The Weight of a Secret - 7. Chapter 7

Saturday morning was electric with anticipation. My brother Mark’s team was up first, and the game was, as expected, a decisive victory. He played an incredible game, scoring two touchdowns. The crowd was really into it, and it felt good to see my brother and his teammates celebrating. As happy as I was for my brother, my thoughts soon shifted to Connor and his team. While Mark’s team was favored to win, Connor's was the underdog. The team they were playing, Westfield, was from a wealthier town nearby and had a talented crop of 7th grade athletes.

When Connor's team took the field, the light, easy going atmosphere shifted. Every play felt heavy with consequence. The game was a brutal back-and-forth battle, with neither team taking a lead of more than four points at any time. Connor played well, but our receivers were well covered, and it turned into a ground game. He would hand it off or fake a pass and run. Every time he carried the ball, he fought for every single yard, his cleats digging into the turf, his body absorbing hit after hit.

The game came down to the final play. With seconds on the clock, Connor's team was down by four points on Westfield's five-yard line. The play was designed to go to him, a simple run up the middle to power through the line. The ball was snapped, and he was hit from all sides. He pushed forward with a heroic surge of strength. He lunged for the goal line, breaking the plane of the end zone with the nose of the football in his outstretched arm. There was a momentary pause and then the referee put up both hands to signal a touchdown. We all went wild!

Connor stayed on the ground as the pile cleared, then raised his hand still holding the football and started jumping up and down. His teammates mobbed him in jubilation!

Our section of the field erupted in pure pandemonium. Parents and students from our town came down to the sidelines to celebrate, hugging and hoisting players onto their shoulders. It felt like a movie. I watched from the sidelines as the announcer called Connor's name over the loudspeaker, "The game-winning touchdown from number 12, Connor McLean!"

Later that afternoon, a victory celebration was held at the school for both teams. It was a massive cookout, attended by a sea of parents, friends, and teammates. I saw Connor talking to his friends, laughing, and replaying the game-winning play. His parents beamed with pride, and I even caught a glimpse of Becky from across the field. She was standing with her friends, looking at Connor with a look I couldn't quite place, but it was clear that she was a part of his world now. I found myself watching them from a distance, a secret part of me both thrilled for him and feeling a quiet sense of separation.

When we got home, Mark was exhausted. "Man, I'm so sore," he groaned, dropping his muddy equipment bag by the front door. "I gotta clean all this stuff, but I'm beat."

"I got it," I said, surprising myself. It was an instinct, a muscle memory that had been honed over the past few weeks in Connor’s basement.

Mark looked at me, surprised but grateful. "Seriously? Thanks, man. You're a good bro."

“It’s the least I can do for a champion,” I said as I grabbed the bag and took it to the laundry room.

On my way down I got a call from Connor. “Hey Andrew, I could really use a massage and some help with my gear before I go out with Becky tonight. My parents left a couple of minutes ago for their anniversary celebration, and Patrick is working an extra shift.”

“ Be right over,” I replied.

I told Mark I had to go out for a bit and would work on his gear when I got back. I went over to Connor's and gave him a nice long, slow massage. Then together, we cleaned his gear for the final time that season.

“Thanks for all your help, this season, Andrew,” said Connor as I helped him store his now cleaned equipment.

When I got back home, I went straight to the laundry room to work on Mark's gear. As I unzipped his equipment bag, a familiar scent of stale sweat and wet grass hit me, instantly transporting me back to Connor's basement. I pulled out Mark's cleats, which were caked in brown mud. The smell was different from Connor's—less musky, more earthy. The weight of his pads felt heavy and dense, not light and synthetic like Connor’s. I took out his jersey and carefully started to wipe the dried dirt from the numbers, feeling a strange sense of familiarity.

The act of cleaning Mark's uniform was a chore, but it was a chore I happily did out of brotherly love. There was no secret intimacy, no silent negotiation of power. It was just brother helping brother. And yet, as I worked, I couldn't shake the feeling that my hands, now so accustomed to cleaning the gear of one athlete, were performing the same ritual on the gear of another. I found myself comparing the texture of the mud, the scent of the sweat, the feel of the different fabrics. My world, which had once felt so separate from the athletic lives of boys like Connor and Mark, now felt inextricably linked to those lives. But my relationship to each of these athletes was completely different.

The next time I heard from Connor was when he called me the following Thursday. “Andrew, I know there are a million things you’d rather do after school lets out for Christmas tomorrow, but I really need your help with the bathroom. It hasn’t been cleaned since you last did it, and it's gotten out of control.”

“No problem” I replied cheerfully, “I’ll come right over after school.” My heart sank at the thought, though. I hated cleaning Connor and Patrick’s shared bathroom and had been relieved when Connor told me that he’d rather I spend my time on Tuesdays and Fridays giving him massages, helping him with school work and cleaning his football gear than scrubbing his bathroom. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the bathroom had just been Connor’s. But I hated the idea of cleaning up after Patrick. We weren’t exactly close. Sure, we mostly got along fine, maybe we were even friends, but I was jealous of how much time Zack spent with him. Zack was supposed to be my best friend, but now probably spent more time with Patrick than with me. So having to clean up Patrick’s shit was almost unbearably humiliating. The only thing that made it bearable was that Connor was the one asking, and I didn’t want to let him down.

I went over Friday afternoon as promised and walked in through the basement, as usual. He was sitting on the couch playing a video game. After we greeted each other, he said, "dude, I'm so pissed at Patrick."

“What happened?” I asked.

Patrick and I had a huge fight about our bathroom," he said, his face flushing as he relived the fight. "He’s such a slob. He'll make a huge mess, and when it's his turn to clean the bathroom, he does a terrible job or just forgets about it. He never cleaned it after you last did it for me even though we're supposed to take turns! I was too distracted with football to do anything about it. Mom was so impressed with how clean my room and the bathroom were after you last cleaned them, that she stopped checking. She said to let her know if Patrick slacked off when it was his turn to clean the bathroom.

“Wow, that’s great,” I said. “Looks like she’s on your side on this one.”

“Yesterday was the last straw,” Connor continued. I got fed up and told him that if the bathroom wasn’t cleaned by the end of the day on Friday, I’d tell mom.”

“How did he take that?” I asked.

“Not well,” replied Connor. “Man, it pissed him off, big time! He started yelling and telling me he was too busy with work and other stuff to clean the bathroom. He promised to make my life a living hell if I ratted him out to mom.”

“Did you tell on him?” I asked.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. We were yelling at each other, and had it out, but then he offered to pay me $40 a month to just handle the chore and stop nagging him. He said that made the most sense because he was working 12 hours a week, I didn’t have a job, and the bathroom was always cleanest right after I cleaned it. I knew he’d find a way to make my life miserable if I told mom, so I accepted his offer.”

"That's actually a pretty sweet deal if you clean consistently and don’t let the bathroom get out of control," I said, with a smile on my face. “Your mom could probably hire someone to scrub all your bathrooms and your kitchen every week for not a whole lot more.”

"Yeah, I know. I hate cleaning that thing, man, but at least, I’ll get paid. I need some new gear for the baseball season, and this will help."

"Hey, what if I just do it every week?" I blurted out, realizing only after I spoke that making Connor happy was far more important to me than my distaste for the chore. "I’ll do it all.”

"Dude, you're the best! You really are,” he said.

"And you should keep the money," I said. "I hate the idea of charging you for my help."

A wry smile came across his face as he stroked his chin. “Hmm, you do all the work, and I get all the money. Wouldn’t that make you my slave? I kinda like that idea.”

I hesitated, not knowing what to say or think. Connor just laughed.

“Just kidding. If you’re going to clean up after Patrick, he’s gonna have to pay you.”

I gave him a hug and tapped his back. “You’re a good guy, Connor.”

He reached into his wallet and handed me $40. “Here you go.”

I followed him up the two flights of stairs, and when he opened the bathroom door, my jaw dropped. It looked like a bomb had gone off. The mirror was covered in dried-up water spots. The sink was a gunked-up mess, full of hair and grime, and the counter was caked in toothpaste splatters, soap scum, and dried shaving cream. Soggy, mildewy towels were balled up and thrown everywhere, and the smell they gave off was down right gross. The toilet showed a whole new level of neglect. The base was ringed with weeks of dust and grime, and there were yellow stains on the outside of the bowl. The floor around it was just as bad. I even saw some gross black spots—mold, I'm pretty sure, creeping out of the corners of the tub and around the toilet. It was disgusting, way messier than anything I'd ever cleaned before.

“I’ll get started,” I said.

“Cool,” he responded, “I'll clean my room while you clean the bathroom.”

I started by picking up all the towels and putting them in Connor’s hamper. “Hey, do you have any other stuff? I’m going to put in a wash.”

“Yeah, hold on a sec,” he said, as he took off his socks, shorts, and t-shirt, balled them up, and tossed them to me. “Here,” he said, as he went back to cleaning his room, now just in his boxers.

When I got back upstairs, I started work on the bathroom itself. I grabbed some cleaning products from the cabinet under the sink, along with gloves, the scrub brush for the sink and for the tub-shower combo, and a roll of paper towels. I started with the mirror, and once that task was done, I cleaned the counters before turning to the sink.

As I finished cleaning the sink, I asked, “So how are things with Becky?”

"Good, I guess," he said, his voice flat. He was reorganizing his bookshelf and seemed to be talking more to the books than to me.

“Oh?” I replied. “Not as good as they could be?”

"No, it’s good. We’re all over each other when we're together... kissing and stuff. And I love her handjobs. But I’m ready to take it to the next level. I just hope we're on the same page. I’m not sure yet."

I knelt down in front of the toilet to start cleaning it. I lifted up the toilet seat and seat cover. To my horror, that revealed a nauseating mess of dried smears, specks, and splotches on the inside and rim of the toilet bowl and on the underside of the toilet seat. It was far dirtier than I had imagined, and the sight and smell of the indescribably filthy toilet made me retch. Struggling to regain my composure, I stood up and stepped away from the toilet as Connor rushed in.

“ You OK?” he asked.

“Ugh, yeah.” I shuddered as I explained, “the toilet is super disgusting. "But," I said firmly, “if one of us has to clean it, better me than you. That’s why I volunteered. So no worries.”

“Thanks, Andrew. I really appreciate it,” he replied. "

"Any time," I responded with a reassuring smile. Then, resuming our earlier conversation, I suggested “as for Becky, just take it slow. If she hasn’t done anything more, it could take a while. "

Yeah, he replied. “One step at a time, I guess.”

Girls don’t make it easy sometimes,” I mused.

He nodded unhappily and returned to his room. Grimacing, I knelt before the toilet once again. I sprayed lots of bleach cleaner on the disgusting mess and scrubbed with a vengeance.

I finished cleaning the toilet and moved to the tub-shower area. It was nearly as bad, with a ring of grime and soap scum around the edges. I grabbed the scrub brush and started working. I was so focused on scrubbing the tub that I didn't notice when his room got quiet. Once the tub-shower was spotless, I took stock of the bathroom and myself. The floor still needed mopping, but otherwise the bathroom looked amazing. I, on the other hand, was covered in sweat and grime. Noticing how silent it was, I looked into Connor's room. He was laid out on his bed, flat on his back with his eyes closed. His breathing was slow and even, and his mouth was slightly open. He was completely out.

I just stared at him for a moment. It felt bizarre, but right somehow, that I’d been scrubbing his filthy bathroom, while he, a few feet away, was sound asleep. I grabbed a blanket from his bed, unfolded it, and gently draped it over him. I tiptoed away and went downstairs, leaving him to sleep in the peace I had created for him.

Once in the basement, I switched the towels and clothes into the dryer and cleaned myself up. I then grabbed a mop and bucket from the utility closet, so I could mop the bathroom floor. That done, I waited for the dryer cycle to finish, pulled the warm towels and clothes out, and brought everything back upstairs to fold.

Just as I was placing the clean laundry on Connor’s bed, he woke up, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

"Have a nice nap?" I asked with a smile.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, looking a little sheepish. "I didn't mean to; I just fell asleep."

I nodded. "I'm all done with the bathroom, just folding now and I'll be finished with everything."

"We can fold together," he responded, grabbing a towel. He was quiet for a second, then looked at me. "Hey, Andrew, I hate to ask, but you know that money Patrick gave me?"

"Yeah, the forty bucks," I said.

He hesitated. "Yeah. Well, I was thinking about it, and I was wondering... would it be cool if I held onto that? I really want to get some new baseball gear, and I could really use the extra money." He looked a little embarrassed.

"Dude, of course!" I said immediately, reaching into my pocket and handing the money back to him. “There is nothing Patrick could pay me to clean his bathroom. But I'm always happy to help you free of charge. So keep the money. You earned it, anyway, dealing with him."

He smiled, genuinely relieved. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it. That's a huge help."

From then on, I saw Connor at least once a week when I came over to clean the bathroom. Connor would hang out with me, and we’d talk as I cleaned. It was always an open, honest discussion of whatever was on his mind. He’d bounce general questions about Becky off me, like what to get her for Valentines Day, and we talked about other stuff too. The bathroom cleaning itself, while never pleasant, wasn’t particularly taxing once I got into a regular routine.

Fortunately, once school started back up again in January, the time I spent cleaning his bathroom became just a small part of the time we spent together. We got together at his house or (when Patrick was home) my house whenever Connor wanted help with school work. And once baseball practice began in late February, I was on call twice a week to help Connor just as I’d helped him after football practice.

After taking care of Connor during football season, my interest in the human body, and especially in how muscles and joints worked, had grown. So over the Christmas break I had read some books on massage and physical therapy and absorbed the information. My mom saw me reading one and asked me about it. "Oh, just something for fun," I said. I even watched youtube videos on identifying specific knots and strains in muscles and techniques and exercises to work them out. So I was even better prepared to help Connor with baseball than I had been with football.

Connor was excited when indoor practices for baseball began in late February for pitchers. Like my brother Mark, Connor was one of three starting pitchers on his team. Luckily for the two of us, Connor’s turn in the rotation came on Tuesdays (which was one of the days Patrick worked at Trader Foods, the local supermarket). That meant I could take care of Connor’s arm after each start. From what I had read, icing the arm after pitching was critical to speeding up recovery and preventing injury, and I could help him put ice packs on his pitching shoulder and arm.

In his very first game of the season, he pitched a complete-game shutout. When I got to his house afterward, he was excited to show me what he’d bought for baseball with the money Patrick was giving him to clean the bathroom.

“Check this out,” he said excitedly, holding up what looked like an arm cast device made of a padded mesh material.

“This goes in the freezer and the gel packs get cold. They’re in just the right position to ice down the arm.” He smiled, “this will be so much easier than trying to put on ice packs with bandages.”

“Wow, that’s great,” I replied, “and I can help you put it on and take it off.”

“Yep,” he proclaimed proudly, “ it’s all iced and ready to go.”

He was already down to his boxer briefs. He handed the ice sleeve to me, and I moved to put it on him.

“Wait,” he said, “can you towel off my arm first so the thing doesn’t get gross with sweat?”

“Good idea,” I replied. I went to the bathroom and got two small towels. I held one under warm water for a few seconds and went over to him and washed his arm.

“That feels good,” he said as I put the wet towel down and wiped off the moisture with the dry towel. I then affixed the unit to his arm and shoulders, pulling the straps tight, but not overly so.

“Ohhhh, that’s so cold,” he replied, “there’s so much more cold area.”

“It will be uncomfortable for about 5 to 10 minutes. Then you won’t even notice it, but the benefit will still be there,” I said.

While he wore the device on his pitching arm, I knelt down to work on his feet. I had bought a small jar of essential oils, which I had learned helped soothe soreness, and I used that as I worked on his landing foot and ankle. He picked up his controller and started playing video games as I worked.

A few minutes in he said, “You were exactly right, I don’t even feel the ice any more. Where did you learn about that?"

"Oh, I read about it online," I said matter-of-factly, which was true, but didn't come close to capturing my quiet dedication.

While his other foot rested on my shoulder, I was working my fingers into the Achilles tendon of his landing foot. That was another technique I had learned from my research.

All of a sudden, Connor heard a noise at the door. “Oh Shit! Get up, quick!”

He tossed me a controller, and I moved from my knees to sit on the floor with my back to the couch, seconds before Patrick walked in the basement door. I hid the jar of essential oils in my hand and held it behind my back.

“Andrew,” he greeted me in his usual laid back way.

Then looking at his brother, Patrick said, “Connor, I didn’t know you guys were friends!”

“Yeah, I invited him over to play video games, and he was nice enough to help me put on my ice pack,” replied Connor.

“Cool,” said Patrick as he started heading towards the stairs.

“Why are you home so early?” Connor asked.

“I’m feeling sick, so they sent me home. I’ll be a lot closer to the toilet here,” Patrick explained. I winced at the mention of his toilet, knowing that I’d have to clean it in a few days.

Once Patrick was clearly out of earshot, Connor whispered, “wow that was close.”

“Sure was,” I said laughing. I looked at my watch. “It’s been about an hour. Let me help you take that off.”

I undid the velcro straps and removed the device. While his shoulder was still cool, I manipulated it, holding the muscles with one hand while slowly raising his arm. “Wow I can feel that stretch when you hold it like that. Did you learn that online too?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to help the muscle recover if you stretch it while it’s cold.”

“You keep amazing me,” said Connor with a smile.

“Well, I better get going,” I said as I picked up the device, folded it, and stuck it in the freezer.

Even after Connor purchased the baseball stuff he wanted, I never got any of the money Patrick was paying to get the bathroom cleaned. Connor instead continued to use the money he got from Patrick to buy other stuff. He always made a point of showing me the what he’d bought with what he called “Patrick’s money.” I never complained, of course. I’d told him right from the start that he should keep the money–that my help came free of charge, even if that meant cleaning up after Patrick. After he got over his surprise, it was clear that Connor had no problem taking me up on my offer. Everything he knew about me told him I wouldn’t mind, and he could put the money to good use.

The baseball team finished with a record of 20 wins and 4 losses and Connor had 8 wins and no losses including 3 shut outs and a win in the first playoff game. They lost the second playoff game to arch rival Westfield.

Once baseball ended, I saw less of Connor, but still saw him a fair amount. We got together at his house or mine whenever he wanted help with school work. And when Connor felt especially stressed by or frustrated with his mom, Patrick or Becky, he would summon me with a terse text if the coast was clear. <<Stressed>> or <<Frustrated>>, he would text me in complaint. That was my signal to come over right away, if I could, to give him a foot massage.

He was not the least bit shy about using his feet in whatever way he felt like during these sessions. We often talked about whatever was on his mind as I massaged his feet. But I came to realize that just having me physically underfoot improved his mood. Unlike his parents, his brother, and Becky, I wanted Connor to feel fully in control of our relationship. He’d known that since the first time I’d voluntarily kissed his sweaty feet. We never actually talked about it, but I am sure the control he exercised over me as I knelt before him helped diminish the stress and frustration caused by those who had a very different relationship with him.

Those texts became more frequent over the summer when he started to deal with a new source of stress—the OLIC entrance exam. During the second half of the summer, Connor had taken a review course to help prepare for the exam. At the end of the course, Connor’s score on the practice exam unfortunately was below what he would need to get in. So early that fall, I got a call from Connor, who put his mom on the line.

“Hello Andrew, this is Mrs. McLean. How are you doing?”

“I'm well thanks, and you?” I replied.

“I'm well thanks. Andrew, the reason I'm calling is that Connor is preparing to take the OLIC entrance exam and needs some help preparing for it. I know you got a perfect score on your exam and thought, before we hire a tutor, it would make sense to see if you'd be willing to do it. Of course, it would be on your schedule, and we'd pay you. Are you interested? I've already spoken to your mom and she's on board. So, what do you think? “

“Sure, I'd love to, but you don't need to pay me,” I replied.

“Oh don't be silly. We'd have to pay another tutor, and they won't be as good as you,” she added. “I'll give you back to Connor now, and you can work out the details between yourselves. Thank you, Andrew!”

“Thank you, Mrs. M,” I replied.

I was super excited to be asked by Mrs. McLean to tutor Connor. It gave me a chance to help him with something that was potentially life changing, and it allowed me to hang out with him even more than I otherwise would. It was mid-September and the exam was set for January, so there was plenty of time to set clear goals for Connor. I had saved all of my study aids and notes and went through them to prepare. I divided the material into weekly modules and started with math since that was the section Connor struggled with the most.

We always held the OLIC tutoring sessions at my house. We'd sit at the dining room table, our books and notes spread out between us. My mom, proud that I’d been hired as a tutor, would bring us snacks—usually popcorn and pretzels—on the rare occasions I tutored Connor while she was home from work. She would interrupt only to say, "don't work too hard, boys!"

The quiet setting was good for focusing. We'd start with the basics, a module on quantitative reasoning, then move on to vocabulary and reading comprehension. Connor was smart, but he hadn't spent much time working with the test's specific format. He'd get frustrated with some of the trick questions, running his hands through his hair. I'd gently guide him, explaining the logic, and watching as light bulbs went off in his crystal blue eyes.

Although getting him ready for the OLIC exam was our first priority, Connor also expected me to be available on Tuesdays and Fridays to give him massages and help him clean his gear. We always did that at his house, and the atmosphere there, of course, was far more relaxed than when I was tutoring him for the OLIC exam around my dining room table. We'd be in his basement, sometimes with music playing softly in the background and his football trophies gleaming from the shelves. The conversations were more fluid, drifting from the test to whatever was going on at school and with Becky. Sometimes, after I finished giving him a massage, we’d play video games, and I'd catch him looking over at me with that familiar, easy smile. Those were the moments I secretly looked forward to the most.

"I can't believe how much work getting ready for the OLIC exam is," he groaned one Tuesday as I was wrapping up his massage and we were getting ready to head to my house for a tutoring session." It's like they want to trick you on purpose."

"That's exactly what they're trying to do," I laughed. "It's a test of logic, not just knowledge."

He abruptly moved from the test to his problems with Becky. "I hate how little progress I’ve made with Becky," he complained, his voice low and filled with frustration. "Even after all this time, she's just... distant sometimes. I don't get it."

I didn't know what to say. I just listened, knowing that my place was to be there for him.

"It's so confusing," he sighed. "One minute she's all over me, the next she's not. He looked at me with frustration in his eyes.

"You're doing the right thing," I said, my voice low and steady. "Just be patient. You're a good guy, Connor. She's lucky to have you."

He smiled, a genuine, relieved smile that reached his eyes. "Thanks, man. You always know what to say."

As the calendar turned to November and December, I was tutoring him five or six days a week. I learned to read Connor's moods even better than I had before – to know when to push him and when to take a break. Each session ended with a practice test and, while he did better than he had at the end of the review class, he still needed to improve to have any chance of getting in.

All the time we spent together led Connor to start asking me more about my life, my interests, and my friends. I started opening up to him even more about my feelings, and about my friendship with Zack and some of the things that had happened to me. He always listened and remained engaged, allowing me to talk and finish and never changing the topic back to himself. I really appreciated that and it made me feel even more comfortable talking to him. It was our own private world, one that continued to grow and deepen with every moment we spent with each other.

It was after one of our tutoring sessions in early December that he expressed unusually raw frustration with Becky as I walked him home. "I don't know what to do, man," he confessed. "We're not going anywhere. It's the same thing every time." He stopped and looked at me, his eyes pleading for a solution I didn't have. "She just... she'll do stuff with her hand and that's it.

I just looked at him and kept listening.

"I’ve tried to get her to do more," he continued, "... she just stops me. It's like she doesn't want to go to the next level."

He paused for a long moment, and I could feel him getting more tense. "I asked her about it," he finally said. "I mean, I didn't want to pressure her, but I wanted to know why. She never came right out and said it, but I think it’s pretty clear."

I looked at him, confused. "What’s clear?"

He didn't make eye contact. He just stared at his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment. "I think she's just… she's grossed out," he muttered, his eyes on the floor. "I don’t think she wants to put my dick in her mouth because it’s. . . because… because I'm uncircumcised. She didn't come right out and say it, but the way she pulled away, and the look on her face when I asked her to put it in her mouth for a second to taste it… She doesn't want anything to do with it!" He shook his head. "I just don't get it. Why is it such a big deal? It's not like it's dirty or anything. It's just... how I am. I can't believe she feels that way." He threw his hands up in frustration. "It's so stupid."

A striking vulnerability surfaced as he spoke and briefly overshadowed his usual confidence. I felt horrible for him, and I hated seeing the disappointed look on his face. "Connor," I said, my voice low. "I’m certain it’s not you or your dick at all. I just don’t think she’s ready for the next step."

He shrugged, staring at his feet as if they held the answers. Maybe, but it feels like there's something wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you,” I retorted. “I mean, I’m not a girl or an expert, but from everything I've read... trust me, you're a ten. Your dick is as perfect as it can get." I felt my own face flush but kept my gaze steady. "There's nothing gross about it. I honestly think Becky’s just not ready to give you or anyone else a blow job. She’s so lucky to have you as a boyfriend, and I hope she’ll agree to go further soon."

My voice trailed off, but I didn't stop there. I took a breath and kept going, the words coming out in a rush. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently, "And… and, just for the record, you’re built perfectly from head to toe! Every part of you! Every inch! You're magnificent! Seriously."

He looked at me, his eyes wide, and a small, embarrassed smile slowly formed on his face. "Magnificent?" he repeated, a hint of a laugh in his voice. "I don't know about that.”

The smile faded. “But… it’s more than that. All my friends are going further, you know? Like, my friend Anthony is getting sucked all the time, and he keeps bragging about it. Even Liam says he got a blow job from this girl at a party. I feel like I'm stuck. I feel like I'm so far behind where I should be. "

“Are you sure they're telling the truth?“ I asked. “You know guys tend to lie about stuff like that. “

“I can't say for sure, but I believe Anthony. His girl gives him blow jobs all the time. I'm happy for him but, I hate that it’s not happening for me. Liam would never lie to me. He’s my best friend.”

I looked at him squarely, “You know, less than 5% of people your age have had oral sex. Even in 9th grade it's like less than 20%.”

He arched his eyebrows, “how do you know that?”

“It’s true, I looked it up because I knew you’d want to know,” I said with a chuckle. “You’re still way ahead of the game, bro!”

“Wow, you really do know me,” he said with a smile, “You're great, Andrew, thanks for the pep talk.”

The football season ended with another championship for Connor's team in a rematch with Westfield. It was a much easier win than the prior year, and Connor had a great game. The focus turned exclusively to the OLIC exam as we worked through the Christmas holiday. The week before the test, I made him take full practice exams under exam conditions. His scores had improved significantly, but he was still falling a bit short. After each practice exam, I reassured him and spent a few minutes reviewing any wrong responses. I could see the concern in his eyes, but he remained laser focused on the task at hand.

Exam day arrived on a frigid Saturday in mid January. I stopped by his house early that morning to wish him luck and give him one more pep talk. Connor was nervous, but I knew he was ready. After months of studying, he had gained more confidence and was on the cusp of reaching his goal. The one thing I knew for sure was that if he didn't score high enough, it wouldn't be for lack of effort. His dedication had been inspiring.

“All you have to do now is relax and let it all flow,” I said as I shook his hand and held his shoulder with my free hand. “You put in all the work, and I know you have what it takes. Just like you do in football, you’ll rise to the occasion.”

The results came in mid February. Knowing that a fat envelope meant acceptance while a thin one meant rejection, Connor sounded discouraged when he called me. “It looks kind of thin,” he said.

“Are you going to open it?” I asked.

“Can you come over? It's just Patrick who’s home right now, and I don't want to open it with just him here.”

“Be right over,” I replied.

I had a bad feeling and hurried to get there. I knew how much he wanted this, and if he didn’t get in, I wanted to be there to help pick up the pieces.

He was holding the letter when I got there, a worried look on his face. He handed it to me, “do you want to open it?”

I took it and looked at it, “hmm, it's not that thin.” I held it so he could see it from the side, “it looks like there's more than one sheet of paper in there.”

I handed it back to him. “Only one way to find out, I said.”

He took it from me. “Here goes nothing,” he responded.

He ripped open the envelope and started reading. I focused on his eyes as they started widening, “Oh my God, Andrew, Oh my God! I got in! I got in!”

He jumped up and down a few times then came over and hugged me. With his voice shaking he said “I can't believe it. We did it.”

I was so happy for him, and an enormous sense of relief washed over me. I tried to hold it together, but when he said “we,” the word landed like a physical blow. It broke me. All the quiet work, the months of worry, the hope I had for him—it all came spilling out. My vision blurred and the tears started to fall.

I looked down, hiding my face in his shoulder. He pulled back, holding my shoulders and looking into my face. “Andrew, are you crying?” he asked, looking shocked.

"You're crying, too," I said, pointing to the tear that was rolling down his cheek. He wiped it away, almost embarrassed, and pulled me into another hug.

“What’s going on down there?” Patrick’s voice came from the top of the stairs, startling us both. We pulled away from each other quickly, but not before Patrick saw our faces. Connor was still beaming with a smile so wide his cheeks looked like they hurt. I was smiling too, and I must have looked like I’d just run a marathon—my face was flushed and there were still tears in my eyes.

What’s with the tears?” Patrick asked, coming down the stairs looking puzzled.

“I got in,” Connor said, still half-laughing, half-crying. He held up the acceptance letter for his brother to see.

I could see surprise and genuine delight in Patrick’s eyes as he looked at Connor. "That's awesome, man," he said. “What was your score?” Connor pointed to the number, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

I stepped closer to get a better look. There it was, bold and clear: OLIC Entrance Exam: 1530. I knew what Patrick’s score had been. Connor had beaten it by just a couple points.

“1530!” I said, my voice full of pride. “He got a 1530. He’s going to be a Wildcat!”

Patrick’s jaw tightened for a split second. Then he smiled and said, “Congrats baby bro” and hugged Connor himself.

Once Patrick went back upstairs and Connor had called his parents with the good news, we played video games and talked about how excited he was to get into OLIC.

The following Tuesday, he called me out of the blue. He got right to his big news. “Dude, you will not believe this,” he said, his voice buzzing with excitement. “ I finally got Becky to agree to do it.” He could barely contain himself.

"She said she'd give me a blowjob for my birthday. I can't believe it. It's actually going to happen." He sounded triumphant. "This is going to be the best birthday ever."