Video on the side has nothing to do with the chapter or the book in general but it's great so you should watch it, it's called "The bro duet" and it's super gay but #nohomo

"Fuck."

      I blinked, unimpressed, at Trevor Cazamm as he suddenly halted in the middle of the hallway, holding out his arm and forcing me to stop as well. "What'd you forget?" I asked dryly; we've done this drill before.

     "My cleats."

    I snorted loudly and resumed walking, not surprised in the slightest that Trevor would manage to forget something so pivotal. He scrambled to catch up with me, going into some long story about how he must have left them in his living room, at which point I promptly tuned him out.

     Trevor is my best friend, I guess. I mean, he's the closest friend I've got out of all the assholes in my shitty little town. Would I die for him? Hah, I wouldn't give up ten bucks for him, and I was sure he felt the same about me. We were friends because we were available—we were both popular, we'd played on the same club and school soccer teams for years, and he was the most tolerable out of the rest of the soccer players. That wasn't to say that Trevor wasn't entirely superficial like the rest of them, but he was a slight improvement.

     Then again, all of the "superficial" soccer players were also supposed to be my friends. They considered me a friend, sure, and they were certainly convenient to know, given that they were pretty much the reigning elite class of Listrougth High School. Our football team sucked more ass than a gay porn star, and so the students and faculty turned to us soccer players for someone to glorify.

     There was Damien Diggory, our goalie. Tall, handsome, and as dumb as a rock. He was undoubtably popular, and so intimidating in stature and demeanor that no idiot would dare even look at him the wrong way. Guys like Damien were good to have around, because they offered security.

     Next was Cameron Schetwaldski, the best midfielder his age in Nebraska. Cameron was absolutely full of himself and an overall pain in the ass, but he was funny and quick-witted. People liked him for that, and it was nice to have someone around who could always ease the tension.

Tyler Fiero—our left and best defender—was another notable character. He was just a character in general, really. A serious prankster, loud, stupid, and obnoxiously quick to start a fight for someone his size—that is, five foot six and one hundred twenty-five pounds. Hanging around a person as memorable as him had its perks; he was such a distraction that my mistakes often went unnoticed.

      Trevor Cazamm was our next best midfielder, and probably the smartest guy on the soccer team. Which is sort of like being the fastest snail. He was nice, yeah. Funny. Popular. A god guy to have around for light support every now and then. A bad guy to have around to truly lean on in times of weakness, because he'd step out of the way and let you fall without a second thought.

Possibly my least favorite member of my little "friend" group was Shawn Morgan. He was a great forward, but a pretty shitty person overall. Not that I'd ever voice that, because he was possibly the one person at our preppy private school that had more power than I did. Unlike me, Shawn had always been popular. He'd had girls fawning over him since his sandbox days, and loved to abuse the power he seemed to hold over women. Almost as much as he loved to abuse his brother.

     When word got around that Lucas Morgan was gay—to this day, I still didn't know how anybody found out—Shawn was the first to show his distaste, and he didn't do it alone. He had enough supporters as it was, being the so-called "king" of our school. It didn't help that our entire town was very catholic and very conservative. That said, Shawn had more than enough people to back him up if he wanted to bully his brother, and nowhere near enough opposers. Homophobia was a part of our brand here in Nowhere, Nebraska.

Shawn never hit Lucas—at least I don't think he did—but he sure gave him hell at school. My "friends" were always more than happy to join in the verbal harassment.

   Not that I was any better than them in that aspect. I didn't exactly partake in their bullying, but I didn't attempt to stop it, either. I was stuck firmly in the bystander category, with zero intention of leaving. Why would I? I hated Lucas Morgan, after all. Let my "friends" pick on him—it was none of my business.

     I wasn't better than them in any aspect, really, except for maybe my skill as a forward. I wasn't smarter than them, I wasn't much nicer. I was hot headed, I was arrogant, I was a player, I was fake, and I was definitely  intimidating. I was what I needed to be: untouchable.

Damien Diggory, Cameron Schetwaldski, Tyler Fiero, Trevor Cazamm, and Shawn Morgan were only a small selection of the players from the soccer team, but they were easily the most popular, and so they were what I considered my immediate friend group. I couldn't honestly say that I genuinely cared for any of them, but it wasn't as if the lying phased me. After all, lying was all I did. It was how I survived.

    "Dude, you still there?"

     I put on a bored expression and glanced down at Trevor with a shrug. "Yeah, why?"

     "You were, like, seriously spacing out," Trevor told me.

     Again, I shrugged. "Sorry," I said half-heartedly. "What were you saying?"

     "I was saying..." I tuned Trevor out again as we headed to the boys' locker room. As if I cared.

    Trevor was lucky. It was only the first day of tryouts—it was the first day of school, period—and we both knew from having tried out for the last three years that we never so much as looked at our cleats on the first day of tryouts. Today was the day that coach would drill us into the ground. As long as we had our running shoes, we were fine. Unless Trevor managed to forget those, too.

      "Fuck!"

     Trevor was stood in front of his gym locker, naked from the waist up, staring at his open Adidas bag and letting out a stream of very creative curses. "Dried up ass balls" was my favorite.

     "Forgot your sneakers?" I guessed.

     "I must have left them by—"

      To prevent him from going into another long tangent that I really did not care to hear, I reached into my own Adidas bag and threw my back-up running shoes at him. Now, let's make this clear—they were not back-ups that I'd packed with the fear of forgetting my own shoes. No, I'd been bringing them especially for Trevor after this exact routine happened in freshman and sophomore year. They were old sneakers, pretty worn out and probably not suitable for providing proper support during long runs anymore, but that wasn't my problem.

     "Thanks, dude," Trevor said with a heavy sight of relief. "You saved my ass."

    "What's new?" I teased. Trevor rolled his eyes and reached out to roughly shove my shoulder.

    "You're such an asshole."

    "What the hell?!"

     Trevor and I both shared a confused glance at the angry exclamation that had come from the center of the locker room—the wide area between the two middle locker rows, the only space wide enough for large groups to congregate. The voice was obviously Shawn's, but he usually didn't get worked up until we were at least on the field.

    "What the hell do you think you're doing here? Get your ass home!"

    "Dude, calm down," a second voice, one that was familiar but not recognizable, said. A loud murmur was floating through the room now, and, overcome by curiosity, I crept out from behind our row of lockers to see what was happening. It didn't take long to figure out what the the commotion was about. "I'm here to try out, just like you."

     Stood leaning casually on the table that stood against the western wall of the room, facing Shawn Morgan with a Nike duffel bag slung over his shoulder, was none other than his brother—his gay brother—Lucas Morgan.

    Shawn looked absolutely mortified. "You?" He hissed. "Trying out? Have you lost your mind? Get out!"

"Yeah!" Tyler Fiero joined in all too enthusiastically. "I don't want your eyes all over me while I change, perv."

I caught several of the other players consciously covering their bare chests with their arms and shirts.

"Well you don't have to worry about that," Lucas Morgan said, and I caught the hint of a challenge in his eyes. "You aren't really my type. Usually I go for guys with brain cells."

All around me, boys snarled and hissed in protest, sounding almost like animals. "Watch it, fag," I heard someone snap.

Yet nobody stepped forward, or made any move to act in any physical manner. They never did.

I'd always found that sort of strange, because, although Lucas Morgan was tall and fit—I was pretty sure he worked out more than several of the other boys in this locker room—we always outnumbered him. He was strong, but the majority of us were probably stronger. If just two were to step forward and challenge him, I was sure he'd stand little chance. Yet nobody ever laid a hand on Lucas. They threw words—harsh words—but kept their sticks and stones to themselves.

"We don't want you here," Damien Diggory growled. Several boys nodded and spoke in agreement, but I couldn't help but think that his words sounded a bit cliche and stupid. Then again, most of the things that Damien said did.

Still, I couldn't help but also agree. I certainly didn't want Lucas Morgan in here, or at tryouts, or—God forbid—on the team.

Lucas, however, simply shrugged. As usual, he wasn't phased. "Sucks, man. Wish I could help, except I really don't."

Clearly having heard enough, Shawn stepped forward, getting right in his brother's face. "Listen here," he spat. "You better watch your fucking tongue, faggot, because there's one of you and forty-five of us. You do the math, since you're such a smartass, and figure out the probability of you comin' out of that fight in one piece. Stay if you want, I don't give a shit. It'll be great to watch your pansy ass fall on its face when you realize you can't play for shit. But quit acting all tough, fairy, because we could flatten you in two seconds if we wanted."

Lucas blinked, looking boredly down at his brother, and said, "You done?"

Shawn's fists clenched at his sides, and I wondered if this would become the first time anyone saw him lay a hand on his brother.

"Dude," I sighed, not in the mood to watch a fight to break out and end up with one less forward on the team because the idiot got himself suspended. "Let it go. You're just wasting your time, he's not worth it."

I felt two glares focused on me then. One, Shawn's, went away after a moment as he grumbled in reluctant agreement and turned on his heels with a huff to find his locker. The other players followed his lead, turning grudgingly back to their clothes. I noticed that they all avoided the locker row where Lucas stood, as if he would try to molest them as they changed. Then again, maybe he would.

I still felt eyes on me, and I uncomfortably glanced at Lucas Morgan. He was still glaring at me, although he didn't seem quite angry. The gaze he fixed me with was more analytical and thoughtful, almost as if he knew something that I didn't.

He stared at me unwaveringly, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as his light green eyes searched me. The feeling that I was being studied made me feel more than a little uneasy, so I said, "What are you staring at, creep?"

     Lucas smiled, catching me entirely by surprise. It wasn't a nice smile, but it wasn't a mean one, either. "Nothing," he said, and started looking through his duffel bag. Our short interaction had clearly come to an end.

Not for the first time, Lucas Morgan took us all by surprise.

Tryouts that day consisted more or less of nonstop jogs, sprints, and workouts for three hours. We'd all expected Lucas to fall behind, to struggle at the back of the group with all of the newcomers. He didn't. Hell, he kept up better than some of the seasoned players.

I could tell that this bothered Shawn. I'd never seen a truly murderous look until I caught a glimpse of his face when Lucas passed him during a one-on-one sprint.

Guys like me, Shawn, Cameron, and the other best players never really gave our all during tryouts. Our positions on the team were pretty much secured, and our "mediocre" was usually better than the other contenders' top effort. Why waste our energy?

Yet, in that moment, Shawn put on a burst of speed that I only ever saw in games. It was clear in his expression that he was absolutely determined to leave his brother in the dust, and for a moment it seemed like he would.

However, it turned out that Lucas hadn't quite been giving his all, either. He too sped up, and was only a fraction of a second behind Shawn when he finished the sprint. Judging by Shawn's expression, the win itself wasn't enough. He'd wanted to embarrass his brother, and, as usual, had failed.

By the time we were all back in the locker room, changing and preparing to go home, everybody seemed a bit sour. None of the boys trying out, not even the lousiest freshmen, liked the idea of the gay guy outrunning them. Yet I doubted that was the biggest concern. They were all scared that Lucas Morgan would be able to play as well as he could run. Then he would make the team. That was a nightmare to them. To me, too. Because Lucas Morgan was my little problem.

I thought this over as I washed the sweat and dirt from my skin. "Little Problem" was not an adequate description of Lucas Morgan, not even close. He was a big problem, a massive one. My only one, in a way. At least, he was the source of all of my problems.

     If it wasn't blatantly obvious by now, Lucas Morgan was completely, totally, unchangeably gay. What might be less obvious was that I was, too. Now, I wasn't naive enough to blame Lucas for my sexuality, to say that he "turned me gay". I could say, however, that he made being what I was infinitely harder, and he didn't even have to try.

     After I'd gotten over my crush on Lucas in the seventh grade, I'd assumed that I was done with him. Even when he was outed sophomore year, I remained unaffected. I was doing the only thing I could to cope with the nagging hatred alway clawing at me from the inside out—I buried myself in my school and sports and social life and church until I had no time to focus on feelings. I couldn't like boys if there was no room in my mind for romance, and if I didn't like boys, maybe I would be on my way to becoming the man I was supposed to be.

     But no, Lucas couldn't let me have that. On a date with some girl who wanted to see the school's production of Wicked, Lucas managed to push aside my distractions enough to make room for feelings. Feelings that I didn't want.

     It was breathtaking, watching him perform. I never stood a chance.

     And so I found myself back at square one. All of the work I'd done to force myself not to like boys, to like girls instead, was in vain, and it was all Lucas' fault. Finally, just as I'd begun to be able to sleep properly again, I found myself enduring more restless nights. God, I hated him. Really, really hated him. And liked him. At the same time. A lot.

       I ran my hands down my face, frustrated with the whole situation, and that was when I noticed how wrinkly my fingers had become. I'd been in the shower, thinking, for way too long.

     With a towel wrapped around my waist, I went back to my gym locker and hastily grabbed all of my things. It wasn't until I was fully dressed and headed out that I realized I wasn't alone. A lone figure was sat in the row across from mine, slumped over with his head in his hands. I knew right away that it was Lucas.

    On one hand, he looked somewhat distressed, and it would be the nice thing to do to ask him if he was okay. On the other hand, I had no desire to talk to him at all whatsoever, and it's not as if I was known for being particularly nice. No, I continued on my way. Or, well, I tried to. I hadn't taken two steps when Lucas looked up from his hands and said, "Subtlety isn't really your thing, you know?"

    I scoffed and rolled my eyes. "Yeah, okay." As I took another step to leave, his voice called out.

     "Why are you still here?"

     I should have kept going. I had no reason to talk to him, and there was nothing stoping me from leaving. Yet his voice planted my feet to the ground, and I realized then that he had a lot more power over me than I'd originally thought.

     "Long shower," I answered shortly. Then, for some reason, "You?"

     Lucas stood, grabbing his duffel bag and backpack. "I'm leaving now. Just didn't feel like walking quite yet."

     Despite myself, I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "Don't you have a car?"

      He laughed humorlessly and nodded. "Technically, yes. Shawn and I share a car. But it's hard enough to get him not to leave without me in the morning—there's no way he'd wait for me now. Not with how pissed he is."

      This was where I offered him a ride, right?

     Let's see. Do I offer to spend an extra fifteen minutes in an enclosed space with the boy I was trying to get out of my head, or heartlessly leave him to walk home in the heavy late-summer heat?

     I shrugged and resumed walking, leaving Lucas Morgan standing there, staring after me with that analytical look of his.

I didn't sleep well that night, but that was no shock. I hadn't had a decent night since I went to see that damned musical. Not that it really mattered—the next school day was more than mundane, what with teachers still getting organized and learning names and explaining rules. I didn't need much energy to get through it.

     Tryouts would turn out to be a different story. We ran for most of it, even harder than we had yesterday, and settled down for a scrimmage at the end. I think what tired us out even more than the tough work was watching Lucas play, because we all knew by the end of the second day of tryouts that he would be making the team. Turns out, he did play as well as he ran, and none of us were happy about that. Especially Shawn. He wouldn't talk to anybody as we walked back to the locker room, and he stormed out as soon as he'd grabbed his bags—without even changing—no doubt leaving his brother to walk home again.

     The next two days of school—and the final two of tryouts—went by pretty quickly. I refused to so much as glance in Lucas Morgan's direction, but my friends had other ideas. I could tell just how frustrated they were by his  talent at soccer by the way they upped their hallway antics. The insults and jeering that he usually dealt with whenever we passed turned into shouting and even some minor shoving. Yet Lucas remained stoic, and that only seemed to aggravate them more.

     Surprise surprise, Lucas made the team. The twenty other boys—straight boys—that did not make it were clearly enraged, but what could they do? They would look like idiots if they tried to poke fun at the guy who'd clearly outdone them. I say this as a fact because a few of them—mostly wannabe rockstar freshmen—did try, and consequentially did look like idiots the moment Lucas opened his smart mouth.

     The most frustrated, by far, was Shawn. He, too, ended up looking like an idiot, as he'd been so sure on the first day that Lucas would make a fool of himself. Instead, Lucas would probably end up on our starting lineup. 

     The locker room cleared out quickly on that fourth day, without the usual celebration by the people who'd made it, without the congratulating and high-fiving and smiling. Nobody was in a good mood, not even the freshmen and sophomores who'd made the team for the first time. That goes to show how strong homophobia really was at this school.

     I actually wish I'd made my departure as early as the others did. Instead, I ended up getting caught by the rain. My car was all the way in the school parking lot, and I didn't fancy the idea of walking through the sudden downpour to reach it. Instead, I ended up stuck in the smelly room, sitting on the bench in the middle of my locker row, waiting for the rain to at least mellow a little.

     I looked up in mild surprise as Lucas Morgan—of course he was still here too, just my luck—sat down next to me on the bench.  Had he gone insane? "Dude, move," I snapped.

     Lucas turned to me with a raised eyebrow, and I felt anger spark in my nerves at the arrogant expression on his annoyingly attractive face. "Why?" Was all he said.

    "The hell do you mean, 'why'?" I said incredulously. "How about because I said so?"

     Lucas laughed, which only helped to further my anger. "You know, you don't scare me, Nate. Not than any of you soccer fuckboys do, but especially not you. You're too nice to be scary."

    I scoffed at that; this guy didn't know me at all. "I'm not nice," I told him honestly.

     He shook his head in a way that was infuriatingly confident. "Yeah you are."

     "You don't know me."

     Lucas shrugged. "I don't have to. It's pretty obvious in the way you act—you never jump in when your friends are picking on me, sometimes you even tell them to stop—"

      "I tell them to stop because they're being stupid, not because I'm defending you," I protested.

     "And you just don't give off the mean-boy vibe," Lucas continued as if I hadn't spoken. "You try to, but you don't. Plus, guys like Damien and Shawn and Tyler, they've always been jerks. But I knew you once, and you weren't—"

     "You didn't know me!" I snapped. No way was Lucas about to bring up seventh grade, when he fucked with my life. "And you still don't. So how about you quit trying to be so wise, huh? You're dumber than I thought if you believe you know a single damn thing about me."

     I stormed off then, not caring about the rain, just needing to distance myself from Lucas as quickly as possible. I didn't get out, however, before I heard him say, "I know more than you think."

     That sentence sent a shiver down my spine that I blamed on the rain. I brushed the comment off, refusing to admit to myself that he got to me.

Yet he did get to me. That night I lay awake, thinking about how much I hated how clever he was and how I'd be spending the next few months playing soccer with him and how annoyingly right he always seemed to be and how much I wanted him. Thinking about how much I absolutely despised him, almost as much as I despised myself, yet couldn't keep his face out of my head. Thinking about the fact that I was everything my parents loathed, everything my entire town loathed, everything I loathed. Thinking about the fact that there really was no cure to my disease, that I would be impure forever. Thinking about the fact that I deserved every bit of harassment that Lucas got, yet I hid in the shadows as he was persecuted for a sin that I, too, was guilty of.