Mr. Blue Sky

Jack, July

Before I tell you my side of the story, you should know I can't always be trusted. Not cuz I tell stretchers. I don't. It's just that sometimes I don't really understand myself or how I get into these binds. Ma calls me Mr. Blue Sky, cuz not much gets me down. I'm not one for deep introspection or self-analysis.

I don't dwell. Life's too short to dwell.

But sometimes, when a man finds himself in a bind, it's a good idea to look back and figure out when and where he stepped into it.

And I think I've pinpointed the exact moment.

It was the summer before my senior year. I'm standing in line waiting for my turn to run the forty during football tryouts.

And here's the tricky part—I can't take my eyes off the new kid's ass.

What the actual fuck?

I'm not gay. There's nothing wrong with being gay, but I like girls. I mean I really like girls. The way they smell like lavender or strawberries or vanilla shakes. The curve of their hips. How their skin is soft and warm like a newborn calf.

I don't date much. Sure, I've taken girls out—to parties, dances, and movies and stuff. I think they like me, judging by the way they're always laughing at my jokes, even when the joke isn't that funny. There've been a couple that I liked, too. At first. But then, I don't know. Something always happens. Like they get too clingy and start making plans.

Long-term plans.

And they're always wanting to hold my hand in the hallways and cuddle during lunch. It's nice having a girl like me. But then they start liking me too much. It's suffocating. Come to think of it, the girls I like the most are the ones that don't really seem to care if I'm around or not. I like a girl who has her own life, not the ones who freak out if I forget to text them back.

It's a secret most guys will never admit. We actually prefer girls who are a challenge. We're attracted to a bit of edginess.

The problem is, those kind of girls are hard to find, especially in a rural town where all any girl wants to do is settle down and get married, asap.

Despite these difficulties, I'm still on the hunt, and there are plenty of hot girls around to keep me looking.

That's why it doesn't make a whole lot of sense that I'd be drawn to this boy like lightning to a rod.

"Chaplin!" Coach barks.

I stand there at the starting line, my whole body coiled with tension. I open and close my fists trying to focus on the task at hand. But all I keep thinking is You're gay. You are so gay.

Coach blows the whistle, and I do my best to sprint full speed, but I still can't make it under five seconds.

"Fuck," I whisper to myself. When I glance up, the new kid's watching me. He's smirking, laughing at how slow I am. Then he stops smiling and mutters something to himself.

When it's his turn to run, I pay more attention than I really want to. He gets down into a three-point stance, which is hella weird. Who does that? And he's talking to himself again. I study the lines of his arms, which are oddly graceful for a football player. His limbs are long and lean, stretched taut, waiting for the whistle. When it comes, he lunges forward, head down, pushing his stride longer and faster.

It's like watching a thoroughbred on the final stretch.

And the worst part? His time is sub five seconds. 4.72 to be exact.

Coach Murphy seems pleased. "Thomas," he calls, "says here you transferred from Woodlands Heights?"

The new kid nods his head.

"Son, welcome to Blue Lake Football," he barks, grinning at Coach Carson.

When I glance over at Thomas, his eyes are guarded, and he's stifling a smile.

And that's when I know.

That boy has a secret.

When we're dismissed to the showers, I watch him walk in the other direction, toward the parking lot. I trail him by a few paces, this weird pull of curiosity leading me God knows where.

He picks up his pace, like he senses he's being followed. Lengthening my stride, I catch up, reach out my arm, and tap him on the shoulder.

I jump when the charge of electric shock shoots from my fingertip, crackles up my arm, and tingles along my neck.

"Thomas?"

He snaps his head around, staring at something in the distance. "Shit," he mutters, mumbling something else I can't quite make out. Then he meets my gaze with cold, gray eyes. A level stare, no trace of emotion. For some strange reason, he still has his helmet on. The skin behind his mask is a golden color, no visible stubble. His mouth is full and wide, his square jaw clenched, like he's irritated. Guess the new kid isn't looking for friends.

At times like this, I find it's best to be breezy. "You ain't slow," I say, flashing the most charming grin in my arsenal.

He's not buying it. He shakes his head, cheeks flushed red, eyes glued to the pavement.

I raise my eyebrows, duck my head down within his line of sight. I'm starting to get irritated, but I'm also oddly amused.

"Man of few words?" I clip.

Thomas nods, sort of glancing at me again without really making eye contact.

I cock my head and study him for a while, hoping it makes him as uncomfortable as I am. Something's off, but I can't quite figure out what it is. Clearly he has no intention of showing his hand.

"All right, bruh. See you at practice," I finally say, letting him off the hook.

He turns on his heel and stalks off toward his car. I watch him walk away, studying the graceful way he moves as he takes off his helmet. His neck is long, willowy, with ash blonde hair shaved close to his slender nape. He pauses, stands there with his head hanging down. My eyes wander from the back of his shoulder pads to where his torso tapers into his narrow hips.

What the hell is wrong with me? I squeeze my eyes shut and try to shake these thoughts out of my head. Then I turn on my heel and sprint off to the locker room, looking forward to a cold shower.

Most of the guys are in there laughing, shouting, blaring Lil Wayne's "Mona Lisa." I like rap okay when the context is right, like during a workout or pre-game. But I'm not feeling it right now. Most of the time, I listen to old-man music. The Eagles, America, The Beatles, Willie Nelson. You know, the classics. When I was younger, I was all about country music, like my older brothers. But then Ma introduced me to her music collection. She likes country too, especially old school. Willie, Waylon, Hank. But also America, Credence Clearwater, Marvin Gaye. I have a diverse playlist of favorites.

It's the same way with people. I'm not one of those jocks that only hangs out with other jocks. Mostly because it's too boring to be around the same types of people all the time. I try to be friendly to everyone, not because I want to be popular—I really don't care about that—but because it makes life more interesting.

Case in point, all the white guys on this team, like our dipshit quarterback Cash Carson and his posse, are only friends with other white guys. Then there are the Spanish speakers—Ramirez, Diaz, Lopez—all those guys hang together. And then Little, Jackson, Payne, McCoy, and the other black players. I'm really the only one who's friends with all of them.

Maybe it's because I'm the youngest of five sons. You gotta get along with everyone to survive. Gotta learn to read people, anticipate their moods. Like my oldest brother who's real touchy, couldn't care less about pleasing people. I've figured out that the way to get along is just to make sure everything's all about him. My next oldest brother is Jesse, a pleaser, like me. He's like a second dad, always watching out for me. Then there's Joe. That boy's a powder keg. Explosive. Vibrant. Rebellious. He's lucky he survived his childhood given his mouth and my father's temper. Last comes Jake, the golden boy. He's the closest to me in age, furthest from me in temperament. Like John, he's pretty self-absorbed. Everything's a contest with him. Now he's away at college on a football scholarship. He's the kind of guy who doesn't seem to need anybody, least of all his brothers. He sets himself apart, like he can't be bothered. He's got this superior attitude that reminds me of the new kid.

Maybe that's why Thomas annoys me so much. He's obviously not looking to make friends. Even worse, he doesn't seem to like me. Everybody likes me. And why wouldn't they? I'm all sunshine, soft breeze, and blue skies.

But eventually, I'll make him like me. I'll crack his armor.

He's hiding something, and I'll be damned if I don't find out what it is.