Page 100 of These Secret Years

“Are they classes I can help with?”

“History and rhetoric.”

“Fuck. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It was too late. I was already failing too bad by the time we—reconnected or whatever.”

I prop myself on an elbow. “You can call me anytime. If you need help with an essay or—anything. You can call me.”

“I’m not incapable of passing,” he says. “I’ve just had a lot going on.”

I grimace, hating his secrets with a new level of intensity. “Listen to me, okay?”

He drops his gaze but doesn’t say anything. “You are so talented. Far too talented to let this opportunity—however the fuck you got here—go to waste. If you need help with anything—anything,” I say with special emphasis, “I can do that for you.”

“I know you can,” he whispers.

“Not just can, I would.”

He nods. “I can’t let you. You’re way too talented to get messed up with me.”

I sigh heavily. He doesn’t know that for himself because he’s never seen me play, and after the bowl game loss, I’m not so sure anymore, either. “What would make you feel better? What makes this work?”

“Work? Like whether we can be together or not?” His gaze is confused. “Nothing.”

“Would you want to be?” I ask, because we’ve never really talked about that either.

“Since it’s not an option⁠—”

“If it were⁠—”

“It’s not, Knight. And there’s no point acting like it could be. I feel like wishing for it is just gonna hurt even more when it can’t work out.”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes, you would. It’ll help me sleep better at night.”

He huffs. “Will it?”

“It’s better than you not wanting me.”

“Are you sure? Because if I thought there was an actual possibility of being with you, that’d tear me the fuck up.”

My breath whooshes out of me. That sounded a hell of a lot like a confession. It also makes me instantly realize he’s right. It’s a hundred times worse knowing he wants to be with me. That he would be if he could be. If my life allowed it. It means I have an actual choice between him and fucking football. “Fuck,” I bite out, rolling back over to face the sky.

“See?”

“Fuck you,” I say without much heat.

“So, I guess we should just be friends.”

“Oh my God,” I moan up at the stars—at whatever god might be there watching this mess we’ve made of each other.

He pats my abs in a gesture I think is supposed to be comforting. “We had fun, though, right?”

“You’re breaking up with me, and we’re not even together.”

“I’m letting you down easy.”

“Right, except it feels more like I’m the one letting you down.”