I’m in uncharted territory here. Usually, when attraction hits, I’d make a move. Or the lady in question would. But now? I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.

“Shit.” I pick up the pace and head into the team’s gym. I could work out at home—and, God, I need to do something to ease this twitchy feeling—but I don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s late so I have a good chance of being alone here.

Gyms stink of bleach, lingering sweat and funk, of steel weights and rubber matting, and I love that. It’s familiar as home to me now. I hustle past the locker rooms, ready to hit the treadmill, when I see them.

It’s a small movement out of the corner of my eye, nothing I’d notice if I wasn’t alone at night in a supposedly abandoned gym. I know Rolondo so well by now that I recognize him almost instantly. He’s leaning against one of the shower walls, a towel wrapped around his waist, his torso still wet.

But it’s the guy next to him who catches my attention. Many scenarios could explain what I’m seeing, but the way the guy leans into ’Londo, half his body blocking my view, and the expression on my friend’s face, tight and miserable, gives me pause. And as if someone’s snapped their fingers in front of my eyes, I get it.

Understanding hits me the exact moment Rolondo notices me. He stiffens, standing tall, his shoulders straightening as if bracing for a fight. The guy next to him, a big black dude who looks like he’d be at home on the field with us, turns and glances as me. Fear widens his eyes for a second before he narrows them and glares at me, then ’Londo.

Without a word, he pushes off from the wall with one hand and stalks past me, his shoulder almost brushing my own.

I’m left alone with Rolondo who stares back at me. I suppose the knowledge is there in my eyes; I’m not really trying to hide it. That won’t help anymore. But it breaks something between us. I see the moment he decides I’m now the enemy because I know his secret.

He makes a noise of defiance and strolls my way, heading for his locker. He doesn’t look at me when he passes, but his muscles twitch and his walk is awkward. Hell. I can leave now, not say a word, but I don’t.

“Whatever the fuck you think you saw,” he says as he grabs his boxers, “you’re wrong, G.”

Weariness has me rubbing my face before I move to the bench and sit on it. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Rolondo snaps, “I know so.” Already he’s raging, ready to attack at the smallest provocation.

Bracing my forearms on my knees, I stare at the waffle-weave pattern on the rubber floor matting. “Is this going to become a problem for us?”

He pauses, one leg in his sweats, the other out, before he continues dressing. “You gonna make it one?”

“Look, I can pretend, and that would probably make things seem easier for you.”

He snorts, shoving his feet into his shoes without tying them, like he’s racing to escape.

“But in the long run, it won’t,” I finish.

“I swear to God…” Rolondo holds up his hands and his arms shake. “If you start in on some white-boy, let’s-talk-about-our-feelings bullshit—”

“Sit down, ’Londo.”

When he grabs his bag and makes a move to go, my voice, hard and loud, echoes in the room. “Sit. Down.”

I snap my head up and catch his gaze. It’s a game of chicken but I don’t blink. ’Londo might be fast as fuck, but I’m bigger and a better tackle. I will take him down in a minute and let him know that with a look.

Scowling and muttering under his breath, Rolondo drops onto the bench next to me. “What, then?”

I almost smile at his petulant tone, only this night has officially gone to shit and I just want it all to end. My fingers lace as I sit there. “In high school, I had this friend, Jason. He played receiver. He…ah…” A lump fills my throat and I have to clear it. “Sophomore year he tried to hang himself.”

Utter silence expands between us. Until I clear my throat again.

“He couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t face his dad, his team, thinking they’d reject him because he was gay.” My hands clench. “I was his friend. I suspected. But I never asked. I didn’t want to upset him. But I knew he was troubled about something.”

Rolondo’s voice cracks when he speaks. “Why are you telling me this?”

I risk a glance, find he’s gone ashy gray. My eyes burn. It hurts thinking of Jason. “I want to be clear. Do not think for a second that I’d turn my back on you, think of you any differently. And do not even imagine that I’d tell anyone. That’s your business.”

He glances away, then nods. Once. Sharp. And I breathe a little easier. But I don’t say anything more, knowing that he’ll talk when and if he wants. We sit together for a full two minutes before he finally decides to talk. “It’s wearing on me. Hiding. Pretending to be something I’m not.”

“I feel you.”

Rolondo laughs low and without humor. “Not hardly, G. I’m a southern, black man who plays football.” He licks his lower lip in agitation. “Hell, my mama is already bugging me about when is she gonna get some grandbabies? What do you think she’d say about this?”

We both deflate a little and stare at the floor in silence.

“That guy…” I glance toward the showers where I’d found them. “You love him?”