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Gray lives with a bunch of his teammates in a house near campus. Normally, I’d look forward to visiting his home. I’ve tried to picture it several times. Gray at his desk doing assignments, or in bed, doing... Yeah.
But now with our fight still fresh in my mind, I hesitate to get out of my car.
We haven’t seen each other in days, not since that night. Gray has been practicing and then watching game footage like a fiend, learning his competition’s strengths, weakness, and playing style.
A few texts are all we’ve exchanged. But now he’s heading out of town for his conference championship game, the first stop on the road to the National Championship. I promised to come by before he goes.
With a deep breath, I leave the quiet confines of my little car that still carries Gray’s scent.
The house is a white center-hall Colonial, the type which could be stately and welcoming, but with its peeling paint and barren lawn, just looks kind of forlorn. The four recycle bins, filled with empty soda, Gatorade, and beer bottles, fairly scream “group house.”
The sound of explosions and gunfire echo from behind the door, and a bunch of guys shout and laugh. I bang on the door hard, hoping someone will hear me over the blasting video game.
Gray opens on the second knock. I don’t think I’ll ever truly get over how big he is. He dwarfs the doorway, his broad, defined shoulders visible beneath the threadbare team T-shirt he wears. Sweats hang low on his hips, and his toes peek out from a pair of sports flip-flops. I don’t know why I fixate on his toes and the fact that they seem strangely vulnerable, all bare to the elements.
But I can’t avoid looking him in the eye forever. Especially when he utters a husky “Hey.”
He’s giving me a small, hesitant smile. As always, when I meet Gray’s eyes, I’m hit with warmth and a fuzzy happiness that pushes past any other thoughts.
“Hey. I’m here!”
God. Smooth. Real smooth.
Gray’s face lights with a full grin. “Yes, you are. Come on.” He gestures with a jerk of his head. “Get out of that cold.”
Instantly, I’m greeted with the overwhelming scent of funk, like gym socks and men’s deodorant and old house. The floorboards are scuffed and stained. And I have to smile because there’s a broom in the corner of the hall with a sticky note that says, Use me, dickwads, before I paddle your ass!
Gray notices and rolls his eyes. “Dex’s sad attempt to domesticate us.”
We walk past a pyramid of duffel bags tucked against the hallway wall. To our left, the living room opens up. Two mismatched couches that look in danger of snapping under the weight of six massive guys are positioned around a giant TV. Some war-zone video game is playing, but the guys all turn as one when I walk in.
“Ivy!” they shout in unison, their deep voices bouncing over me.
“Boys!”
I get a few head nods, a couple of smiles, then they’re back to their game. The sounds of war blare throughout the room.
At my side, Gray takes my elbow. “Let’s go to my room.”
The stairs squeak beneath our feet. Gray’s room is a welcome surprise. At the back of the house, it’s simple but clean. Orderly. His desk is spotless, as is the floor. A king bed takes up most of the space. A chest of drawers by the door and a worn blue IKEA armchair in the corner make up the rest of his furniture.
I peer up at the only artwork in the room. “Wow. Where did you get that?”
Hanging on the wall opposite of the bed, the painting is massive. Done in tones of grays and blues, it’s a close-up of a man’s arm holding on to a battered football helmet.
“Dex did that,” Gray says, looking up at it. “I loved it so much, I nagged him until he gave it to me.”
“It’s fantastic.” The composition is simple, but the strength in the arm and the way the hand grips the helmet speak of suffering, perseverance, and love of the game.
“Yeah. He’s ridiculously talented. Not that he lets anyone but us know about it.”
I’m not surprised. A lot of athletes have hidden talents or hobbies they like to do in their downtime.
“There’s a guy in the NBA who can play the violin like a master. But he only performs for his teammates.”
“Who?” Gray’s voice is curious but subdued. Our fight stands between us, and I hate myself for what I said to him in the heat of jealousy and defensive anger.
I give him a forced smile. “That’s his secret to tell.”
