We eat in silence.
He’s still trembling, likely from cold as his sweat dries, but also from the crash after waking up like that.
I hate when he gets all mother hen on me though, so I bite down on my need to baby him and instead grab the folder he shoved aside.
“Weren’t you the one who told me not to work so—wait, the Hellhounds?” I reread the word spread across the front.
It isn’t a folder for a class; it’s a promo kit for the professional rawball team based in Philadelphia.
I flip it open, and it’s full of info about the team, stats, and history—along with the benefits and bonuses for players.
My eyes go huge and I gape at Orok. “What the—”
He shovels in the last of his food. “It’s nothing. They’re going tobe scouting at a few games and sent those packets ahead. We all got one. It happens every year.”
I bend my knee on the couch so I can face him, but he isn’t looking at me.
“Did you get an offer to play pro rawball?” I ask straight-out.
He rests his bowl in his lap and lays his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “No.”
I set the folder on the coffee table. “Are you lying to me?”
Orok pops his eyes open. “No, Seb.”
“That’d be pretty sweet. The pro team, not lying.”
“I didn’t get scouted. It’s—” His eyes shut again. “It’s nothing, okay?”
No, it’s not. There’s tension vibrating off him and I can’t figure out why.
“It’s not nothing,” I say. “If you got scouted. If you—”
“But it’s not the plan.” It comes out as a whisper. Pained, almost.
My heart, already bruised to all hell by the way he woke up, squeezes. “Fuck the plan. Fuckyour mom’splan. You think she wouldn’t be happy about you playing pro rawball? That’s suitablytoughandUrzoth-y.”
Eyes still shut, he reaches out, misses once, then grabs my knee. “Stop. It’s not that. It’s—a recruiter came by practice this week. Talked to me. But she talked to a few of us. That’s it, okay? It got in my head.”
I thread my fingers with his. “Why did it get in your head?”
He doesn’t respond right away. His hold tightens on my hand and he rolls his head to the side before looking at me. Something ripples across his face as his grip on my hand starts to hurt.
“It’s all ending,” he whispers, so low I almost don’t hear the way his voice cracks.
“What’s ending?”
He pulses his hand against mine.
My shoulders bow. “O. C’mon. If you haven’t been able to get rid of me this long, it’s not going to change when we’re done with school.No matter what, you’re stuck with my handsome mug in your life.” I give him a flat, wide, cheesy grin. “And you know I’m locked into Philly after graduation. Clawstar’s HQ is here. Getting recruited to the Hellhounds is agoodthing.”
“You’re sure we shouldn’t enroll in the doctorate program and keep our heads in the sand a bit longer?” he asks, too serious for my liking.
We’d talked about this when we planned for grad school. Neither of us has need for a doctorate, and honestly, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need his master’s.
He’s only here to stay close to me.
“Do you want to go pro with rawball?” I ask gently.
