Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

6

Grayson

For a smart guy, sometimes I do the dumbest shit.

Freshman year, for instance, I had this brilliant idea to cram studying into every possible second. So I’d started reading and walking—at the same time. After three bruised knees, one broken glasses lens, a crying junior, and an overturned diorama on the hazards of drunk driving, my friends devised a method of chaperoning me around campus, knocking any and all books from my hands to break me of that particular habit.

“Gray?”

That’s just the tip of the iceburg. There are more. Other moments of spacey forgetfulness that, when I look back on them, make me cringe at my own scatter-brained stupidity. Because sometimes, when my mind is so focused on a goal, my concentration narrows and all other logic tends to take less… precedence.

“Gray.”

Like when the university hosted a climatologist to discuss greenhouse gases, and I’d looked forward to it so much that I forgot to eat anything, thus, passing out and missing the talk entirely.

Or setting off the freshman resident hall fire alarms by inputting twenty minutes, not two, on the communal microwave.

Burning off my eyebrows in a chemistry experiment gone wrong.

Forgetting a condom the first time I got naked with a girl.

“Gray.”

Now, I’ve gone and done it again. By having the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met hand me the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter and telling her—

I’ll think about it.

Half the time, overthinking is the direct cause of all my stupidest moments. Spending too much time in my own head, to the detriment—and possible safety—of those around me. That’s what gets me into trouble.

And I’d told Summer that I need to think more?

“Grayson!”

I look down. Morris’s face is red from the effort of holding up the weighted bar in his bulging arms.

“Shit!”

I hoist the bar into its notches before I can add ‘accidentally kill my roommate’ to the list of dumb acts I have committed while my head’s been occupied.

“Sorry,” I say as he sits up on the bench, massaging one shoulder. “Want to do another set?”

“No,” he gives me a wary look and pulls a towel out of the gym bag on the floor. Wiping down the bench, he far-too-casually asks, “Something on your mind?”

I pretend I don’t hear. He thinks he’s being coy. But I know what he wants to know. What all my friends want to know, since the other day at Kellermann’s.

Which is exactly why I’ve spent two days dodging their questions.

Easier said than done, because Natalie’s a hound. And when she smells a bone, she won’t stop until she’s dug up the entire yard to find it. Every time I see her, it’s always the same question.

What’s the deal with you and the sorority girl? Are you really dating?

I don’t know, either. And I’m beginning to think ignoring the issue won’t make it go away.

Still…

I move to the leg press one machine over. Change the weight. Adjust the seat. Do one test. Add more weight. Once it’s set, I push with my heels and direct my thoughts away from Morris. Away from Summer. Away from everything but groups of muscles flexing to their fullest limits.

Rectus femoris. Vastus medialis. Vastus lateral—

“Bend your knees.”

I roll my eyes at Morris’s instruction. But I loosen the tightness in my joints.

Pressure builds in my lower back as I fall into movement. Tucking my arms behind my head, I try to focus on the compression of my body. Muscles growing taut. Warmth suffusing each limb as tendons and sinew move in tandem.

And again: Rectus femoris. Vastus…

It isn’t until I reach soleus that I realize I’m not thinking about legs. Or, at least, not my legs.

Slender ankles climbing to smooth calves. A skirt hem riding up soft, pillowy thighs. Thick hips rounding out to a thicker ass, bent over the side of a pool table…

I lose myself. Slip into imagining another workout. A kind that uses all those same muscles and slicks my skin with sweat, but in a completely different context—

“Knees,” Morris coaches. “Concentrate, Gray.”

With a grunt, I ignore him. My knees are fucking fine. He’s the one interrupting my concentration.

“That’s right, Gray. Work those hamstrings. Oh, yeah, squeeze them quads. Sculpt your beautiful glutes, you beautiful stud muffin.”

Weights come down in a clattering smack. I glare two machines down from us. Morris throws his towel at Levi, who sputters with laughter when it whacks him in the face.

“Don’t listen to him,” Morris tells me, but I’m already rolling off the leg press.

He looks like he wants to say more, but someone on the other side of the room calls his name. A cluster of guys—other members of the Lakewood Leopards team—wave him over. With an impatient frown, Morris tells me to wait.

I don’t. My heart rate’s in an ideal zone, and I need to keep up momentum. I choose a dumbbell from the stack of free weights and carry it to a bench out of the way where I won’t be noticed.

Technically, non-athletes aren’t allowed use of the private facilities in the Lakewood stadium. But a perk of having the top three football players on campus as roommates means all-time access to state-of-the-art workout equipment. Which beats having to rely on the campus recreation center, where half the machines are busted and the other half are taken up by testosterone-overloaded gym rats asking if I even lift.

Here, though, no one bothers me. And as a plus, I have my own personal trainer. Even if he takes the personal part of that a little too seriously sometimes.

Curling the dumbbell, I check my form in the mirrored wall. For a moment, I almost don’t recognize the guy staring back, despite that his glasses are an exact match to the ones resting on my nose.

Once upon a time—three years ago, to be precise—that reflection used to show a vastly different silhouette. Thin limbs. Sunken chest. Slumped shoulders. Gaunt cheeks. A scrawny kid. The kind who spent all his time in the library. Or his dorm room. Studying. Head in the clouds, nose in a book.

Until the end of freshman year, when I finally raised my head and studied the world around me, only to make one crucial observation.

Nearly everyone around me was hooking up.

And I was a nineteen-year-old virgin. Who had never so much as kissed a girl.

So, as I do everything, I contemplated how best to remedy that.

Lucky for me, I had three prime specimens right at my disposal. And though my friends would hate me thinking of them as specimens, it can’t be denied that examining them brought me a wealth of knowledge about attraction.

Obviously, football was the common denominator. So I started my analysis there. What do women like about football players? Money’s ruled out—except maybe in Morris’s case—until they go pro. Stamina and endurance, though, that’s a given. Self-esteem, too. And a certain physique, cultivated from hours of practice and playing and proper diet.

With those similarities in mind, I could then dissect the individual aspects that made each one so appealing to the opposite sex.

Levi’s easy charm.

Morris’s status as football king.

Spencer’s giant dick.

I don’t share Levi’s sense of humor. And despite the number of pick-up games Morris has coaxed me into, I’m too uncoordinated for football. As for the size of my penis… I work with what I’ve got.

But there was one thing I could change.

My body.

Shape lanky limbs and fill out the leaner parts. Make it so I looked healthy. Strong. Like a potential mate. And not, as Natalie once called me, a sad scarecrow that even birds won’t shit on.

Am I proud that my sole reason for working out was to attract women? No.

Except when I put the matter to test—it worked. Almost as soon as I started gaining definition, building my confidence as surely as I filled out my clothes, I saw positive results.

There were more eyes on me in class. Flirtatious interactions that continued outside of class. Girls asking me to buy them drinks, leading to my first tipsy makeout at the bar. Then a sober makeout in a dorm. Reaching second base—and immediately after, third—in a house party bathroom. Full-blown fucking in a teaching assistant’s office (consequently, losing that pesky virginity that had prompted my physical changes in the first place).

Sophomore year, safe to say, was more summit than slump.

If things have gone a bit downhill since then… I’m fine with it. I don’t need an excess of hookups like Spencer or Levi. There are more important things to fill my time. Sex is just another distraction from achieving my goals.

I mean… so what if my number of hookups can be counted on a few fingers?

I have two hands.

An inventive imagination.

And, really, it’s not as though I whine like Natalie about not getting some.

So. I don’t need it.

Really.

Despite that my original reasons for the workouts have… diminished, I still keep up with them. Yes, it’s annoying that Morris, with his natural leadership tendencies and militant coaching style, assigns himself to oversee my progress. I’ve long since learned to deal with that. Because there’s something simplistic, so ritual and rote about exercise. Lifting and dropping weights, moving in monotonous patterns. A repetitiveness that clears the mind.

Making it that much easier to think.

Flexor carpi radialis. Pronator teres. Brachioradialis.

An internship. Not just any internship, either. A prestigious one at Prescott Biotech Industries. Nolan Prescott’s company. Summer’s father’s company. One that will open doors. Change the course of my life for the better. What I’ve always worked for, through reading books and memorizing facts and always studying, studying, studying.

I’d be an idiot to turn it down.

I switch arms and begin a new rep.

Biceps brachii. Triceps brachii. Up to the deltoid.

And in exchange for such a résumé-booster, Summer Prescott wants me to be her boyfriend. Her pretend boyfriend.

What the hell does a pretend boyfriend do?

Because a real boyfriend—Do I even know what a real boyfriend does? Because I’ve never been one. Never thought about it.

I make a note to observe Levi and Rylie, and even Kennedy and Spencer, and find out—

Flexor—Flexor—

The weight wobbles. I steady my grip.

Fuck it, am I actuallyconsidering this?

This is insane. Me and Summer? No one will believe it. She’s not my type. I’m sure as hell I’m the farthest thing from hers. No good can come from spending more time with her. Look at how distracted she has me during a simple bicep curl.

Before leaving me to deal with my friends alone at Kellermann’s, she’d written her number on the internship flyer. I should take it and send one text. That I can’t—won’t—do it. I’ll happily take her payments for tutoring, but I’ll put a stop to this fake-boyfriend nonsense.

And I’ll just ignore how absolutely fascinating I find her body.

I almost drop the weight again, just as Morris takes the bench across from mine, towel slung over his shoulder. As I switch arms again, he states, “You’re distracted today.”

“No shit. Levi’s making crappy jokes again—”

“It’s not that.” He says nothing else, and I return to my workout, while he sits there, arms on his knees, twiddling his thumbs.

It’s not until his leg starts bouncing that I impatiently snap, “Out with it.”

“So, you and Summer Prescott,”—I fucking knew it—“You’re really… seeing her?”

I set the dumbbell on the floor and begin cooldown stretches. “Do you have a problem with that, Morris?”

“No!” he’s quick to reassure, holding up his hands in peace. “No problem. I think it’s great that you’re putting yourself out there.” He hesitates again. “It’s just… She’s not really your type, is she?”

I pause in my stretch to take him in.

I had this social worker once. Who asked me about my aspirations for the future. I remember the look on her face as I answered. Pity. With a heavy dose of contempt. Like seeing me, sitting there talking about becoming a scientist, while I wore a hand-me-down shirt and jeans two inches too short, she’d had this superior, all-knowing sense of what was best for me.

And what was best for me wasn’t pursuing college. That was aiming far above my shitty lot in life. College costs money. Loans come with debt, years after earning a degree. Wouldn’t it be nicer if you just started applying for jobs around town first? Some construction thing that doesn’t require higher education? Well, maybe not construction because you’re also pretty slight for your age, but retail has many, many options…

Perfect grades meant nothing. High SAT and ACT scores didn’t matter, either. When that social worker looked at me, she saw a foster kid. Trying too hard to achieve something the system had already beaten him down for. So why not stay down? Stay in my lane. Not try so hard. That way, when I failed, it wouldn’t hurt so bad.

And that look—that’s why I should turn down Summer’s offer. So my friends don’t look at me like Morris looks at me now—the same way that social worker looked at me back then.

I don’t want them measuring my relationship with Summer, real or fake. Accepting it on the surface, while deep down, wondering, Isn’t she just a little out of Gray’s league?

Except.

Except I got into college. Accepted with a full ride scholarship. I haven’t dropped out. I’m at the top of my class. On track to make something of myself.

Fifty. Twenty-five. Three.

And I won’t let anyone—not even Morris—make me think otherwise.

So, despite that I had the same thought not even three minutes ago, I ask him, “Why wouldn’t Summer be my type? Because she’s in a sorority?”

“No, because she’s—”

“Blonde?” I send a deadpan look to his own golden hair.

Morris’s leg-bouncing stalls. He glares at me. “You’re getting defensive.”

“And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Too fucking bad, you’re—” Just as quickly as his voice rises, Morris pinches the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before releasing the tension in his shoulders. Calm and collected Morris returns, and with a strained voice, says, “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. It’s just, Nat and I were talking about it—”

“Yes, please, Morris,” my tone bites. “Tell me all about what you and Natalie have to say about my dating life. After all, you two are the most qualified, being in such a long-term commitment—Wait, my bad. You’re just friends.”

A spark of regret instantly shoots through me when whole-body stiffness takes over him. Maybe I went too far. But this is fumbling territory for the both of us.

Morris and I don’t talk about girls. Sure, he’ll point out where I went wrong when I inevitably get slapped for comparing a girl’s eyes to poison tree dart frogs. But I’m not one of his football players, and he can’t reprimand me for being late to practice because I fell asleep in some groupie’s bed.

We have an unspoken agreement.

He doesn’t comment on my romantic pursuits (or lack thereof).

I don’t bring up how long he takes in the shower after running with Natalie.

It’s worked well enough for us. Until now.

Until Summer entered the picture.

Morris nods to himself, and I think that’ll be the end of it. But as I start to rise from the bench, he says, “Name one thing you like about her.”

“Well, her hair—”

“One thing that isn’t physical.”

I sit back down. Give myself time by taking off my glasses and pretending to wipe a smudge with my shirt. I already know what I like about Summer. And it’s more than her curves. Or the fact she can get me into my dream internship. It’s the little details. A penchant for wry remarks. An intent gaze. An assertive attitude. Bold questions. Bolder demands.

Show me how to play pool.

Be my boyfriend.

Kiss me.

But I don’t want to explain any of that to Morris. So, replacing my glasses, I look him straight in the eye and go with the one thing sure to make him see reason. “She didn’t look at me like I’m a freak when I told her about foster care.”

I don’t know if that’s the answer he’s looking for, but by the softening of his expression, it’s one he wasn’t expecting. Because he, of all people, knows how something like that goes a long way with me. He doesn’t say anything at first, and I wonder if he’s stuck in memory like I am, of that first day freshman year. After he’d walked into our shared dorm, when we introduced ourselves and I gave him that fact. Then, he’d also surprised me by not reacting the way I thought he would.

Thanks for telling me, Grayson. Now, do you want the desk by the window or the one by the radiator? I’m cool with either. But you’ll have to fight me for bottom bunk.

(For the record: I took the window desk. And, after lengthy debate, I got the bottom bunk, too. Only to forfeit it the next day when he tumbled to the floor at the dark hour of five-thirty the next morning for football practice.)

The sounds of smacking weights and gym chatter fill the silence as Morris processes my response. Finally, he releases a breath, leaning forward on his bench. “You know, Nat and I—we’re concerned for you.”

Deep in my chest, something warms. And it has nothing to do with post-workout blood flow.

“With the car and now… this, we think you—”

I don’t hear whatever else he says, because the moment he utters car, all that blood flows to my ears in a roaring rush.

This isn’t Morris expressing friendly concern.

This is Super Morris. Swooping in with his golden hair and his navy, leopard-spotted cape. Wham! Pow! Coming to my rescue. Here to save the fucking day. Again. Like he always does.

I don’t want his fucking help.

I don’t need it.

“If you’re so concerned,” I suddenly announce. “Then let’s make a wager on it.”

He freezes in the middle of a sentence. Frowns in confusion, wondering what I’m getting at. “Gray…”

“No, I’m serious, Morris.” I grip the edge of the bench and now my legs are bouncing. “You don’t think Summer and I are good together.”

“I never said—”

“But you’re thinking it,” I point out. “And I’ll prove you wrong. One semester.” I hold up a finger. “If Summer and I break up before the end of the semester, you win. I’ll let you pay for the car repairs.”

He stares at my finger. Then he blinks and his expression changes. Eyebrows set. Mouth a firm line. Game face. “And if you stay together? What do you win?”

“Other than a girlfriend?” I drop my hand and drum my fingers on my knee. Pretending to think it over. Like I don’t already know what the stakes should be.

I lean forward. Match his stance. Show him my game face.

“You tell Natalie.”

Behind us, someone else calls his name. But Morris makes no move to leave. He’s rooted to his seat, that whole-body stiffness taking over him again. “Tell her what?”

“How you feel.”

His face hardens, jaw clenching.

Just as Summer held out her hand to me the other day, I hold out my hand to him. “Take it or leave it, Morris.”

His gaze drops to my waiting palm.

And he takes it.

We shake once. Then a sweaty towel lands on my face. When I tug it off with a disgusted grimace, Morris is already half-way across the room, calling out to another one of his players.

Rising, I return the dumbbell to its rack. Throw Morris’s towel at Levi when he makes a new joke about my biceps and head straight out the door. Down the hall towards the locker room. To the locker marked Morris, where my backpack rests on top of his gym bag.

I grab my phone and the internship flyer. Punch in the number written on the paper.

For a moment, my thumb hovers over the call icon, thinking it over again.

Always,always fucking thinking.

I hit call.

Summer picks up on the first ring.

“I’m done thinking,” I tell her. “Are you free Friday night?”