Page 54 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Yeah, that.” Chilling sweat breaks out across my shoulders.
Do I push him away because that’s howtheytrained me to punish myself?
Every time I fucked up, they’d take him. I don’t think he even realized that’s what they were doing; it was always under the guise ofspecialized training.Hewas perfectly fine withoutme—they punished him in other ways.
But now, when I act too fixated on him, I push him away. To punish myself for beingtoo much.
No—I’m not punishing myself. I’m trying to break unhealthy cycles. I’m removing a vice.
Only he’s not a vice. He’s my gods-damnedperson, and Ihavebeen treating him like an incentive.
I hunch over in bed, screwing my knuckle into my temple, and tell him about last night. Everything. When I describe the magic smash room, he does take an embarrassing amount of interest in it—“Why haven’t you and I gone there? I hate you.” I give him the PG version of what happened in the car; so much of these details about Alexo feel porcelain delicate, things entrusted to me and me alone.
At the end, I canhearSeb’s smile. “Orok’s got aboyfrieeeeeend.”
“Shut up.” But I’m smiling now, too. And the dream is gone, my anxiety stable. “I really do have to go, though. I gotta get to HQ to review game-day tapes.”
“Ugh. They not only make you play rawball, but you have to then rewatch what you played?”
“Oh, that reminds me—since we won when you were at the game last night, I now need you to come to all my games. I’ve decided you’re my good-luck charm this season.”
Seb lets out a defeated “Please don’t ask that of me, I beg of you.”
I laugh. There’s something weird about it, and it takes me a minute to realize I haven’t laughed like this with Seb in… gods, I can’t even remember. Since before I moved back. I’ve been keeping him in such a restricted box and monitoring my every interaction with him that I haven’t let myselfenjoyhim, enjoyus.
He laughs, too. And it sounds relieved. Lighter.
“You aren’t a punishment or a reward.” The words gush out of me, driven by an abrupt need to reconcile this. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“I don’t give a shit, O. I really don’t. Do better; do your worst. Just let me be a part of it.”
My heart thuds, throat pinching.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“Fuck yeah, you do,” he says back, that grin in his voice, and ends the call.
I do need to get to HQ, but I flip to Alexo’s text thread and write,Is that a code I should know?
He texts back while I’m getting dressed.
ALEXO
No. It’s something real about me. My favorite dessert. And I figure that might be an important piece of information if you’re deathly allergic to nuts.
No allergies here. No food issues at all, except eating unbearable amounts of protein throughout the season. But here’s something real about me: when it’s offseason, I go vegetarian.
Tell me something else real.
I get to HQ, find a seat in the theater-style room with the other defensive tanks, and while our coach is setting up last night’s game footage, I watch the three dots in Alexo’s text thread appear and vanish and reappear.
ALEXO
I’ve lived almost everywhere, and my least favorite climate is right here. Fucking hate snow. And this humidity is a bitch. Give me warm, dry crop-top weather, please and thank you.
Mm. His crop tops.
“Monroe?”
