Not that I can tell him that.
“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I say, not wanting to rock the boat.
“I just think it wouldn’t hurt to maybe put a little distance between you and Brandon. You know, set some boundaries now that you’re in a committed relationship.”
“Boundaries,” I repeat like I don’t comprehend.
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I mean, you can’t really expect to be his best friend forever, can you? Casual friends, maybe. Acquaintances, definitely. But it’s not like we can be together and talk about a future, when you’re still hanging out with another dude alone.”
He’s not just “another dude.”
I blink at him, my mind whirring. “But . . . we’re just friends, and I’ve always hung out with Brandon alone. Nothing’s ever happened,” I insist, putting the emphasis on nothing.
Ethan chuckles and places his hands on either side of my arms, looking down on me like I’m a child in need of reasoning. “Yeah, but at some point, your relationship is bound to change with us getting serious. I’m going to want all your free timespent with me, and even if you had a day free, do you really think it’s appropriate to spend it with another man?”
I swallow as I soak in his words.
I shouldn’t be shocked. It’s not like I haven’t thought the same thing or heard some variation or other of this before. But I can’t even compute a world in which I’m not Brandon Lambert’s best friend.
“Anyway,” he says, giving my arms a little squeeze before releasing me, “just something to think about.”
Chapter 11
BRANDON
Istare at the television screen. The Eagles are playing the Ravens, but I couldn’t tell you the score or who’s winning. Just like I couldn’t tell you who has possession or what quarter it is. Though it’s been playing in the background for nearly two hours, I’ve barely watched a second of it. Because all I can focus on is Tatum.
I haven’t seen nor heard from her since the party Friday night, and ever since she left my side, stumbling as she clung to Ethan’s arm, it’s been eating me alive. I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. I couldn’t focus during yesterday’s game. I played like garbage, continuously scanning the stadium between plays and hoping to catch a glimpse of her face, because despite knowing Ethan was in town, some stupid part of me still hoped she might show up.
But she didn’t show up. And I haven’t heard from her. Not a single text to let me know she’s okay or show me I still matter. It’s been nothing but radio silence on her end, and it’s a stark reminder of what my future holds if she transfers schools.
There will be more missed games, more unanswered texts and calls, and a growing silence between us. I’ll no longer catch a glimpse of her in the stands, wrapped up in a scarf and mittens, cheeks pink from the cold. Postgame-day hangouts will be a thing of the past. She’ll no longer text me for hours during my bus rides to and from away games, when I’m tired and sore and all I want is an ice bath and a pillow. No more lazy Sundays with her after a week of getting my ass kicked on the field.
“Hey, I’m heading out.” Chase, my roommate and one of AAU’s linebackers leans on his crutches in front of the TV, and I wonder how long he’s been there, blocking my view.
My gaze flickers over him, and guilt pinches in my chest. The direct hit he took in yesterday’s game to the outside of his knee will cost him the season—maybe more. And here I am moping, like my problems are the only ones that matter.
“You headed home?” I ask, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes. If I had to guess, he didn’t sleep much last night.
That makes two of us.
“Yeah. My folks want me to see the surgeon there, so . . .” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but I can see the pain in his eyes. The shrug is too casual, his voice too flat. Something’s not right.
“You okay, man?” I ask, muting the TV, not that I was watching it.
“Yeah. Fine.” Chase shifts his weight on the crutches, wincing slightly with the movement.
I’ve known Chase for three years now. We’ve shared a room, celebrated wins, mourned losses. We may not be close like I am with Jace, Chris, Damon, and West, but he’s a good dude, and I know when he’s bullshitting me.
“Come on,” I press. “Talk to me.”
He stares at the floor for a long moment, then sighs heavily. “I don’t think I’m coming back.”
“What?” I turn closer to face him. “I thought your folks had a line on one of the best surgeons in the country? Isn’t that the point of going home?”
“They do. But this is my second ACL surgery, man. We’re juniors, and it’ll take me nearly a year to recover. Even then, my performance might not be what it was. My career beyond college is probably toast, and even if it wasn’t . . .” He exhales, rubbing his left shoulder, a reminder of the torn rotator cuff he suffered through freshman year. “I’m tired of the injuries, done getting beat up.”
I sit, stunned for a moment before I can speak. “Won’t you at least come back for your classes? Finish your degree?”
