Stone Creek by Davis, Lainey (reading diary .TXT) 📕

“You done yelling?”

“Yeah, if you’re done looking where you shouldn’t be.”

Kevan turns the light back on and I squint, rolling over halfway to look at him. “Dude, I was not staring at Olive. Morgan, don’t you know that I’m gay?”

I just blink at him a few times. What the fuck is he even talking about?

“I. Like. Cock. You don’t have to worry about me getting between you and your dream girl, Morgan. And before you tell me again that she’s your best friend, I think we both know it’s more than that for you.”

Well this is unexpected. “But I saw you staring at her…”

“Did you?” He asks, turning the light out again and punching his own pillows. “Or did you see me staring past her at the shirtless swimmer she was stretching?”

Shit.

“You’re seriously gay?” This has me all sorts of messed up. I’m a good judge of people. That’s basically all I’ve got going for me, apart from my ability to tackle the shit out of running backs. You don’t grow up in a house with a maniac and not learn how to read a room. Sometimes, that was the only way I avoided getting my ass kicked. I was a thousand per cent certain this guy had the hots for Olive.

“Super gay. Like just had a cock in my mouth gay.”

“Come on, man.”

“Hey, you asked. Now you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Olive?”

I shrug in the dark, like he can see me. “I told you. She’s my best friend. It’s not like that with her.”

I hear a bag rustle and I realize this asshole is eating chips in bed while he’s talking to me. “Could have fooled me,” he says. “I know I’m new around here, but a blind man could see that you want her.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not going to ever happen. I need her as a friend more than I need to get my rocks off.”

He keeps eating the damn potato chips while I think about all the times I thought he’d been staring at Olive’s tits in the training room. She’s always stretching someone out. We’re all wound up tighter than twine on a pork loin. “I’m not sure it’s any better that you’re checking out the other guys on our team,” I tell him.

I hear him crumple the chip bag and toss it in the trash can. “You think I’m the only gay football player at SCU? You really don’t know your team very well, Morgan.”

This guy is fucking with my head. Is Kevan right? Have I been misreading my teammates for years? This is the most unsettling conversation I’ve had in a long time. I don’t like it one bit. I don’t answer him, but I also can’t sleep, running through a list of my teammates, trying to figure out who I actually know.

Eventually, Kevan says, “Not everyone feels safe admitting it, though. Some guys are good at trying to hide who they really are.”

That gets me thinking about my fucking father—master of hiding his true self. I mean, it’s sort of the opposite. My father hides that he is a monster and Kevan’s saying my teammates are afraid of monsters. Everyone in my home town thinks dad’s some upstanding citizen. Turning all the boys of Fulton football into men. Loving mentor. All of it an act.

My father would come home and spit venom, complaining about everyone and everything in his life, detailing how thoroughly everyone was standing in his way. Most especially me and Brody.

I honestly think that’s how Olive got her start as a trainer. She’d look after me when he’d twist my arm behind my back for missing a spot washing the dishes. She figured out how to massage my head if he slammed it off the dining room table. Brody never had anyone like Olive to look after him. Sounds like Kevan knows a thing or two about that experience himself.

I don’t like thinking about my brother the night before a game. I roll around for awhile, trying to forget everything Kevan said, too. Eventually I hear him snoring and I cram a pillow over my head. I fall asleep thinking about Olive’s touch on my skin and how much I missed feeling that in the training room this week.

CHAPTER TEN

Olive

Football Saturdays have always had a special rhythm. Usually, I wake up early and head into the training room, get everything set up to tape ankles and wrap wrists. The linemen always come in first, needing more attention than everyone else. And then I give Bax a pep talk, assure him I’ll be watching from the stands, wearing his jersey. I kiss his forehead each week, for luck.

So today, when I’m in the natatorium all morning stretching out swimmers, I just feel off.

Tim was in early for some more treatments for his back. He’s not going to let anything like muscle spasms prevent him from competing. I’ve been around athletes long enough to know they don’t sit out until their coach screams in their face.

Nobody seems to mind that I, an undergrad assistant, step in to work out Tim’s hamstrings and hook him up to the TENS unit. Justin is over with the football players for game prep, so the mood in the training room is pretty light while I go about my business.

Tim is doing much better after a few days of lighter training and heavier stretches. He is even chatty, telling me about his internship from last summer in New York City.

He grits his teeth as I lean into his leg, trying to get some more stretch from his thighs. “Yeah,” he says. “The hours were insane at the bank, but I was staying with my cousin and he has a pool