Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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Elliot was doing homework. Actually, no, he was wasting time scrolling through TikTok videos and searching random facts about Alicia Silverstone. If his procrastination got any worse, he would've been solving a crime.
Keeping his mind occupied had become a necessary coping mechanism. Stocking the spaces of his head with arbitrary thoughts was the only way to stop Pierce from invading his daydreams. The memories came in legions, ambushing his defenses at the most unexpected times - scents, sounds, and even tastes. Elliot couldn't even listen to Beyoncé without thinking of Pierce's theatrical karaoke performances. He hadn't gone to 7-Eleven in months because the logo reminded him of Pierce's tacky orange beanie. Most pathetically, he never realized how many 1999 Chevrolet impalas were in town until he looked through nineteen icy windshields without seeing Pierce's warm-toned eyes.
Consumed by boredom, he ate some peanut butter from of the jar and then he texted both Quinn and Nicki, but neither of them responded. In a moment of loneliness, he considered texting Pierce, but he messaged an old friend instead. To his surprise, his phone starting buzzing a few minutes later.
A deep voice said, "You have five seconds to tell me why you're texting my boyfriend."
"Ronan," Elliot greeted. He reclined on his bed, no longer intimidated by the jock. Their adolescent feud had dulled with collegiate stress, but a remnant of good-natured rivalry still lingered. "Where's Beck?"
"He's getting food," the jock replied. "You have three seconds to tell me why you're texting him." Ronan was timing the phone call, which was understandable. The blue-haired boy had kissed his boyfriend in high school, and even though they were in two different states now, Ronan was perpetually possessive. Elliot accepted the terse treatment from his former teammate.
He sighed, unfazed. "I need his advice. As a friend."
"What kind of advice?"
"Life advice."
"Aren't your parents psychologists?"
The blue-haired boy glanced across the room, eyeing the photo of his family. The frame was stuck in a clutter of half-used sketchbooks and stray sticky notes. There were a few doodles around it too - portraits of Quinn, Nicki, and Pierce. He couldn't even remember when or where he had drawn them, but he kept the sketches next to his family picture, like a shrine of loved ones. He'd never admit to Ronan that he even kept the photo from their high school graduation - the image of himself, Ronan, and their old friend Dax - pinned to the corner of his bulletin board. It felt like a different lifetime. He wondered if Pierce would've liked him as a teenager.
Elliot supposed he could tell his parents about Pierce - they wouldn't care, but they would probably judge Pierce's hurtful behavior. For some indescribable reason, Elliot didn't want his family to have any preconceived notions about the swoon-worthy hockey player, even if he had shattered his heart.
"I can't really ask my parents about this," Elliot decided.
Ronan asked, "But you can ask Beck?"
"Yeah, actually. He's kind of an expert on the topic."
"What fucking topic?"
"Assholes pretending to be straight," Elliot snapped.
Silence stole the speaker.
Elliot increased the volume of his breathing, feeling awkward. The cadenced sound widened the tension between them until he heard Ronan laugh.
"Who's the guy?"
"Do you ever stop being so unlikable?"
Ronan wanted to know more. "Is he a football player?"
"No," Elliot edged. "He's a hockey player."
Elliot could practically envision Ronan smirking as he asked, "What's his name?"
"I'm not telling you his name."
"Oh, come on," Ronan scoffed. "I'm the last person who'd tell anyone."
Elliot rubbed the back of his neck. "Just...Tell Beck I called, okay?"
"Does he play defense? Is it the guy with the killer toe drag? Wyatt Kelly, right?" Ronan guessed. "I think he's the one with the rainbow tape on his hockey stick. I follow him. Give me a second. Let me pull up the roster on Google. I'll give you my top five guesses." It was obvious that Ronan hadn't made any new friends in college, otherwise he wouldn't have time to be so nosey.
"Good to know," Ronan crossed the name off his mental list. "What about -?"
"I'm not telling you," Elliot repeated.
"Fine. Don't tell me who he is," Ronan said. "Tell me the situation. He's a hockey player. He's gay. Does he have a fake girlfriend? Does he want to go into the NHL?"
Ronan was a closeted college athlete. If Elliot could trust anyone, it'd be him.
"That's not really it," Elliot paused, hating the cliché. "We were roommates."
Elliot's bedroom walls seemed to morph, transforming into dorm 624. It surrounded him, caging his mind. The hockey posters, the mysteriously cracked cinder block, the paper map Pierce had ripped down during their first -
"Oh shit," Ronan cursed. "You fucked him."
Elliot shook out of his memory's grasp. "I'm not talking about this with you."
"But you'd talk about it with Beck?"
"I'm hanging up the phone now," Elliot said.
"Wait - "
"What?"
"How much are you bench pressing these days?" Always a competitor. Ronan had won the guy, though. Elliot had lost, and it felt like he kept losing.
