“You did cry,” Kyle points out.
“Almost cry more,” Gerard amends.
I shrug, peeling off my jersey. “I don’t know. Felt like the right thing to do. He pushes us because he gives a shit.”
Oliver studies me with those green eyes that miss nothing. “You’re a weird dude, Larney.”
“Thanks.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
“Taking it as one anyway.”
Gerard laughs, and the moment passes. We’re back to being a bunch of sweaty guys in various states of undress, complaining about sore muscles and debating whose ass hurts more from Coach’s slaps.
But I hold onto that almost-smile. File it away in the mental folder labeled “Reasons Drew Larney Belongs Here.”
It’s a folder that’s gotten thicker over the past two and a half years. And today, it grew by one more page.
2
DREW
Mickey’s Diner is my go-to place after Coach’s soul-mangling practices for three reasons. First, the pancakes—if you’re in the mood for breakfast at dinner time—are made with real buttermilk, none of that “light and fluffy” shit from a box. Second, every booth has an electrical outlet for recharging phones or doing homework. And third, the staff know me by name.
The place itself is equal parts retro shrine and accidental refuge for the local oddballs: linoleum counters, cracked pleather seats, a jukebox that only plays oldies, and at least one professor grading papers in the corner.
My teammates think it’s hilarious I’ve claimed this place as my own, since most of them opt for the other diner down the street, but I’ll take a bottomless mug of Mickey’s coffee over lukewarm bullshit any day.
The glass door swings shut behind me, and my legs all but tremble as I scan the room.
That’s when I spot him. My best friend.
Jackson Monroe sits in a corner booth, and my pulse does this stupid skip that has nothing to do with hunger. The lampswinging gently above his table catches his perpetually messy light brown hair, turning some of the strands golden. His plain gray tee stretches across his chest, and when he laughs at something that his booth partner says, that crooked smile appears. The one that can only be described as sexy.
I pretend to study the “Please Wait to be Seated” sign because the last thing I need is someone noticing me gawking at Jackson like he’s the juiciest slab of meat. Truth be told, it’s been three months of casual run-ins and hangouts at the Hockey House, of me trying hard not to notice how his brown eyes shimmer. Three months of telling myself that the flutter in my chest whenever he texts me is nothing more than friendly excitement.
I honestly have no idea how I developed a crush on Jackson Monroe. One minute, he was just my friend. This carefree quarterback, who happened to be in my life because our best friends’ grumpy/sunshine romance became the talk of campus last semester. And then, fuck me sideways, I’m masturbating to mental images of Jackson in criminally tight football pants.
The funny thing is, this isn’t my first rodeo with inconvenient crushes on friends. Gerard’s world-class ass had me dizzy freshman year before I realized he was straighter than a ruler…at the time. Back in high school, there was Roger with the swimmer’s build and Emmett, who was dumber than a box of rocks but had the most wondrous dick-sucking lips. Whatever’s happening with Jackson, though, is not the same as those other crushes. It sits in a different part of me. A deeper part.
Maybe it’s because the whole world seems to disappear when we talk, or that he texts me random memes in the middle of the night when he’s up late studying. Or, and this is more likely, it’s the way he unconsciously licks his lips when he’s concentrating, and I yearn for that tongue to be licking me instead.
Unfortunately, no amount of analysis will yield a finite answer. It’s a mystery that I’m trying to convince myself doesn’t need solving. Because nothing will ever happen between us. Jackson Monroe is straight. I’ve seen his browser history. No gay guy is watching the things he’s watching.
“Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac plays from the jukebox at one of the tables. A couple shares a milkshake with two straws, while the old guy at the counter methodically works through a slice of pie. The guy sitting across from Jackson shifts, and I realize that it’s Ryan Abrams, his roommate.
The contrast between them is comical. Where Jackson sprawls, Ryan sits with perfect posture. He’s in dress pants and a button-down shirt that’s been ironed within an inch of its life. His brown hair is neatly combed, not a strand out of place, and he’s cutting his food into precise, equal pieces like some kind of psychopath.
I should leave. Turn around, grab takeout from the Chinese restaurant across the street, and avoid this whole situation. Because Jackson doesn’t know about my feelings. Nobody knows. Not Gerard, not Oliver, and certainly not Kyle.
Jackson throws his head back and laughs. The sound carries across the diner, waking up my dick. The sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing has my toes curling as I zero in on the spot on his neck that I’ve never thought about kissing.
The hostess clears her throat. “Going solo tonight, hon?”
“Yeah,” I say, then catch myself. “Oh, I see my friends over there.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk toward their booth, weaving between tables laden with comfort food. Jackson looks up when I’m about ten feet away, and his face shifts from surprise into something warmer. I bang my knee into the back of a chair as my brain shuts down.
