Hoax in One

| 12 |

The following day I was half actual stalker, half stalking Tate with a camera because it was my job.

Tate was in the lead by six strokes when he finally reached the eighteenth hole and scored a birdie, effectively winning the tournament.

He hadn't looked at me once.

And I couldn't do anything but look at him. And follow him. And take a million pictures of him—each one more torturous than the last. I had photos of him putting, driving, chipping, laughing at his teammate, choosing a club from his bag. All while looking like the perfect male specimen.

He was getting further and further away from me after each new hole we walked to. He stood at the furthest point away from me that he could. Somehow knowing exactly where I was without ever setting his eyes on me.

The raw emotions that were pulling every chamber of my heart in opposite directions were painful.

He was going to run again as soon as the tournament was over. I could feel it.

So that was how I found myself with my sweaty hand on the cold metal handle of their locker room when everyone was finished.

I mustered confidence, not knowing what I was about to walk into—an empty locker room, a bunch of naked guys, the entire team—and pulled open the heavy door.

When I emerged from the L-shaped hallway, I spotted Tate with his back to me, stuffing his clothes into a gym bag in front of his locker. Three guys stood a few yards from him laughing in a circle.

I caught the eye of one of them. All three guys looked at me, registered who I was, then two looked at Tate's back. Except Louis the Sweetheart.

"Hey, Devin," Louis said with a silly smile as his dark curls brushed over his eyebrows in a cute innocent freshman way. "Crashing the boy's locker room looking for me?"

I laughed. Tate froze. Louis got hit in the shoulder before I could respond.

"What?" Louis said, angrily.

One of the three motioned to the door on the other end, and the other quickly pulled a shirt on before all three were out the door—with Louis being dragged behind in protest.

"I'll wait for you, Devin!" he called as the door swung shut.

Tate resumed packing his bag without turning around.

I hadn't even prepared or practiced what I was going to say. I didn't know what to say. My mind had been a jumbled mess for the past twenty-four hours trying to see myself as an outsider to my and Tate's friendship, trying to piece together every look or touch or word, trying to figure out how Tate really felt. Trying to figure out if I really was the biggest bitch in the world.

"Congrats on the win," was what I went with first.

He turned to me, and my stomach hurtled.

"Thanks," he mumbled like he couldn't give two shits.

"Tate, what's happening?" Every word was about to burst from my mouth.

He cocked his head ever so slightly. Both of his eyes went a little dark, but he just continued staring at me.

"Seth told me why he hates me."

I caught the surprise in the twitch of Tate's eyebrows. "Seth doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. Don't believe anything he says."

"Then tell me what's actually going on."

Tate turned back to his locker and pulled out a pair of tennis shoes. He proceeded to change his shoes in silence.