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“And I live here.” He shrugs. “So I guess that means we aren’t missin’ anything. Except maybe some bad country music.”
“For all we know, people are already taking off to the big after thing at the Evans’,” I additionally point out.
“True. See?”
We both fall silent again. Only the sound of our breaths fill the whole gym.
He keeps staring into my eyes.
Like he’s expecting something.
But patiently.
Should I make a move? Is that what’s happening here? Maybe he’s depending on me to initiate something between us, because he’s too terrified to do it himself.
Maybe this is the New Chad’s way of being chivalrous: letting me make the first move.
“I …” My throat closes up and I shut my eyes.
“Yeah?” he encourages me, his voice soft, almost a whisper.
For some reason, I can’t make myself say this next part while looking into his eyes. If I open my eyes, I’ll lose my nerve. “I want to … to do things with you.”
He doesn’t say anything back.
Silence swells between us.
I swallow hard and scowl, my eyes still closed. “Say something, Chad, for fuck’s sake, don’t leave me hanging.”
“I wanna do shit with you, too, Lance.”
My eyes open.
He’s taken his bottom lip between his teeth, and his eyebrows are lifted up, wrinkling his forehead in a cute, innocent way.
I’ve been on top of him for quite a while now.
And I don’t for a second think there is an ounce of me that wants to climb off of him.
Then I say: “But …”
Chad lets go of his own lip, listening.
Just that one word deflates the room as if I took a needle to that single lost, wandering balloon in the hallway.
But.
“Yeah …?” mumbles Chad, eyebrows still lifted, waiting.
“But … I think that we …” I sigh and let out all the rest of the words really fast: “… both know this isn’t a good idea. We should be mature adults, get off of each other, put up the wrestling mats, and change out of these singlets.”
Something sad passes over his eyes.
I look away.
“If that’s what you want,” says Chad.
“Yeah.”
The next second, I climb off of him.
I don’t know what I’m doing. And I don’t know why I’m doing it. But before I even wait for him to get off the mat, I’m pulling the other half away and lifting it up to put it back in its place against the wall. A few seconds later, I see Chad on his feet putting up the other half.
His heavy eyes are on me the whole time, as if curious, as if wondering if I’ll change my mind or say something else or look at him a certain, suggestive way.
But I can’t look at him.
Because if I do, I’ll change my stupid fucking mind.
The pair of us walk back to the locker room, and I ignore the dance mirrors that line the wall outside them. I ignore the mirrors because I don’t want to see two wrestlers in their gear, and inspire a bunch of high school fantasies to rush forth and confuse me.
Even if I’m actually a part of that fantasy for once.
Even if those two wrestlers are Chad Landry.
And myself.
We return to the storage closet where I proceed to take off my headgear and elbow pads, then prop a foot up onto an overturned crate to take off the wrestling shoes. Chad lingers somewhere behind me like a shadow, watching me as I slip them off one at a time.
It isn’t until I peel down the singlet halfway that I realize he isn’t getting undressed. He’s just standing there by the door.
I turn around, concerned. “Chad?”
He rushes up to crash his lips against mine.
11
The Things We Do
The world flips itself head over heels as I slam against the storage shelves.
Chad’s hands are on my naked chest as his lips dig deeply into mine, furious and desperate.
I can’t breathe.
He’s stolen all the breath out of me.
I grapple for something to maintain my balance, fearing I may fall over. Chad’s big arms are there at once to keep me standing, cradling my body against his.
The shoulder straps of my singlet dangle feebly somewhere at my thighs where his hips grind me.
He tastes so unexpectedly clean and perfect.
His spicy, rich, masculine scent climbs straight up my nostrils and takes hostage of all my senses.
His weight pins me uncomfortably to the shelves at my back, and even somehow the discomfort becomes something hot and anguishing in its pleasure.
Chad owns me with this one reckless assault.
His fingers slide down the exposed side of my body, and dance over the ridges and folds of my half-removed wrestling singlet. They come to rest at my crotch, cupping my throbbing cock.
I whimper against his mouth.
There is something about the skintight material being in the way that makes the teasing touch of his fingertips twenty times more sensitive on my swollen bulge. My balls tighten up with a desperate sort of urgency, and my own leaking wetness is evident against his invasive fingers.
