Miles and Tristan burst into the Hollingsworth kitchen, dropping their backpacks on the floor.

"God, that practice was brutal," Miles winced, rubbing his shoulder as he made his way to the fridge. Tristan walked to the center of the room and spun around slowly. The space was huge, with sprawling marble counter tops and state of the art appliances.

"Miles, your house is... ridiculous. I feel like I've seen it on Cribs."

"Yeah... we have plenty of space," Miles laughed humbly, pulling open the fridge and grabbing two bottles of water. He tossed one to Tristan, who caught it effortlessly.

"I swear, if I had a kitchen like this, I'd never leave."

"You cook?" Miles asked, intrigued.

"Gotta make eating healthy fun somehow!" Tristan said lightheartedly.

"Ah..." Miles twisted the cap off his bottle and took a quick swig. "A health nut..."

"I was a fat child." Tristan admitted. "But we don't have to talk about that."

Miles nodded with an amused chuckle, then winced again, and reached back to his shoulder.

"What's the matter?" Tristan asked. "Did you pull something?"

"I must have put too much into my free throw," Miles told him. "I'm fine. Just stiff."

Tristan shook his head. That was unacceptable.

"Come on. Sit down." He demanded, pulling a stool out from the kitchen table and gesturing to it.

Miles slowly obeyed. By this point, he knew how insistent Tristan could be. Tristan gently started to massage his shoulders, and Miles had to admit, it helped a lot.

"You have to take care of your body." Tristan lectured him maternally. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't over exert yourself."

Miles closed his eyes and rolled his head back. "Is that what you've learned?" He asked smartly.

Suddenly, the sound of someone clearing their throat made Miles jolt out of his comfortable position. He looked toward the door to see his father standing there with his arms crossed.

"I thought you had basketball practice," Mr. Hollingsworth said without so much as a hello.

"It got out early," Tristan informed him. Then, he remembered his manners, and started walking toward him. "I'm Tristan, by the way. I'm on the team."

He extended his hand to Mr. Hollingsworth, but the older man didn't reciprocate. Instead, he looked to Miles, who was standing next to his chair, speechless.

"You're on the basketball team?" Mr. Hollingsworth asked cynically, giving Tristan a good look up and down.

Tristan lowered his hand. "Yeah. I'm the point guard."

Mr. Hollingsworth looked at Miles again. Miles stared at the floor.

"Tristan, it was nice to meet you," Mr. Hollingsworth said, his voice dripping with insincerity. "Miles, I think your friend better go home."

Tristan's jaw dropped a bit, he looked to Miles.

"Why?" Miles asked boldly. "I don't have any other plans tonight."

Mr. Hollingsworth shook his head. "I said your friend needs to go. You have homework. I don't want to have to argue about this."

Tristan waited, expecting Miles to put up more of a fight. However, something in Miles's face changed. He gritted his teeth and walked over to where Tristan's backpack was resting on the floor.

"I'll see you at school tomorrow, Tris," Miles mumbled, picking the backpack up and carrying it to him.

"Um... okay...?" Tristan took his backpack, and hesitated for only a moment before starting to exit. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As he made his way to the front door alone, he could barely process what had just happened. He could only think of one reason why Miles's dad didn't like him.

Miles lay in bed that night with the lights on, staring at the ceiling. He had some homework, but he couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was Tristan, who had become one of the best friends he'd ever had. He was sick over how quickly his father had judged him. Compared to some of the kids Miles had caused trouble with at his last school, Tristan was a saint.

Around nine, his father knocked on his door. Miles didn't answer. He didn't have the energy.

Mr. Hollingsworth entered the room anyway. "You getting your assignments done?"

"Absolutely," Miles said guardedly, refusing to sit up and look at him.

Mr. Hollingsworth looked over to Miles's desk, where his math book lay open, his half-completed homework on top of it. His gaze lingered for a moment, and then he chose to ignore his son's blatant lie. There were more important things on his mind.

"So. Big game tomorrow night!" Mr. Hollingsworth said.

Miles laughed. "What? You care now?"

"Of course I care! My son's on the varsity basketball team! I'll be cheering you on in the stands."

Miles knew what this was about. Now that his father knew he was friends with a guy as feminine as Tristan, he was going to do everything in his power to encourage Miles's masculinity.

"Well, I wouldn't waste my time if I were you," He told him. He wasn't exactly the team's star player, and to be honest, he actually preferred to warm the bench. Sports weren't exactly his favorite thing in the world.

Mr. Hollingsworth hesitated, then asked, "Do you really know that boy from basketball? Or have you been skipping practice to go to another one of your frilly dance classes?"

Miles finally sat up. "You assume that just because Tristan's gay, I met him in dance class? Do you realize how ignorant you sound?"

"Well, you don't want me to come to your game. I think I'm right to assume that you're hiding something."

Miles took a deep breath, and reminded himself that this conversation could be worse. His father could be screaming at him.

"Fine. Come." He said shortly. "If it would make you happy to come and see how stupid you're being, be my guest."

Mr. Hollingsworth was satisfied, and started toward the door. "Four O'Clock?"

Miles nodded, annoyed, and watched his father leave. He was getting really sick of these pointless conversations.

"Miles, I think your friend better go home,"

The words echoed in Tristan's ears over and over. Sure, he'd encountered some homophobic jerks before, but never in his life had anyone made him feel this bad about himself. All Mr. Hollingsworth had had to do was look at him before he judged him, and decided he wasn't good enough to hang out with his son. It was humiliating.

"Tris..."

Tristan heard Miles voice approaching while he was at his locker, switching out his books. He knew he couldn't ignore it. Miles wasn't the one who threw him out. Then again, he did nothing to fight for Tristan to stay.

"Good morning," He said coldly, avoiding eye contact. "How was your night?"

"Honestly? Lame." Miles said casually. "I spent the entire night avoiding homework and went to bed early."

Tristan finally turned to look at him. He didn't want to bring it up, yet something forced him. "Are you really just going to pretend like nothing happened."

"Look, my dad's really weird about me having friends over," Miles tried. "I wouldn't take it personally."

"Really?" Tristan asked forcefully, shutting his locker and starting his walk to class. "He wouldn't have let Winston stay either?"

"Winston's been around for ages," Miles tried, following him.

Tristan shook his head. "Your dad threw me out because I'm gay."

Miles shook his head. A small, nervous laugh escaped his lips. Tristan stared him down hard, and he suddenly realized the other boy didn't appreciate being lied to.

"Okay? You want the truth? Yeah. That's probably it."

"Great..." Tristan said sarcastically.

"But it's not about you. He's paranoid. He probably thinks you're gonna convert me or something."

"That's ridiculous," Tristan said quietly. "I learned my lesson in Paris. I'm never going to make a move on you again."

Miles swallowed, trying to think of something to say. This was the first time either of them had mentioned their kiss in Paris, and even though Tristan brought it up rather lightheartedly, it still caught Miles off guard. Finally, he spoke.

"Look: there's not really anything I can do about it, Tris. It's his house and his rules, but I still want to be your friend. So how about you accept my apology, and we'll just hang out at your house from now on."

Tristan sighed, frustrated. He quickly realized how valid Miles's suggestion was.

"Fine." He said, crossing his arms. Then, a small smile came over his face. "This isn't a ploy to get me to cook for you, is it?"

"Absolutely not," Miles promised.

"Good," Tristan said, starting to turn into his classroom. "After the game today?"

"Totally," Miles told him. "I can't wait."

As Miles expected, Coach Armstrong kept him on the bench for most of the game. He watched the other players, half-interested, but mostly just relieved that he didn't have to get up and join.

Tristan was put in during the second half. Miles had to admit that he was impressed by how well he was doing. He had a way of working with the team, making a series of clever passes, and always seeming to be in tune with everything that was happening on the court.

Tristan had his A game all the way through to the last ten seconds on the clock. He tossed the ball to Mike Dallas, over the heads of their opponents, and Dallas made the winning basket. The game had been so close that the crowd went wild. Miles flew off the bench and went to high five his team mates. He was happy they had won, even if he hadn't played a part in it. However, he glanced toward the bleachers and saw his father was wearing a huge frown. He wasn't happy at all.

Miles and Tristan exited the locker room together after they changed into their street clothes. Mr. Hollingsworth was waiting for Miles in the foyer, right in front of the school's front doors. He looked at the two boys sternly.

"You sure your dad won't be mad that you're not leaving with him?" Tristan asked.

Miles shook his head. "Doesn't matter if he is. Come on."

Miles started walking pointedly toward the front doors, and Tristan followed him. Mr. Hollingsworth's eyes followed them as they prepared to leave.

"Miles, where do you think you're going?"

Miles stopped and turned to him.

"I'm just going to hang out with Tristan for a while." Miles said calmly.

Mr. Hollingsworth shook his head in protest. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Well, I think it's a great idea." Miles challenged his father. Tristan felt his heart swell. This was exactly the kind of battle he'd wanted to see the night before.

Mr. Hollingsworth lowered his voice, grabbing Miles's arm and pulling him a bit closer. He didn't seem to realize that Tristan would be within earshot no matter what. "You've already humiliated yourself enough today. That boy got more court time in the last hour than you've had in the last two years."

Tristan felt his stomach turn with disgust. He glanced around uncomfortably, thankful that there was no one else in the hall to hear them.

"I don't have time for this," Miles muttered, and started to walk away. Mr. Hollingsworth jumped in front of him, fuming.

"I will tell you what you do and do not have time for!" He snapped. "This isn't the type of person you want to be seen with...traipsing around like a couple of fairy princesses."

Miles clenched his fists, and looked down at the floor. He was done. "Tris? You ready to go?"

Tristan nodded, uncomfortably approaching Miles. He wondered if Mr. Hollingsworth would have physically stopped them from leaving had the rest of the team not come out of the locker room at that precise moment.

"I'll see you at home," Miles told him smartly.

Just as Miles started to push open the school doors, his father called after him.

"You walk out that door, and you'll have hell to pay, Miles, I swear to god..." Mr. Hollingsworth said.

But Miles didn't listen. He just walked outside, Tristan following close behind.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tristan asked curiously, as he and Miles walked down Queen Street toward the Milligan house.

"Sure. Why not?" Miles answered, still recovering from the confrontation with his father.

"Why do you even hang out with me?" Tristan wondered. "I mean, you're not... trying to piss your dad off, are you?"

Miles shook his head sincerely. "No. Definitely not."

"Then why?" Tristan asked. "You're so nice to me. You act like I'm so important to you... it doesn't exactly seem like it's worth all the trouble you go through."

Miles was quiet. He frowned down at the sidewalk.

"Sorry..." Tristan said awkwardly. "I guess that was a loaded question."

Miles looked up at him. "Don't apologize. It's my fault. I'm not great at talking...about my feelings, I mean."

"Oh..." Tristan said, although he didn't fully understand.

"Look: you're a good person. You make me feel like I all I have to be is myself. Everyone else... they expect something from me. You're just... easy to be around."

Tristan blushed. "I'm glad."

"So, I guess it's my turn," Miles said, lightening the mood a bit. "Why do you hang out with me?"

"Well, at first it was just for your biceps, but then I saw your house..." Tristan teased. Miles laughed, then Tristan fell serious. "I guess for the same reason you said."

Miles nodded. "I don't care what my dad says or does. I'm not going to stop hanging out with you, okay?"

Tristan nodded, accepting Miles's sincerity. "Yeah. Okay."

And the two of them continued down the street, both feeling a bit more content than they had before.