Play Me

by Adriana Locke

Gray’s body wasn’t built. It was crafted. Forged. His chest is barreled, and his abdomen is stonelike. His legs are just short of tree trunks—thick thighs and strong calves. Scars and bruises accent his skin as much as the dark ink that embraces his left upper leg. He’s a machine that moves with an oddly refined grace. Even the devil was once an angel.

“I’ll never understand rugby,” I say, furrowing a brow as another scrum begins. “It’s like football, soccer, and cheerleading had a baby with big thighs.”

I’ve lived long enough to know that you must risk it for the biscuit sometimes. You’ll never get much out of life if you don’t. Trust me on that.”

“It’s okay to be hopeful. If you don’t have hope in life, you have nothing at all.”

days. I got the idea, from my pap, probably, that being a good friend, or brother, or son, meant not sharing the hard parts of your life with them. The goal was not to be a burden. But I’ve come to realize, or theorize, anyway, that I might have been wrong. Because sharing the darkest part of my life with Astrid has only brought us closer together. It freed up a part of me that had been … trapped. Sharing the dark weakens it, allowing more light to shine through.