THE SPRING Sports Awards Banquet was in full, monotonous swing. A hundred students and their families sat at round tables in the cafeteria, listening to speeches from the coaches and waiting to eat catered chicken served with a side of pasta salad. Graham ignored the presentations and the chitchat. Instead, he watched the condensation bead up on his glass of ice water and roll down, forming a dark ring on the paper tablecloth.
Graham wouldn’t be here if his parents hadn’t forced the issue. He hadn’t told them about that morning, about the vandalism or his outburst. He hadn’t even told them he’d skipped school the rest of that day. Instead, he’d driven to a neighboring town and spent the day sulking in a coffee shop. Now he was an overcaffeinated, grumpy mess.
His dad leaned over and whispered, “You’re glaring at that glass.”
Graham ignored him. He didn’t need to look around to know that people were watching him. They weren’t flat-out staring, but every now and then, he’d catch someone watching him. The surface of the water in the glass rippled, creeping up the sides and settling back, the ebb and flow of miniature ocean currents. When his dad’s hand clamped on Graham’s frantically bouncing knee, his head jerked up. Oh. His bouncing knee caused the table to shake. Right.
He concentrated on stilling the movement, but as soon as he did, the other knee took up the action. His hands lay flat on the tablecloth, his thumb tapping the top with a rhythm that matched his leg.
The girls’ track and field coach finished her spiel, including corny puns about the strides the track team had made over the course of the season. She started calling individual members up to receive special recognition in their particular events. He picked up the printed banquet agenda. Really? They’d only gotten through two of the ten different groups?
Graham shifted in his seat, finally taking his gaze off the ice water to look around the cafeteria. A number of glazed eyes stared blankly at the little raised stage. Yep, he wasn’t the only one bored stupid. The light glinted off a shock of golden hair, and his breath caught, which made him even grumpier. Not Connor. He’d been doing that since the stupid awards banquet started. He shouldn’t care if Connor was coming or not, but that didn’t stop him from watching the doors.
Scattered applause. Finally, the girls’ track and field team left the stage.
Graham looked down at the program and saw that boys’ golf was up next. While the coaches exchanged places at the podium, he scooted his chair back and stood up. He had to get out of there, at least for a couple of minutes. “Be right back,” he whispered to his dad, and ignored his mother’s concerned expression.
His dad started to object, but he must have noticed something in Graham’s expression. He nodded and didn’t say anything.
Graham wandered down the empty halls, listening to the muted rumble of voices from the cafeteria and the echoing of his footsteps. A scrap of paper lay crumpled in the shadow of a blue recycling bin. Graham picked it up and smoothed out the wrinkled sheet. It was one of the posters. Looking at it closer, Graham could see that it was the same picture that had been posted on the GV Viking Net, blown up until the edges became highly pixilated, and cropped until only Connor and Graham showed.
He brushed his thumb across the image. He remembered that moment, the thrill and the shock when Connor grabbed him. Someone had taken something special, one of the best nights of his life, and turned it into a weapon. He folded the paper in half and then in half again before tucking it into his pocket. He’d save that picture, keep it as a memento.
Graham continued down the hall, his feet following the same path they took several times a day. Suddenly he stood in front of his locker. Someone had tried to scrub away the paint and marker. Golf ball–sized patches of dull metal showed where the paint had been scrubbed away. With his finger, he traced the word fag. It wasn’t the first time someone called him that. Hell, it wasn’t even the worst word they could have chosen. Compared to the attack he’d suffered at the hands of Brandon’s brothers, a little locker graffiti was nothing. So why had his reaction been so extreme?
Because of Connor. Because Connor was too afraid of what people might think if he was seen in Graham’s company. Because Connor had been hurt by the posters and the rumors too. Of course, flipping out and ranting at Connor hadn’t improved anything.
He spun the dial on the lock, watching the white numbers spin around and around. The flash of white and black, over and over, reminded him of a soccer ball in flight, so he spun it again.
“He tried to clean it up, you know.”
Graham whirled to face Marc. He hadn’t heard him approaching, which was saying something since footsteps echoed eerily in the empty halls. His heart stuttered against his ribs. “Jesus, you scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry.” Marc shrugged and leaned against one of the nearby lockers.
“What did you say? Who cleaned what?”
“Connor.” Marc nodded to the vandalized locker. “He spent all of his lunch period and an hour after school trying to scrub away that crap.”
Graham blinked at Marc. “But it wasn’t his fault.”
“All this emotional crap kind of freaks me out, you know that, right?” Marc shook his head and looked at his feet for a second. It looked like he was debating something. “Here’s the thing. He didn’t want you to come back to that. He’s a pretty focused guy. Determined. I’ve never seen him as determined to do something as he was to clean that mess up.”
Graham didn’t know what to say to that. “I don’t understand.”
“Connor told us—me and Allyson—about you guys.”
Graham’s breath caught. What did that mean? Everything or part of it? “What about us?”
“I don’t know how to talk about this shit.” Marc crossed his arms over his chest, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m pretty sure he told us everything—you and him, Chicago, the thing this weekend. He told us he’s gay and admitted he’d fucked things up with you. He was pretty busted up about that.”
No way. Had Connor really done that? Graham had a million things he wanted to say, but his vocal cords had taken a vacation. Footsteps echoed in the hall. His dad walked toward them, looking concerned. When his eyes landed on the locker, his face froze in a predatory mask. His dad didn’t get pissed often, but when he did, well, things got done. He turned his angry glare on Marc.
“Dude, it wasn’t me!” Marc put up his hands, palms out.
“Let it go, Dad. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal? Someone—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “We’ll talk about this later. You need to get back to the banquet. Soccer’s coming up soon.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to get back too,” Marc said. “I saw you ditch the awards—great idea by the way—and decided to follow.”
They’d gone halfway down the hall when Graham gave in and asked the question that he had been obsessing over all evening. “Isn’t Connor coming? He’s still part of the team, right?”
“Yeah, he said he’d be here.”
Graham nodded. They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Back in the cafeteria, Coach Mullin stood at the podium, beaming. He was a small man, maybe five-five, with a compact, wiry build earned through years of sports and exercise. Silver glinted in his red hair, and his voice still carried a bit of an Irish lilt. Graham took his seat. While he’d been out of the cafeteria, the meal had been delivered, so the clank of forks on plates could be heard around the speeches.
Graham’s mother leaned across his father. “Is everything all right?”
Graham nodded, even as his dad said, “We’ll talk about it later.”
“…and I’m very pleased to recognize this year’s soon-to-be State Champion soccer team. After an undefeated regular season, and after taking the sectional and regional titles, I have no doubt that we’ll go all the way this year.”
Riotous applause from the soccer players and their families.
Coach Mullin introduced each of the players and asked them to stand and be recognized.
“Graham Parker, the starting goalkeeper, and probably the best goalkeeper we’ve ever seen in Green Valley.” Like each of the players before him, Graham stood and forced a smile.
The crowd cheered, the same as they had for the other players. Someone shouted “fag,” but Graham didn’t turn around. Coach Mullin glared at the offender, and Graham’s dad shifted to look behind them, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Some of the attendees started grumbling, but whether it was in support or disgust, he didn’t know. Probably a combination of both.
“Every year—” Coach Mullin raised his voice to gain everyone’s attention. When the muttering had died down, he continued, “—the team votes for a Most Valuable Player Award. This award is given to the player they feel contributed the most to the team’s success either in skill or in morale. Sometimes, as in the case of this year’s recipient, it’s both. It’s my very great honor to present the Most Valuable Player Award to…. Graham Parker!”
The coach reached down and pulled up a standard-looking trophy—the tall vase polished and etched—with a goalkeeper statue at the top. “Graham, please come up and accept your award.” Coach Mullin gestured to Graham, beckoning him to come forward.
Graham slowly got to his feet, his eyes wide. Him? They’d given the trophy to him? He’d figured that he was too new, too different for the players to vote for him. This wasn’t one of the coaches’ awards, this was his teammates. How cool was that?
A couple of whistles pierced the applause. A few players started chanting “Guyliner! Guyliner!” but it was good-natured, respectful. He grinned and waved at the team captain, Travis, and started to walk between the tables to the ministage.
A sudden hush came over the crowd. The cheering and chanting cut off abruptly. Coach Mullin stood there with his mouth gaping and eyes wide.
“Oh my God,” someone blurted out. “Is that Connor?”
Connor? Graham whirled. It was definitely Connor, but a Connor he’d never seen before. A Connor who’d walked straight out of one of his dreams. Connor stood inside the doorway, looking very much like a framed portrait. He wore a pair of sinfully tight jeans with holes in the knees, faded along the seams from wear. A white tank shirt covered his broad torso, leaving his muscular arms bare. His blond hair had been styled into a trendy, tousled look that was sexy as hell on him. If all that wasn’t enough to set his heart beating, thick black eyeliner outlined his hazel eyes.
Graham had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Or so stupid. Where the hell are Connor’s crutches?
Connor started forward, clomps from his work boots echoing in the terse silence of the room. His gaze locked on Graham, never wavering. He stopped less than a foot away. Graham wanted to touch him, to pull him close, but he resisted. He had no idea what was going on.
“Hi,” Connor said.
“Hi,” Graham repeated. “You’re wearing eyeliner.”
“You’re not.” Connor traced the area under Graham’s eye.
“Didn’t feel like it.”
A fierce light entered the lined hazel eyes. “I’m not ashamed to be seen with you.” Connor reached out and gripped Graham’s waist and drew him in. Connor buried his other hand in Graham’s hair. A bare inch separated their faces, their breaths mingled. Time stopped.
“You’re not a dirty little secret,” Connor whispered.
Graham’s breathing hitched.
Connor dipped his head down the last remaining inch and covered Graham’s mouth with his. It was a kiss full of tenderness, full of promise. In full view of hundreds of people.
Graham pulled back. “What are you doing?”
“Proving a point.”
“To whom?”
“You. Me. Everyone.” He leaned forward until his forehead rested against Graham’s, his eyes closed. “I’ve decided that denying it—who I am and what I feel for you—was making me miserable. At least this way if I’m miserable, I’m being honest about the cause.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?” Graham wanted to shout for joy and spend the next few hours kissing and holding Connor. He also wanted to protect Connor from the ignorance and hate that could come his way now.
“Not a clue.” One eye opened and looked at him. “So, have we caused a commotion?”
“I’m afraid to look.” Graham kept his head ducked, fingers wrapped around Connor’s arms.
“Did I prove my point?”
Graham chuckled. “Yeah.”
“Whew. Marc thought I should bring flowers. Allyson thought I should ask you to prom.”
Graham snorted.
“You don’t want to go to prom, do you?”
Graham fought a grin at the fear in Connor’s voice. “No. Absolutely not.”
Connor’s body relaxed. “Oh, thank God. I’d have done it. I want points for that.” He shuddered. “Before… well, before, Allyson and I had talked about going. I was already looking for an excuse to avoid it. Just so you know it’s the prom part that’s revolting, not the you-and-me-at-prom part.”
“I’ve got an idea. Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah? Thank God. I’m a little freaked out right now. This whole center-of-attention, scandal-causing thing is not my style.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Graham grabbed Connor’s hand and together they exited the cafeteria, leaving chaos in their wake.