I'm pissed at Noah. Well, I think I still am, but I'm not so sure anymore. A couple of days ago, he ditched me at the counter of The Coffee House to hook up with some girl while we were supposed to be working. Irresponsible people drive me up the wall, and what Noah did was a total fucking disaster. But if I'm honest, I'm not sure that's the only thing bugging me. Maybe it bothers me that he was messing around with someone, or maybe I'm just imagining shit. All I know is I'm mad… or I was.
Noah, as usual, put on his remorseful puppy face. "I'm super impulsive," he says, like that excuses everything. But it doesn't. No matter how impulsive you are, you can't keep screwing up the same way over and over. That's why I didn't want to talk to him. But instead of letting it go, he planted himself in front of me, apologizing like his life depended on it. He gave his excuses, and, damn it, I've got to admit I like talking to him. I didn't want to stay mad forever. Besides, we're nothing to each other. Why should I care who he hooks up with? But I do, and that's got me rattled.
In the end, I swallowed hard and accepted his apology. And now here I am, trailing him across campus at midnight like his shadow. "Don't fall behind, Bennett," Noah says with that grin that seems glued to his face.
It's infuriating how he's always smiling, like the world's one big party. I'm the serious one, always frowning, while he lives in some bubble of joy. I pick up my pace to catch up, the cold night air biting at my face.
We cut through campus, passing the academic buildings with their windows glowing like tired eyes. We go under the arch connecting the main quad to the dorms, cross a garden with empty benches that look like ghosts under the moonlight, and follow a paved path lined with tall trees whispering in the breeze. The distant hum of student life fades, and the silence settles like a heavy blanket.
We reach the athletic complex. The gym looms first, its windows lit up like a beacon. We skirt the building down a side path, descend a gentle slope, and there they are: the tennis courts, bathed in the stark white glow of floodlights. The asphalt lines shine crisp, and the campus silence makes the place feel like a stage set for a showdown.
"What are we doing here?" I ask, half-curious, half-suspicious.
"De-stressing," Noah replies, striding toward a court with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of it.
"You play tennis?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Hell yeah. It's my escape," he says, his eyes lighting up. "I come here when I'm stressed out of my mind and need to clear my head. Playing pulls me out of the world, even just for a bit."
"Of course, the rich kid sport," I say with a sarcastic smirk.
"Come on, follow me," he says, brushing off my jab and leading me to a shed by the court. He grabs two rackets and heads to a ball machine on the other side, loading it with balls like it's a ritual.
"Hold up, Whitman," I say, stopping him. "I don't know how to play tennis. Never touched a racket."
"No worries, it's easy. I'll teach you," he says with a warmth that throws me off a little.
"We didn't even bring clothes for this," I point out, glancing at my T-shirt and jeans, not exactly sportswear.
"You're right," he admits, scratching the back of his neck. "I didn't plan this, just thought it'd be good to get you out of your boring routine."
"Between you and me, I'm better at football," I say, crossing my arms.
"With a coach like me, it won't be that hard," he says with that cocky grin that drives me nuts.
He hands me a racket, and after a resigned sigh, I take it. "Fine…" I mutter, feeling like a fish out of water.
"Here's the deal," he says, walking to the machine. "I'm gonna test your reflexes. I turn this on, and you try to hit the ball like your life depends on it."
"What?" I say, incredulous.
"Any complaints?" he shoots back, raising an eyebrow with amusement.
"Doesn't seem fair," I grumble, gripping the racket.
Noah laughs. "Think of it like molecular biology. The ball's a ligand, the racket's the active site of an enzyme. If you don't align the site right, no reaction. Same here: if you don't position the racket, no hit."
He says it with that mix of seriousness and mockery only he can pull off, like he thinks an analogy's gonna win me over. "You're smart?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
"Obviously," he says, puffing out his chest. "You think my gorgeous blond hair means I'm dumb? I'm offended, Bennett."
He starts the machine, and a barrage of balls comes flying at me. I'm caught off guard. One smacks my shoulder, and I stumble. I try to return them but miss every single one. It's chaos: I'm dodging like they're bullets, moving clumsily while Noah doubles over laughing across the court.
"No way!" he shouts, cracking up. "Not one, Bennett!"
"I told you I don't know how to play, asshole," I snap, annoyed. "Not all of us grew up with tennis courts in our backyards."
"Come on, you played football, didn't you?" he says, still laughing. "You should know how to move. It's the same thing."
"Yeah, that's why I dodged most of them," I say sarcastically.
"The point was to hit them, not dance around," he fires back, his grin pulling a laugh out of me despite my frustration.
"And this is supposed to de-stress me?" I protest, panting.
"Exactly, Bennett."
"You're doing a shitty job."
"Chill, come here," he says, walking over with a calm that contrasts with my irritation. "I'll show you how it's done. Pay attention, Ethan Bennett. Let's see if you can learn from the master," he adds, winking.
The machine starts again. Noah gets ready, and the balls come flying. He returns them with an agility that seems impossible: leaping, moving, hitting with power and precision, like the court belongs to him. Every move is fluid, natural, like he was born with a racket in his hand. Damn, this guy's got skills.
When the machine runs out of balls, Noah straightens up, grinning triumphantly. "See that?" he says, proud as hell.
"Yeah, impressive," I admit, still shocked.
"Your turn," he says, holding out the racket.
"No way, I'm not doing that," I say, stepping back.
"Oh, you are," he insists, with that damn smile.
"Seriously, no," I protest, eyeing the racket like it's a bomb.
"I can't believe you're such a coward," he teases, his eyes glinting with mischief.
"What?" I snap, taking the bait.
"Come here," he says, beckoning with confidence.
I step closer, wary. Noah places the racket in my hands with a gentleness I didn't expect, like he's afraid I'll drop it. "Just listen," he whispers, leaning in.
He steps behind me, his hands covering mine to adjust my grip. His fingers brush mine for a second, warm and firm, before settling on the handle. A tingle shoots through my arms, and I tense up involuntarily.
"Firm, but not like you're swinging a hammer," he explains, nudging my shoulders to align them. His palm grazes my lower back, adjusting my posture, and a heat hits me that's got nothing to do with exercise.
"Relax, Bennett. It's tennis, not a fight," he says, his tone playful, and when I turn my head, his blue eyes are inches from mine.
For a second, the world fades. The campus, the floodlights, everything vanishes. It's just those eyes, shining like they're hiding something. I swallow hard, trying not to give myself away.
"Focus," he says, with a smile that knows it's rattling me. He guides my arms to raise the racket, his movements confident, wrapping around mine. My brain wants to focus on tennis, but all I register is his closeness, the brush of his shoulder, the faint coffee scent still clinging to him.
"Now the stance," he says, stepping behind again. His hands land on my waist, turning me gently. The pressure's firm, precise, and my breath catches. "Back straight, like this," he says, straightening my torso.
With his foot, he nudges mine forward, his leg brushing mine as he opens my stance. "Legs wider. You need balance," he says, like he doesn't notice his touch is unraveling me.
I lean back slightly, and his shoulder grazes mine. I try to focus on his words, the racket, but his calm voice and proximity have me trapped. "That's better," he murmurs, and when I glance at him, his eyes are locked on me, that confidence both unnerving and magnetic.
He's talking tennis, but this feels like something else. Something I can't name that's got my heart racing.
Noah steps back, grinning like he's pleased with himself, and gathers the scattered balls to reload the machine. The sound of them rolling in the hopper snaps me out of my daze, but my nerves are still buzzing.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes for a second to steady myself. When I open them, the machine's ready. The first balls shoot out, and I dive in to return them. I'm no pro, but I connect with five, and the sound of the racket hitting the ball feels like a small victory. I move clumsily but with effort, and at one point, I nail a clean shot that crosses the net without dropping.
I'm no expert, but for the first time, I feel like I'm actually playing.
"That's it, Bennett!" Noah yells, cheering like I won a tournament. "You're getting the hang of it!"
He shuts off the machine, grabs a racket, and strides to the center of the court with swagger. "Now you're up against me," he says, his eyes glinting with challenge. "No mercy, Bennett."
"Didn't expect any," I reply, trying to sound confident, even though I know he's gonna wipe the floor with me.
The game starts. Noah moves like he owns the court, with a lightness that seems impossible. His shots are precise, fast, and every ball he sends is a challenge I barely keep up with. The gap's brutal: he controls the pace while I'm running like a maniac.
But there are moments where I surprise him. A clumsy return forces him to stretch, another with a weird spin makes him hesitate. Those moments give me a rush, like for a second the court's not just his. He's better at everything—reflexes, technique, stamina—but his laughs between points and the way he challenges me with his eyes make me think he doesn't care about winning as much as seeing me try. And, damn, against all odds, I'm having fun.
****
We play for a while, losing track of time between shots and laughter. My hands ache from swinging the racket back and forth. Despite everything, I lost every damn game… if you can even call my pathetic attempts "games." I didn't win a single set, not even close.
We collapse onto the ground, exhausted and soaked in sweat, mostly because neither of us brought proper clothes. I'm in jeans and a black T-shirt, the worst outfit for tennis. Noah, on the other hand, looks like he stepped out of a catalog: a light polo clinging to his torso and lightweight khakis, like he planned to pose on the court instead of sweat. Still, even disheveled with his hair plastered to his forehead, he looks flawless.
"You weren't that bad," Noah says, panting, his voice catching.
"You either," I reply with a hint of irony.
He looks at me and grins, like my jabs are a prize. "Not a bad way to de-stress, right?" I say, still catching my breath.
"See? Told you it'd be fun," he says with a smug smile that makes me roll my eyes.
"How'd you get into tennis?" I ask, curious, as the damp grass sticks to my back.
He lowers his voice, like he's sharing a secret. "It started with my dad. First match I saw, I was about eight. Wimbledon, England."
He pauses, thoughtful. "Maria Sharapova was playing some British girl… can't remember if it was Anne Keothavong or Katie O'Brien. But, damn, I was hooked. Sharapova was my first crush."
I smile at the confession, and he lets out a nostalgic chuckle. "Back then, I was tight with my dad," he continues. "After the match, he took me to meet her. I've got a photo with her on an old phone I still keep. Always meant to print it, but never did."
He laughs, shaking his head. "That rush stuck with me. My dad got me into lessons, and it worked. Girls loved watching me play, and I thought I was Sharapova's heir. What a dreamer."
He sighs, a crooked smile on his face. "Since then, tennis has been my big love."
"Why not go pro?" I ask.
His face darkens for a moment, like I hit a nerve. "It's not that simple," he says, quieter. "The last two years have been a mess: switching majors, hiding shit from my family… and now, with this, things got more complicated."
I don't say anything, just sigh. The weight of his fake-gay scholarship lie hangs between us, but I don't bring it up.
"Maybe it's better this way," I say, my tone colder. "You've already got enough admirers. Imagine if you were a famous tennis player. Must be exhausting dealing with all that romance."
Noah sits up and looks at me, serious, but then his face softens into a slight smile. "You know, it wasn't always like that."
He pauses, searching for words. "I had a real girlfriend once. Well, I've had a few, but one I really loved. And it didn't end how I hoped."
"What happened?" I ask, intrigued.
"It's a long story," he says, running a hand through his hair.
"We've got time, don't we?" I press, propping myself on my elbows.
He looks at me silently for a few seconds before speaking. "I met her when we were little, in kindergarten. Her name was Emily. We were inseparable, played together, shared everything. Over the years, our friendship got stronger. Same elementary school, then high school."
He stops, a soft smile on his face. "She wasn't like the others. She was a bit chubbier, and I…" he gestures at himself with a nervous laugh, "I've always stood out because of all this, right?"
I roll my eyes, and he grins before continuing. "Over time, I realized I felt something for her. She made me laugh, made me feel good. Everything with her was easy."
His voice turns nostalgic. "By sophomore year, I couldn't look at her without grinning like an idiot. I was special to her, and she was to me. She protected me more than I could protect her."
He goes quiet for a moment. "One day, I worked up the nerve and told her I liked her. She didn't believe me at first. I was popular, and she… well, she didn't feel like she was. But I kept at it, and we ended up dating. She was my first kiss. I wanted it to be more, to lose my virginity with her, but it wasn't easy."
His eyes darken. "She had friends, almost as popular as me. When they found out, they started a rumor: that I was just playing with her, that it was a joke. But nothing was further from the truth."
His jaw tightens. "The rumor got to Emily. She confronted me, crying, throwing it in my face. I tried to explain, swear it wasn't true, but she didn't believe me. She'd been bullied a lot for her looks, and she thought I was part of it. She dumped me."
He sighs, staring at the ground. "I was wrecked. I tried to talk to her, but her parents pulled her out of school. I never saw her again."
He pulls out his phone and scrolls to a photo. "I follow her on socials. At least she looks happy," he says, showing me the screen. It's a brown-haired girl, curvy, with dimples that pop when she smiles.
"She's really pretty," I say, sincere.
"Yeah, isn't she?" he says with a soft smile. "But I never stopped hanging with those friends. They told me I could have anyone I wanted, and I bought into it."
His tone turns bitter. "In high school, my sex life went wild. Different girl every week, and we usually ended up in bed. I had a few short relationships. The last one was with a girl from prom. Ended like always. And here I am, still the same, I guess."
He looks down. "With this scholarship lie, I've had to chill out. That's why I fucked up with you. I'm sorry, really."
"I get it," I say quietly.
Noah sits up, a half-smile on his face. "So, that's my drama. What about you, Ethan Bennett? Who was your first love?"
"With a girl?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"With a guy," he says with an enigmatic smile.
"Why do you want to know?" I shoot back, nervous.
He flops back onto the grass, relaxed, crossing his legs. "Because that's what we're talking about, right? If you're gay, whatever you had with girls doesn't count as love. More like social pressure."
I sit beside him, uneasy, but I open up. "I don't think I've had one," I admit.
"Seriously?" he asks, genuinely surprised.
I smile, shrugging. "So, what about your first time with a guy?" he presses.
"What?" I protest, almost shouting.
"Come on, tell me. How'd you know you were gay?"
"It wasn't a 'revelation,'" I say, shaking my head. "In high school, I was into guys. Once, after a game, I locked eyes with one. We got close, kissed. We fooled around for a while and ended up sleeping together."
I pause. "Then it turned out he had a girlfriend… and so did I."
"No way," Noah says, eyes wide.
"I wanted to be 'normal,'" I explain. "But then I figured out what I wanted and told my parents. They didn't love it, but they came around. They didn't disown me, and they still pay for college. Guess it wasn't that bad."
I take a deep breath. "Here, I tried being 'normal' again. Dated a girl, Julie. There was something physical, but it didn't fill me. So I decided to live as me. I've had experiences, but nothing serious. No big love, like you said. For guys like me, it's trickier, but I'm not losing sleep over it."
Noah watches me for a moment, then flashes a lopsided grin. "So, you're a Don Juan… but gay."
We burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the silent campus. Our eyes meet, sharing the ease of opening up.
Suddenly, I notice Noah's not looking away. His gaze locks on me, and I start to feel nervous. "What? Got something on my face? Dirt?" I ask, brushing my cheek.
He shakes his head, smiling. "Nah. Just noticed, when you laugh, you've got these dimples that are pretty cute."
I freeze, my laugh catching in my throat as heat creeps up my neck. "Should I laugh more?" I ask, trying to play it off.
"Suits you," he says, before flopping back onto the grass, hands behind his head, staring at the sky.
I stay still for a moment, hesitating, then lie down beside him, eyes fixed on the darkness speckled with floodlights.
****
After our talk on the tennis courts, I'm starting to feel more at ease with Noah. He's more decent than I thought, and hearing about Emily gave me a glimpse into why he is the way he is. Yeah, he's way too into sex for his own good, but deep down, he's a solid guy. With a bit of luck, we might actually become real friends.
I'm at The Coffee House, working my usual shift, the smell of coffee sunk into my skin and the hum of the espresso machine buzzing in the background. The door chimes, and a woman walks in. She sits at a table by the window, picks up the menu, and says she'll think it over. I leave her to it and keep working the other tables, but something about her catches my eye. She seems restless, rubbing her left arm against her chest, like she's waiting for someone or something's got her on edge.
I decide to approach, flashing a smile to break the ice. "Want a recommendation?" I ask, leaning on the table.
She returns the smile, and damn, she's one of those people you can't ignore. Her blue eyes sparkle like glass, her face is striking with soft features, and her brown hair has subtle highlights that catch the café's lights. She's dressed like money: a beige silk outfit that flows like water, a tailored blazer, and a designer bag resting by her chair like it's a piece of art.
"Maybe… tell me what's the best coffee you make here," she says, her voice warm but firm, like she's used to being heard.
"My cappuccino's a safe bet. Pair it with some house cookies, and it's unbeatable," I say, throwing in a wink without thinking.
She tilts her head, eyeing me with curiosity. "I might just believe you. First time here, so… surprise me, sweetheart," she says, handing back the menu with a smile that could melt anyone.
I nod, feeling a spark of challenge, and get to work. I make the cappuccino with extra care, ensuring the foam's perfect, and pair it with fresh-baked cookies. When I set it in front of her, the coffee's aroma fills the air.
"Here you go," I say, a touch of pride in my voice.
"Wow," she says, taking the cup in one hand and a cookie in the other. "This looks amazing."
She takes a sip, and her face lights up with approval. "Not bad at all, I'll give you that. This place is a gem."
Before I can respond, the door chimes again. "Yo, what's good, hot stuff!" Noah shouts, bursting in with that larger-than-life energy of his. He holds up a bag of snacks like it's a trophy. "Check out what I scored."
"You're late, Whitman," I say, raising an eyebrow, my tone caught between amused and scolding.
But then Noah freezes. His eyes lock on the woman at the table, and his face goes from cocky to shocked in half a second. "Mom," he blurts, his voice thick with surprise.
"Hello, sweetheart," she replies, calm as hell, a stark contrast to Noah's chaos. She glances at me for a moment, those blue eyes sizing me up, before turning back to him.