Page 7 of Blurred Boundaries

“I like you, too,” I admit, and the smile he gives me in return is worth it, to be honest. “But I’m new here, and even as a guest lecturer, I still have an obligation to behave properly. Hooking up with a student goes against that.” I sigh and drag my hand through my locs, already feeling the headache forming behind my eyes. “Whatever happens here will be sent to my actual university, where I have to return to in a year. And you’re young. I’m sure you’ll find someone your age.”

Even as I say it, something tightens in my chest. I refuse to examine it closely. If things were different, if we were just two people hooking up at the club with no other ties to each other, then I might be able to see where this goes. Especially since I’ve already sorted out my attraction to men. There are just too many factors stacked against this right now.

He sighs. “Maybe I can change your mind,” he whispers, darting his tongue out to lick the corner of my mouth.

He’s not making this easy on me. My body reacts, and now my dick is getting hard in my trousers. I gather what remains of my self-control and slide my hands under him, lifting him off my lap. It’s not even a struggle. He’s built, but I have the weight and height advantage.

Once his feet hit the ground, he looks up to me with those big, doe eyes. “Can we at least be friends?” he asks.

The hopeful note in his voice catches me off guard. I pick up my laptop and put it inside my bag before slinging it over my shoulder. “Sure,” I tell him.

He grins, and for the first time I can clearly see the twenty-year-old guy beneath all that confidence. “Okay, friend,” he agrees, walking to the door to retrieve his abandoned bag. “Let me drive you home.” He lifts a finger and points it at me. “And you can’t decline my friendly offer.”

I just stare at him.

I’m royally fucked, aren’t I?

5

MICHAEL

—Soft Work by Falz

Taj drops me outside my apartment building. I’m grateful he doesn’t ask to come in. Mostly because I know I would’ve said yes, probably before he could even finish the sentence.

Around him, my self-control is hanging on by a thread, a frayed thread at that. I was never like this with Rita in the years we were together. But after just a handful of conversations, this twenty-year-old guy has me in a chokehold. What’s more ludicrous is that I love it. Again, if I had met him under different circumstances, I would’ve already thrown in myself head first, even if only for the thrill I feel whenever he’s near.

But I need to be careful, because anybody who can pin me against a bookshelf and jerk us off at the same time is a danger to my libido. I still need to work out how to teach him without getting hard in front of my students; it’s a challenge I didn’t expect to have when I accepted this job.

I let myself into the apartment and drop my bag on the sofa. It’s the smallest flat I have ever lived in, but I actually like it because of the cosy vibe it has. It’s nothing like my duplex in Abuja, or the four-floor mansion in London where I grew up. The living room here can’t be more than twenty-five square metres, and it’s just enough space for an L-shaped sofa, a coffee table, a TV console, and a standing lamp tucked in the corner. To the right is an open-plan kitchen with two breakfast stools and a narrow table between them; there’s a small window above the sink that lets in the last of the evening light. The bedroom is much the same size-wise, but it has a king-size bed—something I’m grateful for because some standards must be maintained.

I unbutton my vest, then my shirt, and I shrug them both off before stepping out of my trousers. I’m halfway to the bathroom when my phone pings with a text. I turn back and dig it out of my bag, the screen lighting up with so many missed calls from Roland. I immediately tap my forehead. In my panic, I sent him a rather dramatic text after class—telling him I behaved wildly out of character, and I might have ruined everything for myself before my time at the university had even properly started.

I open my messages first, expecting one from him. Instead, it’s Rita. A chill runs down my spine when I read it.

Hey, how is Roland dealing with being outed?

What the fuck? My fingers become clumsy. I nearly drop the phone before I manage to open my browser and type Roland Johnson into Google. Headlines flood the screen from sports blogs to news sites, and even gossip pages, his name is everywhere. My stomach turns as I tap the first link and skim as fast as I can. Something about Austin Coker (who plays for Amex FC, the team that played against Roland’s Kingsford FC yesterday) collapsing on the field, and Roland abandoning his post. He not only carry Austin out of the field, but he also followed him to the hospital. His coach has reportedly suspended him. On top of that, an anonymous source is adding fuel to the fire, claiming Roland and Austin have been involved since the Nigerian team played a friendly match against Denmark in Copenhagen.

I stare at the screen, reading the story again as if it might rearrange itself into something less awful. How the hell did that leak? Guilt wraps around my chest so hard, it feels physical. While Roland’s entire world was being torn apart online, I was sending him self-centred nonsense about my own mess of a day. I dial Roland’s number and lift the phone to my ear, already dreading the sound of his voice.

Roland has been my friend for as long as I can remember. We met in primary school and attached ourselves to each other almost immediately. We were both only children and understood the strange mix of independence and loneliness that came with it. I was with him for three months in London after Nigeria went out of the World cup in the quarter-finals. I wasn’t there to comfort him over the loss, though. Rita had just ended things, and I was feeling pretty miserable. She had finally reached her limit after someone set her car on fire. I can’t say I blame her, especially after years of putting up with the women who developed an unsettling habit of stalking me.

And Roland had his own mess brewing after realising his feelings for Austin, so how did he go from the brooding footballer I left in London to the number one trending topic on the internet? The first call rings out unanswered. I quickly reply to Rita, telling her I haven’t reached him yet, thanking her for checking in. I then redial Roland, and he answers this time.

“What’s up, man?” he says down the line. “I called when I got your text.”

It is so like Roland to need control over every situation. His voice gives nothing away. No strain, no panic, no anger. He sounds like it’s an ordinary day, and he’s simply returning a mate’s call, still trying to show up for me. I don’t deserve him.

“Forget my text, I just saw all the shit about you online.” I try not to let the panic show in my voice. “How’re you doing?”

“Oh.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve sorted it.”

“You’re no longer suspended?”

“I still am,” he answers. “I mean, I sorted it with Austin. I, uhm . . . I explained things to him, and we are going to block out the noise. I was even telling him we should come to Prague to lay low. I needed to check on you anyway.”

My chest goes warm in that familiar way it always does when it comes to Roland. The man has his own life in flames, and he’s still planning to fly across Europe to make sure I’m all right.