Of the new batch of freshman soccer players, Ryan Cannon was the fastest and the cockiest.

And the hottest.

And the one who ended up making me forget that I'd decided to stop hitting on straight guys.

It wasn't because he was hot, though. He was; but the cockiness was a little irritating. Shane had taken to calling him "Cap Gun" instead of "Cannon," and the name stuck, much to Ryan's irritation.

Personally, I thought the bravado he brought was enticing. But there was something else; something under the self-confident sneer he wore. Something that told me that time spent on him wouldn't be wasted effort. So I gave it a little effort, and I discovered I wasn't wrong.

********

In early August, about a dozen of us from the team, including four of the new guys, took in a new movie, American Pie.  It was fun and sexy and mindless. Perfect for the audience that we were, in other words. We went early on a weekday afternoon, and we were almost the only people in the audience.

There was a scene in the movie where one of the guys has been banging his girl, and because she doesn't want him to cum inside her, he pulls out and shoots his spunk into a half-full cup of beer. A while later, a buddy of his comes along and chugs down the contents of the cup, only to discover as he's swallowing it all down that it's been "enhanced."

My teammates laughed and groaned and made retching noises.

But Ryan sneered and said, "Hell, Sharpe would be asking for seconds."

A blanket of silence dropped over the entire group.

They looked expectantly at me; Ryan's eyes flashed defiance at mine, although it was pretty clear he knew he'd crossed a line and was nervous about it.

What the fuck? I thought.

But I didn't flinch; I didn't pause. I didn't need to.

I grinned and winked and said, "I don’t remember you complaining Thursday night, and you didn't swallow it out of a cup, didja now, freshman?"

Even in the subdued light of the theater, we could all tell that Ryan was blushing furiously. The rest of the guys cracked up, and Ryan slunk down in his chair.

Dean leaned in from the row behind him, slapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Don't worry about it, freshman. I guarantee you ain't the only one in this group who's let Sharpe talk him into an at-bat for the other team." The rest of the guys laughed, and four of them raised their hands, grinning.

Ryan looked visibly relieved. Dean added, "Just let it be a lesson to ya. Park the homophobic shit outside the locker room. Andy's not queer, Cap Gun, he's just a sex fiend. But we have a real gay guy on our team, and you best not be bringin' no hate."

"I know: Kessler. Look, I don't hate gay people," Ryan muttered. "I was just gonna have…"

"Have a little fun at my expense," I finished. "Hey, no harm. But as you can see, my boys got my back, and anyway, didn't you think it was pretty stupid to try to disrespect my sexuality for shits and giggles when you'd had my dick in your mouth not forty-eight hours ago?"

"Shut the fuck up!" he shouted, drawing the eyes of half the theater to him. He looked around at the audience he'd just created, then blanched and mumbled, "Okay…I'm sorry. Can we just watch the fuckin' movie?" We all chuckled a little and held our tongues, waiting for everyone to turn their attentions back to the movie.

I was ready to do just that when Dean said, "Sure. But you owe Sharpe. You gotta make it up to him."

Ryan turned toward him, and shifting his gaze from me to Dean and back, asked, "What do I have to do?"

"You gotta give up dat ass for him," he said, straight-faced.

Ryan opened his mouth to say something, but it caught in his throat. His eyes were wide, and he looked scared. I'd fully intended to bust his balls for his comment, but I didn't want to push it too far.

"It's okay, freshman, I'll give you the whole year to pay off," I said. "And I'll be real gentle. By the time I'm done with you, you gonna be begging for more, just you wait and see."

I was trying to get him to laugh, but he wasn't taking it as a joke; his eyes met mine and pleaded with them. I was unnerved; I hadn't meant any of it.

"I'm just kidding, Cap Gun," I said, smiling. "You don't owe me a damn thing."

As he nodded, I added, "By the way, boys, it really is a cap gun, not a cannon. But it pops off pretty spectacular just the same."

The laughter from my teammates drowned out the movie soundtrack. Ryan shot daggers into my eyes with his. He couldn't hold out against the laughter, though, and before too long he was chuckling right along. Determined to get out of this with some face saved, he grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me into him, and kissed me on the lips. Then he stuck his tongue out at me and sat back in his seat, his eyes conspicuously focused on the big screen.

********

The middle of the month brought Matt's first email of the semester.

Hey boy how's the soccer foot? Kickin some ass? Or at least the ball?

Looks like I'll be playin fullback again and riding the bench. There's a new freshman I can tell coach is gonna groom to start. Sucks but my scholarship money still spends and its an education. I'm learning a hell of a lot about business and about graphics. I got plans already, I'll tell you about them some time. If you're interested in listening ever.

About that—Last school year. This past summer.

You don't get off as easy this school year. This is a game you're playing Andy and it's at my expense. It's like you wanna keep me at arms length to protect you. Protect you from ME. Jesus. WTF Drew.

Why is this not just a version of what you already did senior year of HS. And told me you would do different if you had a do over. What are you afraid I am going to do to you?

Think about that. You haven't heard the last from me.

Matt

I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head, and walked downstairs. It sounded noisy down there, and I needed that.

Trey and Shane were watching a Barcelona soccer team play a Madrid soccer team on Univision. I went to the fridge, grabbed a Negro Modelo, and joined them.

********

The fall semester was smooth and easy. I was sailing through my classes, and I was back to serial-dating, and serial-fucking, the available women on campus. I'd returned to the coping mechanisms that allowed me to preserve the illusion that things were just fine: I got with the ladies as often as I could; I went back to hitting on my straight teammates once in a while, to see if any of them were horny enough to let me get them off; I drank and ran around with my crew on the weekend; I smoked dope with my roommates.

I was living in a two-floor, four-bedroom house near campus, one that I'd leased with Trey, Shane, and Josh Starnes. We were a good match; we liked to have fun, but we weren't the kind of guys who'd tear a house down or go completely nuts.

Making drug deals with gangsters notwithstanding, of course.

On that matter, I kept in mind the craziness and excess of the previous spring, and I resolved to stay a little more sane, but the basic approach remained the same. I kept myself too busy with school and with partying to face the darker reality that was troubling me. I didn't know what to do about that reality, and I dreaded it; so I blotted it out with work and distractions.

Matt called my cell phone a few times that semester, especially at first. But the conversations made little headway; they were essentially repeats of the worthless time we'd spent together that summer. Before long, I stopped answering the phone when I saw that it was him. The voice mails he'd leave were friendly at first, but they gradually took on an irritated tone, and then turned downright angry. Eventually he stopped leaving voice mails altogether; eventually he stopped calling altogether.

It was the same with emails. He started the semester emailing me regularly. My replies, if I ever got around to replying, were perfunctory and useless.

I tried not to think too much about this. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but I had a gut sense that the more I talked to Matt, the quicker he'd come to the conclusion that he should shut me out of his life for good.

But it was more than that: There were things deep in my gut that I was aching to say to him, but those things were accompanied by things I was aching to do with him, things I was aching to be with him; and those things were impossible and hopeless. I knew that as soon as I mentioned those things he'd begin distancing, and finally back out altogether.

And that put me between a rock and a hard place.

I ached to tell him how deeply in love with him I was. How I couldn't get him out of my life, my heart, my thoughts, my dreams...

How I wanted to be his lover.

I had no idea what that implied, what it meant for the future; I just knew it was true. I wanted him with every fiber of my being. I wanted to share every detail of my life with him; I wanted to walk down Sixth Street holding his hand. I wanted to feel his body against mine as I fell asleep in my bed. I wanted to wake up with him in my arms. I wanted him, and I wanted all of him…all the time.

I wanted to make a life with him.

On the other hand, I didn't. I wanted eventually to marry a woman I fell in love with. To start a family and live the Great American Suburban Dream. Matt gripped me with a set of desires that articulated themselves strongly in my imagination…but I didn't know how to fit those desires in with my hopes and dreams for the rest of my life.

The rock and the hard place: I knew I had to guard myself from blurting out my feelings when we talked. He wasn't wired to love me like that, so it was pointless to torture myself about it, to bother him with it. I knew if I ever said anything along those lines, we were fucked for good.

But I couldn't just go through the motions anymore. I couldn't have those casual conversations that were so much a part of our friendship in the past. The depth of my feelings for him stood between us; that was the wall. Yet I realized that if I continued to say nothing to him, we were also destined to be fucked for good.

There wasn't a scenario I could envision that would make things better. But I figured that if I kept my mouth shut about the things I most needed to say, at least I'd spare him the discomfort of having to push me away because of my feelings for him. And as an added benefit, if I didn't communicate at all, I could forestall the day when he said to me, "We're done."

********

"You sure you don't wanna come see us at the winter place over Christmas break?"

I considered it for half a minute.

Trey and I were outside on the back porch sharing a bong and talking trivia when the question came.

The delivery was casual; the facial expression that accompanied it wasn't.

I looked up when he asked. What I saw was warmth, and friendship, and the assurance that he valued all that we'd been for each other and done with each other.

All of it.

I raised an eyebrow. "You don't get sick o' me being around every damn day as it is?"

"Well, duh. Of course I do," he deadpanned. "But it goes with the territory, right?"

"What territory?"

"Best friends territory, moron. I couldn't get tired of your stupid ass if I didn't love having you around."

Best friends. The term warmed me. I used to have a best friend...

and I guess Trey had stepped into that role these days.

I chuckled, and he smiled at me. "It was just a thought," he said. "We had fun last Christmas."

"Yeah," I replied, "but you froze me out and broke my heart, too."

He rolled his eyes. "I did not break your fuckin' heart, you miserable liar!"

"No," I laughed, "but you put a crimp in my action, cuttin' me off like that."

He smirked and said, "Well, we've had a year to back off from it, and here's the deal on that…I figure if you come up for the holidays, in the spirit of the season, just for the duration of your visit…"

"Nope," I said. "You had your chance. Missin' the best blowjobs you ever got? Too damn bad."

He smiled again, but the smile gradually faded, and what was left on his face was all intensity and tenderness. "They were, you know."

"Were what? The best blowjobs you ever got?"

"Yeah," he said.

I didn't know how to reply; the air got uncomfortable. Finally, I stammered, "It…we're doin' good, Trey. Doin' great as things are. What would make this a better idea this year than it was last year?"

"I don't know," he said. "Nothin', probably. I can't love you like that."

"I know," I said. "I don't need you to love me like that."

"I do, you know...just in a different way," he told me. "And…I guess I know on some level you'd still like to do stuff with me. I was willing to have you come up and do that some over the holidays. Away from school and all the shit associated with it. Enjoying the time together, you and me, just skiing and hangin' out with my brother and doing fun stuff...but we could let it get a little sexy, too."

I frowned. "I wouldn't like it unless you liked it."

"I'd like it. I told you."

I looked away. "Not like that."

"I know," he said, shrugging. "More than that. That's what you'd want."

"Need," I corrected. "That's what I'd need. With you, anyway. We've been too far together for it to just be about your cock in my mouth. And I understand, man. I know you can't take it there."

"I love you a lot," he said. "And you do know how to make my junk feel good. I just can't sync the two up."

"Trey," I said, "you don't need to explain or apologize. And you don't need to make love to me. You don't even need to love me any more than you do. We're fine."

"Okay," he said dubiously.

"Anyway," I said, "I need to spend all of Christmas at home this year. I felt bad about running off on my family last year as it was."

He stood up from his chair. "Makes sense. But just know, you can come up any time we're up there. I'd enjoy spending the time with you. And you don't even have to suck my dick."

"Dork," I said, laughing.

"Stand up and come here," he said.

I walked over to him, and he pulled me into a hug. We stood there motionlessly, wordlessly, holding each other and trying to say with our bodies the things that our talking didn't quite know how to capture.

********

Ethan O'Connell, my red-headed football buddy from high school, threw a party at his parents' lakehouse a few days after Christmas break had brought me back home. I was looking forward to going, even though I knew it would pinch a little; I was bound to run into Matt, and I'd been ignoring his contacts for half a semester.

I was into my sixth beer, holding court in the living room with a few of my old friends, when he sat down in the chair next to me. After the obligatory handshakes, hugs, and hellos with my other friends, he slapped a hand on my shoulder, smiled, and said, "How's it hangin'?"

The touch of his hand leaned my heart hard into him, even with the buzz I was starting to feel. Determined to keep it jovial, I grinned and answered, "You wanna see?"

He didn't smile, and he didn't pause, as he said, "Yeah, if you wanna show me."

My breath left me. A look passed between us, loaded with import. But before my boozed-up brain could make sense of things, his eyes began to sparkle. He laughed, and said, "How you doin', Drew?"

"I'm good," I said with relief, clinking my beer bottle against his. "How you doin'?"

"Pretty decent, all things considered," he said. "Hey, I guess we gonna have a little time to hang out over the holidays, right?"

"Absolutely," I said. "I…you know, about last semester…see, thing is…"

"It's all good," he said. "I get it a lot more than you think I do. And it's fine. I'm a big boy."

"You do…uhh, I mean, you are? Fuck, man, of course you are. I just…you do?"

"Yeah," he said. "All of it. I get all of it."

The hand he'd placed on my shoulder began massaging it.

"I'm drunk," I said absently, trying to steer things away from the place he seemed determined to go. "I'm on my way to drunk, anyway,"

"Yeah, you are," he said. "This won't mean to you tomorrow whatever it means to your drunk head tonight. So I'm gonna drop it, after I say this."

He looked me straight in the eyes, and said clearly--proudly--"It's all in your hands, Drew."

"What?"

"Nope. I'm done with that for tonight," he said. He clapped me on the shoulder one more time and then removed his hand.

"I mainly got into your space tonight just to make sure we hung out some over the holidays," he said.

"We will do that," I said, smiling. Guarding. Confused. But determined to hang on somehow. "You call me, I'll call you, either way. I got nothing going on."

"I got nothing going on either. Sounds like the perfect opportunity to hang out some."

I nodded, looked blearily into his eyes. He nodded back.

"One more thing I was gonna tell you. I've had enough of the frozen northland, and I'm not enjoying riding the bench. I've transferred to UNT, so I'll be finishing college down here come next fall. I can afford it, and I decided to just do it. I'll finish out spring semester up there, then when summer comes I'm moving back home for good."

Even through my alcohol haze, I was shocked. And I was bombarded by feelings I couldn't sort out.

My silence perturbed him. "Well?"

It seemed as though he wanted some sort of response. I didn't have a good one, so I mumbled, "Yeah, well...good for you, then."

"I'll be closer, Andy," he said, as if he were trying to explain something to a little kid. "I won't be a fuckin lifetime away. You think about that."

He took a final swig from his bottle, then stood up and said, "I'll call you tomorrow."

Then he was gone.

********

I wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. I needed to clear my aching head; I needed to get away from the dark fog I'd just walked into.

I started going through the cabinets for a glass, when a voice turned me around:

"I saw you when you got here. You're still a heart-breaker, aren't you?"

I couldn't hide the undiluted pleasure I felt. Angie smiled at me, delighted by my delight.

"Come here, girl," I said. I pulled her into an embrace…and fell instantly into 1998. It was so warm. So wonderful. So familiar.

So right.

Before we knew it, our lips met. Just for a moment, though, and we both backed off, feeling mutually awkward and embarrassed.

"You're drunk," she mused.

"Yeah, but I'm getting un-drunk," I said.

She laughed. "How have you been?"

"I'm good," I said. "Working hard and playing hard. How about you?"

"Good too," she told me. "Working hard and playing a little less hard."

I laughed. "Of course," I said. "That's you, sane and rational." I paused and added, "So sexy, too. The combination's irresistible."

"Damn skippy," she said, laughing.

We talked for a long time. My head began to clear, and my heart began to fill up with her. The longer we talked, the deeper into my past I fell. The passage of time we'd sustained began to fade into meaninglessness, and a well-walked territory began to open itself to us.

We walked that ground together for an hour there in the kitchen. Nothing was overtly intimate; there were no pangs of love or heartstrings pulled; there was only a feeling of deep, familiar intimacy; only a sense that I was more me than I'd been in a while; only a recognition that there was something in this open field that had been quietly waiting for the both of us to show up there again, together.

Gradually as we talked, the realities of the present moment began to reassert themselves: It was the winter of 1999, not 1998; and we'd walked divergent paths. This was merely a brief, enchanting, temporary reconnect.

"I better go," she said eventually. "It was so good seeing you. Could we get together once or twice over the holidays? I don't have anything to do."

"Sure," I said.

I paused uncomfortably, waiting for a response; but she was pausing uncomfortably as well. Finally she sighed and said, "I saw you and Matt. I heard just a little."

I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. She said, "You're both still there, you know."

I don't know, I told myself.  I didn't even understand the sentence; or, at least, I tried not to. So I said, "What do you mean?"

"You still know how to do that, I see. But I'm not buyin' it. You know what I mean," she said, smiling sadly. "Fix it, Andy. Risk it. It'll be worth it."

It was too much to handle. But I didn't want to be rude. So I said, "Thanks for caring."

She began to walk to the door. I called to her. "Hey…"

She turned. "What?"

"Can…can I kiss you? You know, for…for…"

"For old times?" she said.

"Yeah," I replied.

She walked back over. I took her in my arms and pulled her in close.

As we kissed, it struck me for the second time that night: The most real, the most true, the most right things about me were things that I'd walked away from.

********

I did what I'd told them I would; I spent more time with both Angie and Matt over Christmas break. A couple of times the three of us even hung out together. It was low-key, and no new ground was broken; but there, in that interstice between a lackluster fall and an unknown spring, we carved out a little space in which misgivings, regrets, and anxieties got laid aside as we let ourselves experience--when we were with each other, anyway--a small proportion of the things that had pulled us toward each other to begin with.

The night before I went back to school, I lay in bed thinking about things. I couldn't decide whether I was happy or sad about Matt.

I was happy he'd be closer. I'd probably see him a lot more.

But that was the problem: I'd probably see him a lot more. Like I had last summer. And things hadn't been so good then. Now there'd be just that much more opportunity to be reminded of my failure with him.

Still, for some inexplicable reason, there was a flicker of hope in the back of my mind. Not hope for anything specific; just hope. I fell asleep with Matt and Angie on my mind, while Counting Crows sang "A Long December" in the background on the radio:

A long December, and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last.
I can't remember the last thing that you said
As you were leaving…and the days go by so fast;

And it's one more day up in the canyon,
And it's one more night in Hollywood;
If you think that I could be forgiven…
I wish you would.

********

Angie and Matt:

They'd gone back to their own lives after Christmas break, but I took them back to school with me, and they ruined everything.

Hookups with men were unthinkable. I couldn't care less about hard chests and hard cocks. That stuff was just body parts and mechanics. There was nothing real there, nothing that touched my soul.

Serial-fucking with women seemed equally pointless.

I went at both with some intensity at first, trying to fake it until I fell back into it…but I wasn't falling back into it.

I kept at it, but my heart wasn't in it. I spent my fair share of "party nights" with my friends and teammates, but the people who lived with me noticed the difference.

I was downstairs watching TV one night with Shane and Josh, when Shane said, "Something seems different about you this semester, Sharpe."

"What's different?" I asked.

"You're…you're quieter," Josh said.

"Yeah, that's it," Shane said. "Quieter."

"I'm just trying to be serious about school," I said.

"That's not it," Shane said. "Do you not like living with me?"

"Why would you say that?" I asked, frowning.

"You know," he said. "The gay stuff."

"That's all behind us," I said. "I'm fine with you here."

"Okay," said Shane. "I just need you to know that my mind really has changed. Really."

"I know," I said.

"No, really. Kyle and I are good buds now. I've had long talks with him. We're fine."

"I know," I sighed. "I told you, I'm fine with you."

"I told him it wasn't that," said Josh. "But it's something; what is it?"

"You been talking to each other about me? What the fuck?"

"Just answer the question, Sharpe," Shane said. "Why are you different this semester?"

Exasperated, I looked at them and said firmly, "Because I've lost my way, okay? I have to figure some things out. And I don't feel like fucking everything that moves or partying like a damn…like a damn jock while I'm trying to get it worked out. That good enough for you?"

Shane and Josh looked at each other, then at me. "It's fine," Josh said, slapping my head and rubbing my hair briskly. "We were just checking. Didn't want you jumping out of an upstairs bedroom window."

"I'm fine, Starnes," I said, mustering a smile that I hoped would convince. "Anyway, if I jumped, I'd land in the holly. It would break my fall and stick me from head to toe with them damn sharp leaves. I gotta work this one out without help of the window. But you're waaaay off-base. I'm not gonna off myself. Not even thinking of it."

"Good enough," Shane said. And with that, the subject dropped, and we all went back to watching TV. 

********

I wasn't working it out, though. I didn't know how.

I didn't know what I needed to do. I didn't know what I wanted.

What I did know was that, with business as usual, I felt cheap. Like a druggie. Like a slut. Drinking and smoking dope to escape. Fucking like a rabbit to avoid my feelings.

It was all getting old; but I couldn't think of what to do for myself.

The truth was that I couldn't get Angie and Matt off my mind. I kept thinking about how good it had been just a few years back. I kept thinking about how I'd never known anything as good, as warm, as happy, as what I'd known and had back then.

I tortured myself with thoughts of the party at Christmas break, and of the subsequent times I'd spent with them over that break; times where we seemed on the verge of…

On the verge of something.

Something better than the drinking/drugging/sexing thing I was doing at school.

Something more real.

I began to find myself craving "real." I knew that whatever "real" was, my behavior at school wasn't it.

Night after night I'd lie in bed thinking about the two of them…remembering the good times from the past…and listening to a Sarah McLachlan track over and over and over.

Spend all your time waiting for that second chance,
For a break that would make it okay;
There's always some reason to feel not good enough,
And it's hard at the end of the day.
I need some distraction; a beautiful release—
Memories, seep from my veins!
Let me be empty and weightless, and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight.

In the arms of the angel,
Fly away from here;
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie;
You're in the arms of the angel:
May you find some comfort here.

Listening to that song in the dark, my mind's eye saw Matt and Angie as clear as day. My two angels.

The memories of life and love with the two of them seeped from my veins. On the way out, the memories took me from my grief over the losing those loves to another place; a place where we each had what we needed, and where having it was enough.

Back in those days, what we needed was each other.

Their faces called to me. Blamed me. Forgave me. Invited me.

During those long nights, I'd think about how badly I'd handled everything. I'd imagine having done better. I'd consider in great detail what I might have done differently; what I might have said that I didn't. And inevitably, I'd cry. Eventually, I'd fall asleep.

There was a kind of peace to it that called me to repeat the scene night after night in the solitude of my room: Listen to the song about the angel; think about how I might have done it better; cry; fall asleep.

Night after night.

********

One Saturday morning, after having fallen asleep to the music, and the remembering, and the imagining, and the tears, I woke up filled with a conviction that seemed to have come alive out of nowhere while I slept:

I wasn't going to do this any more.

I wasn't going to be this anymore.

I was going to get somewhere different.

I was done with drinking and drugging and meaningless sexual encounters.

I was going to get real back.

I sat up in bed, a little astonished by my change of mood and the energy behind this conviction that seemed to have created itself. I felt better than I had in a long time, though, so I went with it. I was going to make things different. I'd figure out how as I went about the tasks of my morning.

So I went out for breakfast by myself.

Went grocery shopping.

Came back home and worked out.

Showered.

When I'd dried off and dressed, I was ready. And my head and heart were clear on at least one thing.

I went to my phone and dialed.

After two rings, I heard the voice, and started Going Somewhere Else:

"Angie? It's Andy."