Keeper 2019 reissue, p.1
Keeper (2019 Reissue), page 1
KEEPER
M.A. GRAY
SUMMER HOUSE
It’s been four years since I’ve seen Logan McGregor. The one guy I could never get over. Former teammate and (unfortunately) very straight best friend.
This summer was supposed to be unforgettable. Six weeks in Paris. A prestigious soccer institute. But when I find out he’ll be in Paris too, it doesn’t take long for those unrequited feelings to come rushing back.
Avoiding him is the safest road. Nothing good can come of spending time in his company. And I swear I’ll keep my distance. I will. Except...
“Hey, roomie.”
Keeper is a steamy, standalone m/m romance. Contains giant jawbreakers, a pink speedo, an ill-drawn tattoo, and a happy ending. It was formerly published as Out of Bounds.
Summer House
Copyright © 2019 M.A. Gray
Previously titled: Out of Bounds
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be sold, reproduced, or distributed in any form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
For the dreamers
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Austin
When I walk into the house Friday night, I’m surprised to find my sister, Megan, sitting on the living room couch watching television. Even more surprising is my roommate sitting beside her, two pizza boxes resting on the coffee table. I blink, but the image remains. Only under pain of death would I ever expect to see the two people who hate each other most in the world sitting in companionable silence.
The front door shuts, and I stand there in curiosity and confusion, certain this is a dream. Or a nightmare. “Um.”
“Hello, big brother!” Megan says with a grin. She takes a sip from her huge glass of wine, her eyes a little unfocused.
Phil tears into a slice of pepperoni, eyes locked on the show that’s playing, though every once in a while they drift to Megan. “She just showed up,” he says, as if this was an inconvenience to him. “She brought pizza though, so I let her in.”
Megan rolls her eyes. “As if you would turn away free pizza.”
Phil pushes his unruly hair behind his shoulder. She’s right. No way in hell would my friend and roommate ever turn down free pizza. Or a lay.
I’ll admit, it feels like I’ve walked into an episode of The Twilight Zone. Moving toward the couch, I study them, wondering if they’re under some sort of spell. “So,” I say, drawing out the word. “Is everything good here?”
“Yep.” This from Megan.
“The world isn’t ending?”
“Nope.” This from Phil, his mouth full of crust.
Well... okay. Weirder things have happened besides Phil and my sister hanging out. But not by much. I’m still waiting for the alien invasion.
As my eyes flick to the television though, I groan. Now I know why they haven’t killed each other yet. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Gilmore Girls.
At my look of repulsion, Phil sits up. “It’s the season finale,” he states rather aggressively, as if that’s a perfectly acceptable reason to watch something that I believe is only slightly less horrifying than cannibalism. Megan nods beside him. I’m pretty sure my sister’s never agreed with my roommate about anything, unless it’s something like his lack of intelligence. But Phil defends his decision, saying, “Bro, you know I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“And I’ve been looking forward to the game,” I shoot back, watching the opening credits with a combination of dread and resignation. Literally nothing exciting happens in this show. Just a mother and her daughter and forced banter. It makes me want to vomit.
He waves a hand, brushing aside my comment. “We’ll watch the highlights tomorrow. It’s fine.”
“The last season finale, you moped around for a week.” And I can’t handle a mopey Phil.
“Austin, you don’t understand. You get attached to these characters. Lorelei, Rory, Luke! Poor Luke.” He shakes his head, his dark eyes somber. Light casts shadows over the strong planes of his face. “That guy’s had a boner for Rory’s mom since forever and she doesn’t have a clue.”
“It’s true,” Megan says, voice prim. “Unrequited love is no joke.”
I swallow down a groan. I know a lost cause when I see one. I’ll have to pry the remote from Phil’s cold, dead fingers. “Why can’t you watch it at Megan’s place?”
There’s a long silence, during which my sister and roommate refuse to look at each other.
“Your TV is bigger,” Megan chirps.
And that’s the end of that.
With a sigh, I drop my gym bag by the front door before sinking onto the couch next to Megan. With Phil on her other side, we’ve sandwiched her in.
Megan wrinkles her nose. “You smell.”
“So do you,” I shoot back, grabbing a slice of cheese.
“Yes, but I smell good. There’s a difference.”
“There’s a difference,” Phil mimics, before sipping his beer.
She cuts him a simmering glare. He grins at her. He must have a death wish if he thinks provoking Megan is a good idea.
Somehow, I manage to make it through the first segment without gouging my eyes out. Megan quickly darts into the kitchen to refill her wine, and I scarf down another slice of pizza.
“Doesn’t the academy release the names of their participants today?” Phil asks, only partly paying attention to me as the commercial ends and the show returns. Megan rushes back to the couch, breathless.
That’s right. Next week, I leave for Academy Paris, a prestigious summer soccer institute for up-and-coming professionals located in the heart of France. I’ve never been out of the country before. Neither has Megan, as we haven’t been able to afford it. But this academy gives you a full ride: room, board, airfare. The works. Phil and I graduated UCLA only a week ago, so now we’re free men.
It’s weird not having to wake up for morning classes. There’s no structure. No studying for tests or writing research papers for classes you don’t care about. My degree is business management, but I always knew soccer would lead me through life. Which is why I still wake up at six-thirty every morning, go jogging, head to the gym, eat a healthy breakfast, hone my footwork. Just because I’m no longer a Bruin doesn’t mean I stop working. Going pro in soccer, as with anything, takes patience, skill, and most importantly, discipline.
My laptop sits on the coffee table, so I pull it onto my lap and head to the website. Only twenty-five men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two are selected to attend Academy Paris each summer. I didn’t need to be accepted, as both LA Galaxy and Liverpool have recruited me for their team. I told them I needed the summer to decide.
LA Galaxy, while fantastic, has suffered from a weaker defense in recent years. If I sign with them, chances are I’d be seeing a lot of field time.
Then there’s Liverpool. Simply put, they’re one of the best. A force. If I play for Liverpool, I can go anywhere. But they want me for back-up keeper. In other words, a bench-warmer. What are the odds I’d get to play even a fraction of what I could if I started with LA?
It’s something I need to think on. Academy Paris is six weeks of intensive training, June through mid-July. I have until August 1st to decide which team I sign my life away to.
I glance at the television in disinterest. Phil mutters under his breath. I look over and see my sister studying him, the rim of her glass touching her mouth. When she catches my eye, her cheeks flush, and she gulps her wine like she’s dying of thirst.
Hm.
Turning back to the computer, I log onto my account. A list of all accepted players appears, including their names, countries of origin, colleges, positions, ages, and pictures. It’s kind of cool. The guys are from all over. Some are from Europe, some from South and Central America. One guy is from New Zealand. Another from Angola. I spot two Canadians and two other Americans. I peer closer at the Americans, curious if I’ve heard of them before.
My mouse hovers over a name, and my heart plummets in my chest, like I missed a step while walking downstairs.
Logan McGregor.
It can’t be him. The last time I saw Logan was four years ago. We were best friends in high school. But I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.
His name brings back a flood of memories. Some painful. Some beautiful. My senior year, he showed up to soccer practice two weeks after tryouts had ended , after having transferred schools. My high school coach, as much as I admired him, was a scary motherfucker. Logan told the man in no uncertain terms that he’d be a fool if he didn’t let Logan tryout. I thought this new kid was daring and bold. Too bold. But he was right. Logan McGregor was one of the best forwards I’d ever seen. A force to be reckoned with.
He’s also the first and only boy I’ve ever loved.
It’s hard to make out his features on the tiny thumbnail. I’m not sure what’s worse: clicking on it and seeing his face, or clicking on it and discovering it’s some other guy named Logan McGregor. Someone I’ve never met.
“Austin?” Megan’s voice sounds far away.
Phil finishes his beer and sets it on the coffee table. “Checking out the eye candy this summer?” It’s a joke, but the comment puts my back up.
“Says the guy who fucks anything that moves,” I say, my voice whipping out low.
“I told you I’m not into that anymore,” he shoots back, glancing at Megan to see her reaction. She doesn’t give any sign that she’s affected by it. Merely sips her wine, lips pursed like she smells something pungent.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Though, truthfully, I haven’t seen Phil with a girl in, well, months. Maybe even a year. I’d thought it was a dry spell, but now I wonder if it’s a personal choice.
I take a breath. My chest feels too tight.
“Can you give us a few minutes, Phil?” Megan asks. Her expression is serious and alert. She’s always been able to tell when something is wrong. Years and years of watching out for me when our lives were in upheaval have solidified that sense.
“What, I can’t listen in on the juicy details?”
I’m not about to discuss this with someone like Phil. He’s a good guy, but I don’t think he really understands the inner workings of the heart. This is more vulnerability than I’m comfortable showing.
“I want to talk to my brother alone,” Megan repeats, eyes hard as they rest on him. He towers over her by nearly a foot, and yet Megan is the only person I’ve ever seen who can go toe-to-toe with him and win.
His gaze flickers with unreadable emotion. Then he nods. “I’ll be in my room. Call me when you’re done.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” I tell my sister once his bedroom door closes.
“It’s a gift.” Her focus narrows on the computer screen. “So. This is him, huh?”
“Who?”
“The guy who broke your heart.”
Shit. Why are women so perceptive?
I wonder if she’s also a mind reader, because Megan says, “What, you think I don’t know love when I see it?” The question is gentle.
“How did you know?” I ask, curious.
“You’ve always kept some level of separation between yourself and others. It’s not a bad thing, per say. It’s just something I came to realize as we got older. But your last year of high school, everything changed. You changed. You were happy.” Then her voice falls flat, and my stomach follows. I know what’s coming. I try to block out the memories. “But after graduation, it’s like you became someone else and I didn’t know why. You were sad and withdrawn. I wondered if some girl had broken your heart, but after you came out to me, I wondered if it was a guy instead.”
Ah, yes. The old coming-out party.
I came out to Megan my freshman year of college. During one of her visits, we sat in my dorm, and I fought the need to tell her I was in a relationship, only it was with a man. This was nearly two years after I’d begun exploring my sexuality. Now that I was a part of something real, I didn’t want to hide anymore.
“Megan,” I said, my stomach roiling with dread and fear.
“Yeah?” She was busy sipping wine, even though she was underage, and watching one of those Food Network shows about cupcakes. This was basically what we did when she came over. I’d never seen any of the baking shows, but they were surprisingly cut-throat. Vicious bakers coated in flour. Stealing ingredients to sabotage the other players.
“I have to tell you something.”
Something in my voice must have sent alarm bells off in her head, because she turned her attention on me, eyes serious. Megan and I might have argued sometimes, but growing up the way we did, we were always there for each other.
“What is it?” she asked.
My chest constricted. I knew it was the fear I felt fighting against the constructs of our society. I knew I was as important as anyone else, no matter who I found attractive, no matter who I loved. I mattered.
“I’m gay.”
She blinked, nothing changing in her expression. “Oh. Okay.”
Then:
“Can you pass the wine?”
Now she dips her chin at the computer screen. “Is that him? Do I need to break his arm for you?”
A chuckle manages to loosen the tension gathering in me. Megan, ever the protector. “He can keep his arms.”
“Wait a minute.” She leans closer to the picture. “Wasn’t that guy on your soccer team in high school?”
Another clench in my chest. It feels weird speaking to her so openly about things. I’m not normally one to divulge in my private life. It must be a special occasion. “Yeah, he was.”
“That’s right. You two were always hanging out. And he was at Chelsea Holmes’s graduation party.”
The thought of that party fills my body with sudden heat. Bits of memories I had long ago buried now begin to resurface. Walking into a darkened closet. My hands on Logan’s thighs. His moan resonating in my ear.
Fuck. Now is not the time to be thinking these things, especially with my sister sitting next to me. I mentally kick them into an empty room and slam the door shut, vowing not to open it again any time soon, if ever. There’s only pain there. Pain and regret and guilt.
“I always thought he was cute.” She studies me. “He’s gay though?”
I nearly laugh. I wish. “No, he’s straight.” Which was unfortunate for my sad, pathetic, eighteen-year-old heart.
“Ah.” Sympathy swims in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Me too, I want to tell her. Me too.
Four years, and I thought I’d managed to forget Logan. What a terrible liar I am. I only have to see his name before everything rushes back with the force of a dam breaking open.
Since I’m a masochist, I can’t help but study his picture. He stands with three other guys in their soccer jerseys, smiling, sweaty, the soccer ball captured under his cleat. Victory is bright in his eyes. They must have won a game.
He’s the tall guy in the center. Black hair. Brown eyes. He has the lanky build he’s always had, except he’s filled out in the years since I’ve seen him. I wonder if his voice is deeper. It was pretty damn deep in high school.
Megan looks at me carefully. She’s one of the few people who can read my moods. “How are you feeling about the academy, knowing he’ll be there?”
Leaning back against the couch, I contemplate my answer. “I guess I’m wondering whether or not Logan is the forgiving type. I’m the one who stopped talking to him, you know.” At the time, I thought I hadn’t a choice. After practically molesting him in a closet, I was sure he’d never want to see my face again.
“Maybe he’s forgotten about it.”
Maybe. But I’m not so sure.
Logan aside, I’m also worried about leaving Megan alone with our mother for the next six weeks. My mom has fought alcohol addiction for close to twelve years now. In or out of rehab, she isn’t able to be left on her own for long stretches of time. Megan and I check in a few times a week, just to make sure she has enough food to eat, and to drive her to her AA meetings. The scale can tip in the other direction very quickly, especially if she’s around people of negative influence.
“Will you be okay with mom while I’m gone?” I ask her.
“I think so.” She sets down her wine glass. “Hopefully nothing dire will happen.”
I know what she’s thinking about. Two months ago, someone found our mother passed out in an alley. According to the biopsy, she hadn’t been sexually assaulted. She went to rehab for two months. Which is good. I’m always glad when she checks herself in. But it’s become a cycle. Over the past year, she’s relapsed three times. I love my mother, but I also resent her for not being able to control her actions. Which makes me feel like shit, because I know she’s sick. Alcoholism is a disease.
