“We all grow. I have.” I march from the locker room.
Okay, strictly speaking, this isn’t professional. In fact, it’s probably wildly unprofessional. And that’s bad. Yada, yada, yada.
But being forced to play with the guy I hate most in the world is not cool, even though Troy has a questionable grasp of fantasy lore.
In fact, the only person who would understand how disastrous it is to place Sauron in the Shire is, ironically, Enzo himself. He’s the only person I ever met who could quote every line fromLord of the Rings.
Both of us played hockey in college. We even used to be roommates together at Concord University.
I shudder at my youthful naivety. My teammates would have been more understanding if they hadn’t seen me talking aboutmy great friend Enzo constantly, partying with him whenever our teams played in a two-hundred-mile radius, and visiting him in LA each summer.
But that was youthful naivety. I’ve become more intelligent, living beside Harvard finally paying off, the osmosis doing its invisible thing, even though I’m not sure why I didn’t spot red flags about Enzo before, and why I still can’t spot them in hindsight.
Not that I can tell Troy. He would likely say something sympathetic again and maybe talk about misunderstandings and the overall importance of communication.
The important thing is that Enzo is despicable. If he weren’t, we would be friends. My case rests.
I storm down the contemporary wood-paneled hallway, the calm the architects were going for completely not working, and when I hear footsteps follow, I know it’s Enzo.
“Axel?” he calls.
I quicken my steps.
He jogs after me, and I whirl around.
And there he is.
Enzo’s thick lashes flutter over his dark expressive eyes, wider set than most, and his chiseled cheeks go pink like in that cologne spread he did this summer, matching his lips. He’s currently biting his lower one, and I force my gaze away.
He looks good. He always looks good.
There’s a reason he spends the off-season modeling platinum watches and silk ties, even though the Enzo I knew never wore a tie and his flip phone sufficed as a timekeeper.
“This is my team, Bellanti. Why did you follow me tomyteam? You have the West Coast, I have the East Coast. And we never, ever speak.”
His nostrils flare, something wounded in his eyes, which is ironic, because he started everything.
“Can we please talk?” he asks.
“Nope.”
His jaw does this quivering thing I fucking hate. He probably learned it after watching how-to-manipulate videos on YouTube or something. “We used to be friends.”
“I didn’t end this friendship, you did.”
“No one can blame me,” he mutters.
“Seriously?” I shake my head. “You are amazing. And I mean that sarcastically.”
“I got that,” he says. “Look. You know it’s important…”
“What the hell, Bellanti?” The name doesn’t feel right on my tongue. Because when I first met him, he was just my roommate Enzo, and when I knew him better, I called him by nicknames.
But Bellanti is a good name for someone I don’t know well, and I have to remember that my memories of Enzo were wrong. Because he made it clear three years ago, out of the blue, that he didn’t think we should be friends anymore.
“Do you not know how groveling works?” I close the distance between us, and he steps against the wall. He flinches, and I grin. “You’re not supposed to insult me.”
“You deserve to be insulted!” Enzo exclaims.
