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  Out

  of

  BOUNDS

  MACKENZIE GRAY

  SUMMER HOUSE

  Six weeks in Paris.

  A ghost from the past.

  One unforgettable summer.

  Paris, France: one of the most romantic cities in the world. It’s also the location for Academy Paris, a prestigious summer soccer institute, and where I’ll be spending the next six weeks tightening my game and sharpening my skills.

  There’s just one problem. My roommate is none other than Logan McGregor, my former (very straight) best friend.

  It’s been four years since I’ve seen him. Back in high school, we were attached at the hip. Logan and Austin, taking on the world. After graduation though, I cut him out of my life. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. But one look at him, and it doesn’t take long for me to realize I’m still in love with him. And after a drunken night on the town, it seems Logan’s curious too. Things start to heat up. It’s new, it’s dangerous, and it’s exactly what I want.

  Maybe I’ll finally get my heart’s desire. Or maybe it’ll all come crashing down.

  Summer House

  Copyright © 2019 Mackenzie Gray

  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

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Mackenzie Gray

  Chapter 1

  Austin

  When I walk into the house Friday night, I’m surprised to find my sister, Lydia, 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!” Lydia says with a grin. She takes a sip from her huge glass of wine, her eyes a little unfocused.

  Casey tears into a slice of pepperoni, eyes locked on the show that’s playing, though every once in a while they drift to Lydia. “She just showed up,” he says, as if this was an inconvenience to him. “She bought pizza though, so I let her in.”

  Lydia rolls her eyes. “As if you would turn away free pizza.”

  Casey pushes his long black ponytail behind his shoulder. She’s right. No way in hell would my friend, roommate, and former teammate ever turn down free pizza.

  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 Lydia.

  “The world isn’t ending?”

  “Nope.” This from Casey, his mouth full of crust.

  Well... okay. Weirder things have happened besides Casey and my sister hanging out. But not much.

  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.”

  Grey’s Anatomy.

  At my look of repulsion, Casey 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. Lydia 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 Casey 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. I don’t know what it is about this show, but out of all the men’s soccer players at Duke, I think I’m the only one without an obsession. The only thing worse than a soap opera is a medical drama. I mean, doctors hooking up with doctors in the supply closet? That can’t be real.

  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 Casey. Nor can I handle the short-tempered asshole he’s turned into over the past year. With Lydia here though, he’s surprisingly relaxed. At ease.

  “Austin, you don’t understand. You get attached to these characters. Cristina, Callie, Owen! Poor Owen.” He shakes his head, his dark eyes somber. Light casts shadows over the strong planes of his face, the high cheekbones of his Chinese-American heritage. “That guy’s been through some tough shit.”

  “It’s true,” Lydia says, voice prim. “PTSD 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 Casey’s cold, dead fingers. “Why can’t you watch it at Lydia’s place?”

  There’s a long silence, during which my sister and roommate refuse to look at each other.

  “Your TV is bigger,” Lydia 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 Lydia. With Casey on her other side, we’ve sandwiched her in.

  Lydia 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,” Casey 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 Lydia is a good idea.

  Somehow, I manage to make it through the first commercial without gouging my eyes out. Lydia 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?” Casey asks, only partly paying attention to me as the commercial ends and the show returns. Lydia 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 Lydia, as we haven’t been able to afford it. But this academy gives you a full ride: room, board, airfare. The works. Casey and I graduated Duke 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 Blue Devil 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 goalie. 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. Casey 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 admire him, is 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?” Lydia’s voice sounds far away.

  Casey 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. Casey’s pushing me, and I don’t appreciate it.

  “I told you I’m not into that anymore,” he shoots back, glancing at Lydia to see her reaction. She doesn’t give any sign that she’s affected by it.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Though, truthfully, I haven’t seen Casey 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, Casey?” Lydia 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 the other 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 Casey. 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 of showing.

  “I want to talk to my brother alone,” Lydia repeats, eyes hard as they rest on him. He towers over her by nearly a foot, and yet Lydia 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. “He never listens to me. He never listened to Mitchell either,” I add, mentioning our old roommate.

  “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 Lydia 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 Lydia 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.

  “Lydia,” 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 visited me. I’d never seen any of the baking shows, but they were surprisingly cut-throat.

  “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. Lydia 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. Lydia, 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?”

  “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 do
or 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 Logan’s cleat. Victory is bright in their 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.

  Lydia 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 Lydia 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. Lydia 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.