“Good news and bad news,” the doctor says. She’s young and wears a shiny blue polo over khakis

My eyebrows raise. 

“Nothing broken, only bruised. That’s the good news,” she says. 

“And the bad?”

“They’ll need at least a week to heal. No practice for a week.” Her face remains expressionless. She sits at a computer and punches in some data. 

“Oh no,” I mutter with a giggle.

“I can see your disappointment. We’ll wrap up the paperwork and get you out of here in a few minutes, Aiden.” The doctor leaves us alone.

I had asked Mateo to join me in the room, and Nurse Bradford stayed in the general waiting area. Mom will meet us here as soon as she can.

I lift up my shirt again and look at the black and blue. “I’m glad they’re not broken,” I mumble. “I don’t want Logan or Coach to think I’m that brittle.”

Mateo’s eyes glance at my ribs, and his face melts with sympathy. He brushes his thick hair, still parted in the middle, out of his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Thanks for coming with me,” I tell him. “Can I ask you something?”

Mateo walks over to the patient bed, where I sit on a rolled-out sheet of sanitary paper.

“Is it always gonna be this bad?” 

“You keep showing up, no matter what. You take a beating but come back. In time, you’ll earn their respect.” He puts his hands in the pockets of the shorts he threw on before leaving school. We both put some clothes on over our singlets. I’m pretty sure my head could be pouring out blood, and I’d still not want to wear that stupid thing in public. 

“What if I don’t want their respect?” I ask, crossing my legs. At first, I cross them completely, one leg hanging over the other. That’s too feminine, I think, and adjust so it’s only my ankle over my knee. “What if it’s not worth it?” 

“That’s your call. What else will you do?” His eyes glance at my legs. Does the way I cross them make me look gay? I pull at the bottom of my T-shirt, frustrated at my own thoughts.

“Nap. Netflix. Eat. Who cares?” I laugh, hoping he’ll return it. He cracks a small smile. “My first two days have been absolute shit.”

“I hope you don’t quit.” His brown eyes soften, and his smile grows. God, just a little thing like that—the way his lips part and reveal those beautiful teeth—makes butterflies dance in my gut.

“Why?” I ask softly, hoping he’ll say something perfect. Tell me you like me. Really like me. That would be amazing.

He puts a hand on the bed close to me. My tummy flips like I’m on a carnival ride, butterflies acting more like hornets raging war with my hormones. “You’ve seen these guys, Aiden. Wrestlers can be assholes. Lots of, I dunno, testosterone, anger, and people just wanting to fight. That’s not me. I’m not in it for those reasons. It’s nice to have someone else like me.”

Like me? I swallow hard. I feel high like I could float away. How similar are we? I put a hand on my tingling stomach, trying to calm it.

There’s so much about him I want to know, but I want to be careful about what words escape my mouth. “Why do you do it?” I ask, my voice nearly shaking. I’m nervous as hell—have I finally found someone who’s like me? And who might possibly like me back?

“I told you.” He shrugs. “I’m good at this. It’s my ticket to college.”

“There gotta be other ways to get to college,” I say.

“Maybe.”

The door swings open, and Mat steps away from the bed.

“Oh, honey. Are you okay?” It’s Mom, and her face washes with a mix of concern and frustration. Her ash-blonde hair looks messier than usual, which means she’s had an extra crazy day at work. 

“Yeah. Just bruised,” I say.

“I tell you, I don’t like this wrestling. Not at all.” She looks over to Mateo. “Who are you?”

“That’s Mateo, Mom.” He extends his hand. 

“Hi, Mrs. Rothe.”

“Not a missus anymore. But nice to meet you, too.” She studies him closely. Their eyes lock, and it gives me a second to look at him carefully, too. It’s really not fair that someone should be so athletic and so handsome. He steadies his breathing, his shirt clinging tightly to a ripped chest. Dimples form on his milk chocolate face when he smiles. 

A nurse enters the room with the paperwork and hands it to my mother. We both take our eyes away from Mateo. I feel flushed and warm, dozens of different emotions hitting me. I’m not used to feeling so much at once. “You’re all set. You can check out upfront,” the nurse tells us. 

“You can send this bill straight to the school. Don’t you think so, Aiden?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, drop it off in Coach Krake’s mailbox. He’ll love that.” I roll my eyes, but Mateo laughs. It’s contagious, and it gets me giggling, too. 

“I think this Coach and I will have a conversation about how he treats my son,” she says out loud but not to anyone in particular.

My smile vanishes. “Please, no, Mom.”

“Mateo, why don’t you join us for dinner? It’s our way of thanking you for staying here with Aiden while I was at work,” she says, ignoring my plea.

“Cool. I’ll text my parents.”

Mom checks out, and Mat and I follow. Nurse Bradford left, apparently, when Mom arrived. 

“Where would you boys like to eat?” she asks. “Let’s go out. I don’t feel like cooking.”

“Do you like Mexican?” Mateo asks. “My uncle works at Hacienda. Great food, and he’ll give us a discount.”

I sure like Mexican. It’s hot and spicy and if it tastes as good as it looks . . . I feel my cheeks redden at the thoughts, and I look out the car window. What the heck is wrong with me?

“Sounds wonderful. Hacienda it is.”

Mat and I both sit in the back since Mom has a work bag overflowing with papers in the passenger seat. My eyes dart to his legs. His quads are thick. But he’s not fat. Even when he simply adjusts his legs, they twitch with multiple muscles. I have a flab of flat skin over my quads. When I flex my legs, they feel harder, but I don’t see anything. 

He catches me looking at him, and I turn away. My ears burn. Get a grip, Aiden!

When Mom parks at the restaurant, we hop out. Mateo takes the lead and greets the host in Spanish. She sits us at a nice booth in the back.

A server brings us some water, and we look over the menu.

Then I hear a boy’s laughter that immediately makes me sick. Tisha and Logan sit two booths over, apparently on a date.

Shit. 

I lift the menu up high to cover my face, hoping they don’t see us. In all the restaurants in this stupid town . . .