When they get their hot water back, Maxon and Sanders talk about the shower time.

"What about I shower while you're praying?" the soccer player suggests, smiling at him. "That way, you can shower after you're done praying, and after I'm done showering."

"I pray for like five minutes. You need to wake up earlier."

"Sure, no problem."

So it's not. A problem. Sanders can keep his routine on track.

It's just—Maxon moves things higher up the shelf so that Becks can't reach them. He says it's fun to mess with her.

He keeps calling her for lunch. He says he needs to watch her eat because she didn't use to before. (Sanders called Becks just as he and Rosen were leaving the courts. She answered after two rings. "Hello?"

"Are you still in the gym? Rosen and I are getting lunch. We'll come to you."

"Oh," Becks said, and Sanders stopped, raising an eyebrow. "I'm having lunch with Maxon. His training ended early. You want to join?"

The fact that she didn't tell him hurt. He smiled. "No, it's fine. Call me later. Eat a lot, babe."

Rosen was making faces at him when he puts the phone down. "Eat a lot, babe," he mimicked.

Sanders grabbed him by the neck. "You wanna die?"

Rosen pushed him off, and they almost really die when a motorcycle sped past them, but both their limbs and bodies and heads were still intact. Sanders wished Rosen wasn't. Intact.)

Maxon keeps flicking her forehead and calling her ugly, but when Becks falls asleep on the couch, he takes off her glasses and goes to get blankets and a pillow, and put them over her body and under her head. (He's still not allowed to enter her room.) Sanders found her like that. Maxon is sitting next to her with a grin.

And Becks keeps combing her hair. Straightening it. She doesn't wear baggy shorts unless she's in the gym already, and she doesn't eat a lot when Maxon's in the room. Her gloves are always hidden inside her bag, and she helps Maxon in the kitchen when he's cooking.

While they were playing a video game, Becks loses on purpose. Becks never loses on purpose. She's a sore loser. She hates it when Sanders wins.

But Becks loses on purpose, and Sanders knows this because—well, because he's been playing with Becks for years. He knows how she works.

Maxon slaps her on the wrist.

And Sanders can ignore that. He can ignore all of that.

But runs in the oval usually start off team's training. Maxon is jogging with the other soccer players in their jerseys and cleats. Sanders is with his volleyball team, right at the back of the line. Some of the other teams are taking laps, too, but boxing—they're rarely in the oval. They take their usual laps around the ring.

This morning, they're jogging in the oval, too.

Maxon waves at him. Sanders gives him a half-hearted waved back. And then he's craning his neck, searching the oval, like he's looking for something.

Or someone. Becks bumps into Sanders. "Sanders!"

"Oh, God, you—you scared me, fuck." Sanders clutches his shirt, trying to calm his racing heart. Becks is digging her nails into his arms, pulling him along the back of the line. "What are you doing here? Your coach will chop your neck off if he sees you here."

"Run with me." She smiles at him, pulling his arm, falling into step beside him. "I hate running," she says.

"I know." Sanders manages a small smile. He doesn't know why Becks is running with him, but he's not going to complain. "You should be used to it by now if you ran in high school."

"Well, only because Maxon forced me to."

His smile slips.

"We'd go for runs after class in an oval like this one, but smaller." Becks scrunches her nose, but the corners of her lips are turning up at the memory. "He's great at running. He can do twenty, thirty laps, easy. I'd do ten and faint."

Sanders doesn't want to hear this. "Did you?"

"No. Maxon pushed me to the water fountain every time we passed it so I wouldn't."

Sanders pushes his tongue against his cheek and runs faster.

"Hey!" Becks catches up to him, grabbing the back of his shirt. She gives him a glare. "You're showing off."

"Why are you here?" The question comes out harsher than necessary.

His best friend blinks at him innocently. "Just 'cause. What, I can't run with you now?"

"You never did before. Maxon's over there."

"He's with his team," Becks says quickly, swallowing.

"I'm with mine," Sanders says.

Becks drops her arm, but she doesn't stop running. Sanders lets her be and runs, matching her pace.

During workout and drills, Sanders is quiet. Rosen nudges him, handing him a water bottle. "Rush. You alright?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot." Rosen bends down to tie his shoelaces. This close, Sanders can see the dark roots starting to wash out the white color of his hair. "This about Becks? Are you going to ask me to slap you again, see if you're dreaming, when she turned up in a sports bra and shorts that one time?"

"Shut up." Sanders's eyebrows draw together as he leans forward on his elbows. "Let's say that..my friend—"

"Becks," Rosen says, nodding, snapping his fingers.

"No, not Becks," he snaps. "Let me finish. I have a friend. And—"

Rosen tilts his head to the side. "You don't have any other friends. Well, aside from me, of course. Is this about me?"

"Fuck, it's hypothetical, Rosen. I have a friend, and this friend has a...he has a problem. And his problem..." Sanders pauses, trying to find the right words. "Well, he has a secret. And he's hiding it...because he doesn't want a certain someone to know. Maybe he's afraid of being misunderstood because of that secret? I don't know, but he's...changing? Like the way he's acting around that someone is weird, like the way he dresses, his actions—"

"He likes the certain someone."

Sanders chokes on his saliva. "I'm sorry, what?"

Rosen shrugs. He slings one arm around the bench. "It's either that or he wants to kill the dude. Why put in all that effort of changing to hide the secret if he didn't like them? Or plan to kill them?"

A fish comes close. She's blushing. "Hi, Rush."

"'Sup," he says distractedly, thinking about Rosen's answer.

"Are you free tonight?" the fish asks quietly.

"Not for you, sorry." Sanders stands up and slings his bag over his shoulder, slapping Rosen's back. "Hey, I gotta run. If Coach asks for me, tell him I have...I don't know, make up something, you're creative."

"Rush," Rosen snaps, grabbing his shoulder before he can turn away. "Don't skip. You'll be jumping up the Gray Stairs fifty times, and then your legs will fall off, and your moms and Siam will probably be heartbroken. Becks can carry you around, probably, but she'd be annoyed about it, and you'd have to feed her more than usual, and you're broke, bro, you can't afford to—"

"See?" Sanders steps back, turning around to run. "Creative!"

Becks is just leaving the gym with Adan. Her eyes widen as he rushes up to her, and he grabs her arm, pulling her aside.

"Okay!" Adan yells. "I'll be waiting here!"

"Sanders, what is wrong with you?" Becks grumbles, yanking her arm back.

Sanders stares at her. "You like Maxon."

"That's ridiculous," she answers, an annoyed expression crossing her face. "Is that it? Can I go now? Are we having lunch together—"

"You can't," Sanders says. He's panicking. His brain is shutting off. He knows when Becks is lying. He knows when his best friend is lying to his face—"You can't—you can't like him. Becks. You can't."

Her jaw tightens, and her eyes are wide, like they're questioning him. "And why not?"

Sanders—Sanders has a million little Sanders running around in his head, opening drawers and going through files, and everything is on fire, like it's an emergency, and he feels hot, like he's sweating, and he's staring at his best friend, and a couple of little Sanders up there are praying it's not true. "Becks," he breathes out. "You—you can't. You just can't."

"Why?" Becks demands, voice raising. "Because I box? I can't like boys? That makes me a guy?"

"Guys can like guys, too, you know I don't care about that—boxing has nothing to do with it—"

"So because you like me, I can't like Maxon?"

Sanders has a loading sign on his forehead. Becks—Becks just admitted it, and voiced out what Sanders can't say.

"I don't just like you," Sanders says. "You know that. I tell you every morning."

"You telling me is different from actually feeling it, Sanders. You're confusing being in love with comfort. I give you comfort. That's it."

"That's not fair," Sanders snaps, and his voice breaks. "You can't tell me what I feel for you."

"And you can't tell me what I can't feel for Maxon," Becks counters angrily, and the flames in her eyes are going up, and up, and up. "Sure." She throws her hands up in the air. "Sure, yes. I like him. I've liked him since high school, it's never gone away. Happy now?"

"He's not single, Becks," Sanders says, gritting his teeth. "This is wrong. You and him flirting is wrong—he has a girlfriend—"

"I know that, and I've kept it to myself for four years," Becks hisses, and her eyebrows draw together. "It's not flirting. He's being nice because he pities me—he literally sees me as nothing else but a dude who's sharing his space—a little sibling, if you will. So please. Rush. Shut up."

Becks turns around and leaves.

It's the first time she called him Rush.

*

They're having butter chicken for dinner.

"Oh, Cal." Maxon leans forward on the table. "I finished training early and dropped by the badminton courts. You weren't there."

Becks swallows what's in her mouth. With Sanders, she didn't care if she was talking with her mouth full. "Oh, um, I..."

Sanders lets her be.

"I was in the clinic," she says. "I had to go and get my knee checked, it was acting up recently."

"I went to the clinic, too." Maxon blinks. "Did I miss you at the wrong time?"

"Oh, yeah, I think I dropped by the volleyball courts after," Becks says, laughing nervously. "I was with Sanders, I'm always with Sanders."

Sanders is busy chewing.

Maxon tilts his head at him. "You okay, dude?"

"Yeah. She was with me. Should've called her or something," Sanders says, scraping his chair back. He's not done with his food, but he tosses his plate in the sink. "I'll wash the dishes, just leave them there."

"Thanks, man!" Maxon says cheerily.

Sanders goes to his room and locks the door, flopping down on the bed. He grabs his phone and calls his mom.

"Hello?" Mahika says. "Sweetheart? What's wrong?"

"Yeah, so." Sanders clears his throat. "Bad news. She likes someone else. And it's not me. Yeah."

His mother is silent for a moment. And then she asks, "To clarify, we are talking about Becks, right?"

"Who else? Rihanna?" Sanders snorts. "Well, I wish it was Rihanna. I'd probably have more of a chance. Anyway. Becks likes someone else. Even though we already designed the wedding invitations, don't send them out anymore. It's cancelled, it's off."

"She what!" Hathai screams.

He's on speaker. Of course he is.

Sanders winces and moves the phone away from his ear. "Mâae, my eardrums!" he whines. "They're damaged!"

"Sanders, sweetie, what do you mean Becks likes someone else?" his mom asks, and it sounds like she's worried. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Fine," Sanders says, laughing. He doesn't know why he's laughing. His chest hurts. "Not like I care."

"Baby," Hathai says sternly. "What were the options for your wedding colors?"

"For winter, gray, peacock blue and gold, or pine, brass, and pastel blue. For summer, greens and golds, or pastel pink and cedar brown, or bright yellow and biscotti, that works too. For fall, scarlet and burgundy, or latte brown to caramel, or gold and plum wine. For spring, currant and rose, silver and soft pink, maybe blue and pale orange."

"Oh, you sweet, soft-boiled egg," Mahika says, sighing. "You've been married to Becks for three years and she doesn't even know."

"Or care," Sanders says, snorting. "Like I said, mothers. I know everything happens for a reason, but, like, what the fuck? It's game over. Wedding off."

"No, no wedding off!" Hathai yells. "You—we didn't raise you to be a quitter, Sanders Mongkut Chaimongkhon Rush!"

"Oh, she pulled out the full name," his other mom whispers.

Sanders gulps. "I'm not quitting," he mutters. "S'just—"

"Who is the other man or woman?" Hathai demands. "Are they prettier than you? Are they smarter than you? Better than you at volleyball?"

"Man. Taller than me. Smart—I think so. He's good at soccer, but Mom, come on, no one's prettier than your son."

Mahika is grinning when she asks, "So what's the problem? You make Becks laugh."

"Well, she's apparently liked him for so long. Longer than I've liked Becks." Sanders picks at a thread on his bedsheet. "And I can't compete with that. And I know Becks isn't a prize, it's not a competition, I just—"

"Love doesn't care about time!" Hathai yells. Sanders doesn't know why she's yelling. "And you—I can't believe you sound so dispirited already! And correct, Becks is not a prize. She's not something you can win by—by speaking the ball or whatever."

"Spiking," Mahika and Sanders correct at the same time.

"Spiking, whatever." His mom huffs. "But you, my son. Fight for your feelings! Is she not worth the effort? The terrible things, the beautiful things in life? Do you want to give up?"

"Of course not, who said anything about giving up," Sanders mutters, cheeks heating.

"You said to cancel the wedding," Mahika says.

"I was being emotional and stupid, it's back on."

"Point is." Hathai clears her throat. "Sanders. I'm saying this because I know you love Becks. Don't quit. You said you're prettier. That's a plus."

Sanders's mouth twitches into a smile. "I'm not quitting."

"But," she continues, taking a deep breath, "you can. You can when you want to. When it's you who's getting hurt. When you decide to. When you want to. Becks will not and should not decide that for you. Okay?"

"Wow," Mahika breathes out on the other line. "That's hot."

"Oh my God!" Sanders is laughing. For real this time. "I'm hanging up before you suck each other's faces. I love you both. Thank you."

They tell him they love him, too.

He sits on his bed. He doesn't know how long he sits there, but there's a knock on his door, and Sanders looks up. "Sanders?"

It's Becks. Her voice is small.

Sanders runs a hand through his hair and unlocks it, stepping aside so she can come in.

She sits on his bed, hands under her thighs. She's in a clean hoodie and shorts, and her hair is straight. "I'm sorry about...today. I was harsh."

"I'm sorry, too," Sanders says. He means it. "You can—you can like whoever you want to like. I didn't mean to sound—I don't know what I sounded like. A crazy person, probably."

Her lips pull up at the corners. "Sort of."

Sanders sighs. His shoulders slump. "You like him that much?" he asks quietly. "Enough to lie to him about boxing?"

Her smile freezes on her face. She looks at the wall behind him. "Guys don't like girls who are boxers."

"What's wrong with them? I like them. I think they're great."

She snorts, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You would," she says softly, meeting his gaze. "But I don't want to make Maxon like me. I know he's in love with Kaitlyn—I've known that for four years. I don't intend to change that. I just don't want him to think of me...like another bro. I'm a boxer, but I'm a girl, too."

Sanders knows she's a girl. He doesn't forget. "But you're acting like someone you're not. Look at this." He waves a hand over her body. "This isn't you, Becks. You—you care too much about what he thinks, and you're not—you're not you."

"Is it so bad to care about what he thinks?" Becks whispers, and her features draw together, like she's pained. "And—and maybe I want to be pretty for once. Feel pretty for once."

"You're always pretty, the fuck are you talking about?"

"You're not Maxon," Becks whispers, shaking her head.

That stings. Like an insect just pierced his skin. Drew out blood.

"You—I don't know why you like me, Sanders." She looks at him, biting her lip. "And I'm sorry for acting like someone I'm not. It's just...if I can get Maxon to look at me and see a girl, I'd be fine. I'd be more than fine. I'd be happy. That's all I want."

Sanders can't believe it. He can't believe that she's—she's willing to change, to do all this for a fucking dumbass. For a man. "You do what you want," Sanders says. "You do what you want. And I'll—I'll cover up for you. I won't tell him."

She heaves a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"But can I still act the way I do around you?" Sanders asks quietly. "Can I still do my six things before breakfast? Can I still tell you I love you? Can I still love you?"

Sanders stares at her desperately, like if he blinks, she'd suddenly be gone, leave behind a wisp of air.

Her eyes are wide, and she opens and closes her mouth like a fish, and Sanders thinks that yes, she's worth the terrible, and the beautiful, and whatever his heart will become in her hands.

"You can do what you want, Sanders," Becks finally says, inhaling sharply. "But I didn't want you to know. I didn't—I don't want to hurt you. You know that, right?"

He does. He knows.

But it's not so bad to be hurt by Becks.

*

oh sanders you baby boi :c

please leave your comments, i love reading ur thoughts!