“I SAID,” I snap at him with more venom than I’d intended so I clear my throat and start again. “I said he’s blindingly bright, like an almost hurts the eyes kind of thing.” Heat creeps across my cheeks and for once Tyler is silent. Even though I’m alone in my room, I pull the hood of my sleeveless shirt over both my headset and head and tug it down low.
He clears his throat. “I can see how he might come across that way to you, Mr. Broody. You’d sit alone sulking in the dark all the time if given the option. It’s like when you have your phone on dark mode for months. When you switch it to light mode it’s so bright it’s practically blinding. He’s your light mode.”
I snort and rub two fingers on the spot above the bridge of my nose. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Ty.”
“Maybe, but he’s good for you, or he could be anyway. Prove me wrong.” I flip him off even though he can’t see me. “That’s what I thought. I gotta go man but think about what I said. Think about it, okay? There’s no harm in that.” Think about it? That’s all I’ve been doing the past however many weeks. I can’t STOP thinking about Dacen. That’s the problem. “Oh, P.S.,” Tyler adds before he hangs up, “I mentioned the whole ‘Dacen and I live near each other’ thing because, in case you forgot, you’re one of my best friends and you’re over here a lot. You know, at my house. Which is near his house. And I’m inviting you over Saturday evening to come to my house. Which, again, is near his house. Do the math.”
He drops off and I’m left with only silence and my thoughts. Despite my weak excuse, Dacen’s sometimes overly energetic attitude is, well, it’s cute, and I’d be lying if I said thoughts of shutting up that sassy mouth of his with my lips didn’t stir things awake down south. Tyler’s question pings around my head.
What the hell happened between the two of you at camp?
18
Ryne
Soccer camp, early June
“Thanks for the ride, Nathan,” I call out to my uncle as I reach into the back end of his shiny black F150 and hoist out two duffle bags, one with my soccer gear and a larger one with my normal sleep-away camp stuff—clothes, bathroom shit, tablet, etc. I walk back up to the passenger door, set my bags on the ground, and speak through the open window. “Appreciate it.”
“Anytime, bud. I’ll be back in a few weeks to get you unless you call home begging for mercy and needing a rescue before then,” he jokes.
The Elite Skills Soccer Camp, colloquially known as The Elites, is one of the most intense and prestigious soccer camps for ages thirteen to eighteen in the United States. And not because it’s expensive or generations of kids come here or anything stupid like that. It’s not a status symbol activity to check the box on. It’s the best in terms of the acceptance criteria and rate, the caliber of instruction, and the expectations they place on each camper. If they find you fucking around during the lessons, they’ll send your ass home. It’s basically THE camp to attend for those seriously looking to play on a quality team in college and maybe go pro afterward. This is my fifth summer here.
The best thing about this camp? Other than I think it would make my dad happy I’m here, it’s that we may all vary in the number of asshole antics and cocky attitudes we bring to this place, but each and every guy here is focused. I don’t get an exciting thrill anymore, haven’t for a long time if I’m being honest, but it’s still super productive and we all walk away with more skills than we came here with, which really is the whole point. The other best thing about this place, or second-best I guess, is I’m so tired at the end of each day I don’t have enough energy left for the thoughts and doubts in the dark recesses of my mind to take shape. Not too much, anyway. I’m usually asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. It’s a perk certainly not advertised in the brochure, but a perk for me nonetheless.
This summer will be different from my others here. I’m here for the normal two-week camp, but then I’m staying an extra two weeks to help with the training camp they do afterward for kids ages twelve and under. It’s a paid thing they offer for upcoming high school seniors, and I was accepted. Part of me wonders if Jonah had something to do with it, but whatever. The more I can keep my mind occupied, the better.
And then I realize what my jackass uncle just said.
“Super funny,” I deadpan.
“Okay, okay. Cell phone and charger? Your Aunt Lily won’t let me hear the end of it if you left them at home and she can’t talk to or text you for the next month. You did bring your charger, right?”
“Yup.” I pat the backpack on my shoulders. I’m notorious for forgetting the cord and then ignoring the low battery warning until it’s at like five percent, but there’s no way in hell I can go an entire month with no phone so I’d double and triple checked I had it before we left.
“All right. Don’t let the big boys trample all over my little Rynekin, ya hear?”
I roll my eyes, not only at the ridiculous nickname he and Aunt Lily still like to throw around now and then but also at the notion that anyone in this place would get the jump on me. I’m nearly six feet of well-defined muscle, and extremely fast. There ain’t nobody in this place that is gonna trample me over, on or off the field.
“Sure, old man. Thanks for the advice.” I lean down to pick up my duffle bags in one hand and throw them over my shoulder. With my free hand, I knock my knuckles against the side of the truck and then step away from the curb. Nathan pulls away, honking twice, and leaves a trail of dust behind him as he exits the parking lot to make the short drive home.
I hoist my bags up a little higher and head off toward the dorms to check-in. Colt, the guy I’ve roomed with the last three years, is probably not here yet. He has to fly in from out of state and typically gets here later in the day. It’ll give me time to settle in and grab some lunch.
* * *
I tapthe keycard over the door reader to my room and push open the door when the little light turns green. My duffle bags hit the floor with a loud thunk and my backpack slides off my arms and settles next to them. There is a guy standing by one of the beds with his back to me, pulling clothes and gear out of a bag. A guy with dark blond hair, shaved on the sides and longer on top. A guy that is not Colt Larson. He’s a couple of inches shorter than me and I’ve got quite a bit more muscle, particularly in my biceps, but he’s clearly in great shape. My eyes sweep up and down his body and my muscles flex involuntarily.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Blondie turns around and stares at me, one eyebrow cocked at my tone. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re not Larson.”
He stares at me like I’m juggling soccer balls while wearing a pig costume. “Uh, accurate,” he responds dryly. “I don’t even know who that is.”
“Colt Larson is supposed to be my roommate.” I switch tactics and try not to be such a dick. “Are you maybe in the wrong room?”
The guy picks a keycard up off his bed and holds it up, waving it around. “Room B10. Keycard works. I don’t know what to tell you about your friend, but this is my room.”
