mijo. Then maybe baseball won’t seem so important.” He’d laughed when I looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. Yeah, right.
Baseball was my life. Hell, it still was. I was pretty sure I could never love anything or anyone the way I loved baseball. From the time I was old enough to grip a Louisville Slugger, it was my reason to wake up in the morning and my incentive to make it through a boring day at school. A game, practice, or even a trip to the batting cages got me a hell of a lot more excited than the prospect of hanging out with a cute girl. And honestly, the idea of touching female parts made me queasy. But Christian? Yeah, I’d wanted to touch his ass. Or at least look at it.
I’d caught myself staring at him for no particular reason in biology. I noticed strange things, like the way he held his pencil and the way his hair fell in his eyes when he looked down at his textbook. But it got even weirder. One day, I wanted to know what his hair felt like, I wanted to study his eyes to see how blue they were up close, and I wanted to make him laugh, because it was a beautiful sound. For a while, I didn’t understand my compulsion to know him better. It was a gut feeling. And any decent ballplayer knew you had to trust your gut.
We became good friends when we were thirteen. By the time we were sixteen, we were inseparable. And we weren’t just friends anymore. We were lovers. He was my first kiss, hand job, blowjob, anal. Christian was my everything…after baseball, of course. We were as committed to each other as we were to our sports. And we liked that no one knew. But then I met Sky, and everything changed.
Thankfully, our friendship survived our breakup. Christian had Rory now, and he was happier than I’d seen him in a long time.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, setting his fork down and reaching for a water bottle.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“You wanted to meet in the most crowded place on campus at the busiest time of day. That’s not like you. You’re obviously up to something. Spill it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied, taking a bite of my sandwich before clandestinely casting my gaze toward the table next to us.
“You’re full of shit, Max.” When I didn’t respond, he kicked my shin and prodded, “Who are you looking for?”