T H E O G R A Y

THE WATER in my glass is ice-cold, but it doesn't do a fucking thing to cool me down.

Tch.

I still want to march back to that gym and finish what I started.

I never expected today to take such a turn. I had planned to get in a quick workout, maybe lift some weights, burn off some steam. But then I walked in and saw her-Soph-standing there, adjusting that tight, light purple gym set like she had no idea how fucking good she looked in it.

And then there was him.

That creepy bastard.

Standing too close. Looking at her too long. Staring at her ass like he had a fucking right to.

My grip tightens around the glass in my hand.

I should've hit him harder.

I should've wiped that smug look off his face completely, made sure he thought twice before ever speaking to a woman like that again. But no. I had to stop because of the people watching. Because of the goddamn consequences.

Because of my career.

Soph was right. If someone had recognized me, if someone had filmed that shit and posted it online, it would've spread like wildfire. Suspensions, fines-maybe even worse. I could get pulled off the team entirely.

And that would be it.

My career. My future.

Gone.

And my father would win.

I slam the empty glass down on the counter a little harder than necessary, trying to shake the thoughts out of my head. I can't afford to let that happen. I've worked too fucking hard, sacrificed too much to let my temper ruin everything.

But before I think too much about it, I need to deal with something else. Soph. I need to give her a proper apology. If I don't, this could screw up our arrangement, and I still need her in my bed. The last thing I want is for her to get pissed off enough to cut me off. And I won't lie-last night was the best sleep I've had in a long damn time, also the same as other nights with her has been.

I push away from the counter and head toward her door. I don't overthink it. Just get it over with. I raise my fist to knock-

And then I hear something.

I freeze.

Muffled sounds.

Is she hurt? I frown, my brain jumping back to earlier. Maybe that workout messed up her back. Maybe-

I don't even realize I'm leaning in until my ear is pressed against the door. I have no reason to do it, but I don't move. There's this strange, aching curiosity clawing at my insides, and I don't know why.

And then I do.

"Oh fuck." It's soft, but I hear it clear as day.

My body tenses, my throat suddenly dry.

Shit.

The words aren't loud. But I hear them clear as day. And suddenly, everything clicks. I realize what's happening and my body goes rigid, my jaw locking so tight it aches.

She's not in pain.

She's definitely not hurting.

She's-

I should leave.

I should turn around, go back to my room, forget I ever heard this.

But my feet won't move.

I close my eyes, and my mind immediately flashes back to earlier.

The elevator.

The way she looked at me-like she was distracted, like she was affected. The way her breath hitched when I stepped closer. The way she bolted the second the doors opened, like she was running from something.

Was she feeling it too? Whatever this was between us in the elevator?

She couldn't be. Right?

But I know I saw something shift in her eyes, saw the way her green gaze darkened as she yelled at me. Not that I caught a single word-because, hell, I was a guy, and all I could focus on was the way her chest rose and fell with every heated breath. And fuck-did she really have to wear something that tight?

And now, she's in there, on the other side of this door, whimpering as she-

I exhale harshly through my nose.

Fuck.

My chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths, but my body is so fucking tight, every muscle locked in place.

I should go.

I have to go.

But fuck-how the hell am I supposed to walk away from this?

My fingers flex against the doorframe, my knuckles going white as I clench my jaw, forcing myself to breathe through the heat spreading through my body. My pulse is a heavy thud in my ears, drowning out everything except the soft, breathy sounds coming from inside her room.

Fucking hell.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse.

Because now I'm picturing it.

Soph, sprawled out on her bed, her soft thighs trembling, her lips parted, her brows scrunched in pleasure.

Jesus.

I feel it before I even dare to look-the tightness, the throbbing.

I don't need to look down to know my dick is standing at full fucking attention, straining against my sweats like it has a mind of its own.

This-this cannot be happening.

Not because of her.

Not because of Soph.

I force in a sharp breath through my nose, pressing the heels of my palms against my temples, trying to will away the heat pooling low in my stomach.

Maybe it's just my body reacting.

Maybe it's been too long since I last got laid, and that's why this is happening.

Yeah. That has to be it.

When was the last time I had sex?

I try to think back, but my brain is too fucking scrambled, caught between logic and the way her voice is wrecking me.

Then I hear it again.

A soft whimper.

My head snaps up so fast my neck nearly fucking cracks, my glare now locked on the door handle.

My jaw tightens, frustration twisting in my gut. Maybe it's not her. Maybe it's just me. My body, starved for touch, for relief, for anything. That has to be it. It's been too long, and now, with her making those noises, my body is latching onto the first excuse it can find.

Another sound. Softer this time.

I exhale sharply, my glare snapping to the door handle. My fingers twitch at my side before I realize-my hand is already on it. The cool metal presses against my palm, grounding me, even as my blood runs hot.

I could turn it. Just a flick of my wrist. Just a peek.

All I'd have to do is turn it.

Just a little twist, a gentle push-

And I could see.

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing myself six ways to hell, but my grip tightens.

I want to.

I fucking want to.

The thought makes something dark curl low in my gut, my muscles coiling with heat, my body tensed so damn tight it almost aches.

But I can't.

I shouldn't.

With every bit of self-control I have left, I rip my hand away from the door and turn on my heel, striding straight to my room.

The second I step inside, I slam the door behind me-so fucking hard the walls probably shake.

I don't care.

I can't care.

Because my body is on fire.

Because my cock is still aching, still demanding a release.

Because I have never, never been this fucking frustrated in my life.

I yank my shirt over my head the second I step inside my room, the fabric sticking to my skin like it's fighting me. My body's too damn hot, too tense, and my thoughts-fuck, I don't even want to think about what they're doing to me.

I shove my sweatpants down and kick them aside, running a hand over my face, exhaling hard. My dick is right there, standing at full attention, and I glare down at it, frustrated.

"Why?" I mutter under my breath. "Why the fuck are you like this?"

It doesn't answer, obviously. Just throbs, like it's mocking me.

My jaw locks. My fingers twitch at my sides, the urge to just fix it creeping in, temptation curling around my restraint like a slow squeeze. I could. Just a few strokes, and this hellish tension would finally ease.

But the second that thought crosses my mind, guilt slams into me like a punch to the gut.

Soph.

I shouldn't be thinking of her like that. I shouldn't want this. But my body doesn't care about shouldn'ts-it's reacting, no matter how much I fight it.

I turn on my heel and storm into the bathroom, slamming the shower handle up as far as it'll go. Steam billows around me instantly, and I step in before the water even has a chance to settle. The heat scalds my skin, but I don't flinch. I need it. I need something to snap me out of this.

Tilting my head back, I let the water pound against me, the steady rhythm drowning out everything else.

"Not her," I mutter to myself, jaw tight. "Think of something else. Anything else."

I plant my hands against the tile and force my mind somewhere-anywhere-other than her. Other than those fucking sounds. I focus on the water, the way it beats against my skin, the way it drowns out the pulsing need in my body.

I just need to get this over with. Fast.

Its been too long. That's all this is. It's not her. It's just been too long.

My breath shudders as I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my body to cooperate, to let go of this tension without dragging her into it. The water pounds against my back, scalding, but it's still not enough to drown out the fire licking beneath my skin.

I wrap a hand around myself, exhaling sharply at the sensation, but I keep my jaw clenched tight. I'm not thinking of her. I won't.

My grip tightens as I stroke, slow at first, trying to keep it impersonal, clinical-just a means to an end. But my body isn't cooperating. My hips twitch forward, desperate for more, and my mind betrays me.

A flash of soft sounds. The way her breath had hitched.

Fuck.

I groan, my forehead hitting the cool tile. I can't stop it. I can't stop her from slipping in, from invading every damn part of me. My body is moving on instinct now, chasing the release I shouldn't even be needing this badly.

My stomach tightens, every muscle locking up, and I barely manage to bite back her name before it slips past my lips. Instead, I press my teeth into my bottom lip, sucking in a breath as I finally let go, pleasure rolling through me in hot, shuddering waves.

I stay there for a long moment, chest heaving, the water washing everything away-except the guilt that settles heavy in my gut.

I swallow hard and force myself to move, to rinse off quickly and shut off the water before my thoughts have a chance to spiral further. I can't let this happen again.

Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around my waist and stare at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. My jaw is tight, my expression unreadable, but my own gaze is accusing.

I shake my head and turn away.

This never happened.

I step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and running it over my face, trying to shake off the fucking mess I just made. My body feels lighter, but my head? That's a different story.

I should've never let it get to that point. Should've had some fucking self-control.

It was just a moment. It's done. Move the fuck on.

I sigh and reach for a pair of sweatpants, sliding them on just as my phone starts buzzing on the nightstand. I glance at the screen, my stomach twisting when I see the name-Mum.

I almost let it go to voicemail, but I know better. If I don't pick up now, she'll just keep calling.

I grab the phone and press it to my ear. "Hey, Mum."

"Theo." Her voice sounds surprised, like she didn't expect me to answer. "How are you?"

"I'm good," I say, rubbing a hand over my face.

"Oh, that's good." There's a small pause before she continues, "Are you still upset?"

"No." I sit down on my bed, knowing exactly what she means. "I'm not upset."

"Really?" Her tone softens. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"So... it's okay if I invite you over?" she asks. "Let's talk. It's been too long since I've seen my son. Come and have a chat with your mother."

She wants something.

I know it sounds cynical, but this isn't the first time she's played the mother-son card. And every time, I fall for it.

Maybe because, deep down, I hope that one day she'll actually want me around without asking for money or a favor. Without realizing that her son is getting popular in the sports world and deciding to cash in on it.

"No problem," I say, and she sighs in content.

"Is now okay for you, or-"

"Yes!" she interrupts, practically shouting in excitement. "Now is perfect! I'll cook your favorite-macaroni and cheese!"

I'm not five.

I don't say it out loud, though. I don't want to ruin the mood she's in. She sounds happy, less bitter about the world and my father than the last time I saw her.

And maybe-just maybe-she's actually trying to change.

◇◇◇

I pull up in front of Mum's apartment, my stomach feels tight. I hesitate for a second before stepping out, shoving my hands into my pockets as I walk up to the door.

I knock.

A beat of silence. Then footsteps.

I take a deep breath, my body tensing as the weight of the moment settles in. I could turn around. I could jog back to my car, drive home, pretend I never showed up. She'd be disappointed, sure, but not surprised.

But then I remember the shit I've done.

The things I can't undo.

And suddenly, staying here-facing her, whatever she wants-is the lesser of two evils.

So I stay.

The door swings open, and before I can even react, she's on me.

"Oh my God!" she squeals, arms wrapping around me in a tight hug. "I can't believe you actually came!"

I stiffen for half a second before exhaling, letting her squeeze me like I'm a little kid again. She smells like cheap perfume and a hint of wine, her bracelets jingling as she pats my back dramatically.

"Look at you," she pulls back, holding me at arm's length. "You're so thin! Are you even eating?"

I breathe out a small smile. "I'm good, Mom."

"Mm-hmm, sure you are," she says, looping her arm through mine and dragging me inside like she's parading me around. "Come on, sit down-we have so much to catch up on."

She pulls me straight to the couch before I can get a good look at the place. But when I do, I realize something.

I've never been here before.

Her new apartment is... small, that's for sure. A little cluttered but not as bad as I expected. String lights hang along the walls, a pile of magazines sits on the coffee table, and the air smells faintly of vanilla candles mixed with something stronger-probably whatever she was drinking earlier.

It's not terrible. But I don't like it, either.

She flops onto the couch next to me, kicking her feet up. "So, tell me everything. I want the full rundown of your life, mister."

I glance around again, then back at her. "You sure you don't just want to ask for something?"

She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like I just deeply offended her. "Me? Ask for something? Can't a mother just miss her son?"

I give her a look.

She grins, nudging my shoulder. "Alright, fine, but at least let me feed you first. You're wasting away."

I shake my head, but I don't argue. I need to keep watching her. Need to know what she wants.

She hops up from the couch, clapping her hands. "Okay, okay, you just sit tight. I'm gonna get the food. You're gonna love it."

I watch as she practically dances into the kitchen, her oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, her phone in one hand, probably texting someone mid-step.

Some things never change.

I lean back against the couch, letting my eyes wander around the apartment. The walls are decorated with random framed quotes-Live, Laugh, Love in one corner, a Marilyn Monroe poster in another. A half-empty wine bottle sits on the TV stand next to an ashtray filled with lipstick-stained cigarette butts.

Yeah, definitely not terrible. But not great, either.

"You thirsty?" she calls from the kitchen.

"I'm good."

"You're lying," she says, reappearing with two glasses. "Here. Water. Hydrate. Be responsible." She hands me a glass and then flops down beside me again, tucking her legs under herself.

I take a sip just to humor her.

She watches me with a smirk, eyes twinkling like she's up to something. "So... you seeing anyone?"

I nearly choke on the water. "Seriously?"

"What? I just wanna know!" She nudges me with her elbow. "My son's a hotshot now. I bet you've got girls throwing themselves at you."

I huff, shaking my head. "It's not like that."

"Uh-huh. Suuure." She drags out the word, grinning. "Come on, you have to give me something. A name? A little gossip? A tiny, juicy detail?"

I roll my eyes. "I came here to eat, not to get interrogated."

She gasps dramatically. "So there is someone."

"Jesus, Mom-"

"Okay, okay, I'll drop it," she says, holding up her hands in surrender. But the smirk never leaves her face.

She's in a good mood. A playful mood. It's weird, but I don't mind it as much as I thought I would.

Maybe she really is trying.

She leans back, pulling her legs up onto the couch, watching me with a look that's almost... proud. Like she's trying to take me in, memorize me.

"I'm so glad you came." she says suddenly.

I arch a brow. "Yeah?"

She nods. "Yeah. Didn't think you'd want to still see me after my... behavior last time."

"It's okay." I tell her because I have no other words to say. She wasn't in her right mind then, she was consumed with the drugs that it amplified her mood and made her emotional to see things through.

I understood her point of view, just hope she won't try it next time.

"I promise I'm not on it anymore." She says with full chest. "I'm learning how to stop."

This was what she said last year and here we are but I nod, smiling at her because I know getting off of those types of addiction is not an easy job.

Sometimes I often wonder if it would have been better if she was addicted to smoking better but knowing it's bad for the lungs and makes the heart weaker vanishes the thought.

But cocaine isn't better either.

My mind reminds me and I sigh inwardly, feeling destroyed.

"So how's the food," she speaks up. "Does it taste like old times?"

I pick up the fork, twirling it in my fingers before finally taking a bite. It's good. Familiar. Too familiar. It tastes like childhood, like late nights when it was just the two of us, like the rare moments when things didn't feel so damn complicated.

"It's nice. Thank you." I say.

She watches me eat, her own plate barely touched. It's like she's waiting for something-for me to say something, to bring up whatever it is she really called me here for.

I set the fork down, exhaling. "Alright," I say, meeting her gaze. "What do you want?" The silence is suffocating and being on edge isn't healthy for me.

Her lips press together for a moment, like she's debating whether to be offended or just get to the point. She chooses the latter.

"Why do you always assume I want something?"

I arch a brow. "Because you always do."

She sighs, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. "I just wanted to see you. Is that a crime?"

I don't answer.

"Fine." I knew it. There's always something.

"I was wondering... can I come watch you play this Saturday?"

"What?" The words barely register. That's... surprising.

She smiles, clearly enjoying my confusion, her eyes crinkling like she's waiting for me to catch up. "I want to see you play."

"You... want to see me play?" I echo her words, still bracing for the catch.

"Yep."

"What's the catch?"

She laughs, shaking her head. "There's no catch, Theodore."

"Fuck no. Please don't say my full name." The name has always felt wrong on me, like I should be some chipmunk or another ridiculous furry animal.

Her laughter only gets louder, and I find myself giving a small smile.

This is nice.

"Fine, but I'm serious," she says, suddenly looking me dead in the eye. "Can I?"

Then she stretches her hand to mine and holds it. A simple touch, but it makes my chest tighten. "Come on, I want to see my son win."

"You'll really come." My voice sounds smaller than I want it to. I shouldn't sound this desperate. I shouldn't want this as much as I do. Dad said the same thing last time, made promises, and I waited... and waited.

But if she really means it...

"Yes, I wanna come. So, yes?" She tilts her head, eyes bright with something eager, something real.

I swallow down the lump in my throat and nod slowly.

"Yeah... You can come."

She squeezes my hand once before letting go, and I feel the warmth linger. "Good," Mom says, leaning back in her chair. "I can't wait."

I nod, but my stomach twists. I should be happy. I am happy. But beneath it, there's this gnawing fear, this little voice whispering, What if she doesn't show up?

It wouldn't be the first time.

I stare at the table, pretending to focus on a scratch in the wood. "You know... you don't have to come just because you feel bad or something."

She frowns. "What?"

I shrug, trying to play it off, but my throat feels tight. "I mean, don't say yes if you don't actually want to."

She sighs, shifting in her seat. "Theo, I want to be there." Her voice softens. "I know I haven't always been... but I want to be now."

I force out a small laugh, but it sounds hollow. "Yeah, okay."

She studies me for a milisecond before reaching out again, this time brushing her fingers over my knuckles. "I mean it."

I want to believe her.

God, I want to believe her so badly.

But I've been that kid before-the one who sat by the window, staring at the driveway, waiting. The one who jumped at every car door slamming outside, hoping it was her. The one who swore, after enough letdowns, that he wouldn't wait anymore.

I don't want to be that kid again. Never again.

She watches me for a second like she wants to say something more, but then she just nods. "I'll be there. Promise."

I hope so.

But I don't say that.

Instead, I force a small smile. "Okay."