He mutters, “Oh fuck no,” and then, without another word, books it.
Like full sprint, shoulders down, moving through the crowd.
“I’ll meet you outside!” he yells over his shoulder.
And then he’s gone.
I blink, still standing there with my half-drunk beer and the mental image of Connelly naked.
Well…okay then.
I’ve only been outsidefor maybe ten minutes, half-heartedly sipping my beer and trying to bleach my brain with fresh air, when Hughie comes storming down the porch steps like he’s on a warpath.
Now, I’ve seen a lot of Hughie moods over the years…tired Hughie, grumpy Hughie, Hughie-who-got-a-bad-coffee-order…but this?
This is new. This is murderous Hughie. His jaw is clenched so tight I’m worried he might grind his molars into dust, and his fists are balled like he’s about to throw hands.
“Um… you good?” I ask cautiously.
He grunts and marches right past me like I’m not even there, moving fast as hell in the direction of home.
Realization creeps in and I cringe, jogging to keep up. “Wait, were you, uh… seeing that girl or something?”
He snorts, dry and sharp. “No.”
That’s it. Justno. No elaboration and no additional context. Just one syllable.
And now I feel like I’m missing a massive, flaming chunk of information. Hughie’s not the kind of guy to get pressed over hookups or high school-level drama. And yeah, seeing Sam Connelly getting his rocks off is weird, sure, but not “rage-walk three blocks in silence” level of weird.
Unless…
“Hugh,” I call out, jogging to catch up as he keeps charging forward. “Hugh, dude.”
He ignores me and continues power walking towards our place. My frustration flares and I grab his arm, yanking him to a stop.
“Slow the fuck down,” I snap.
He finally looks at me, sighs like he’s trying not to kill me on sight, and then relents, slowing his pace but barely.
“Dude, what the fuck is going on?” I press.
He glances at me, then looks forward again, voice low and tight. “That was Sabrina Allen.”
I blink. “Sabrina Allen? Why does that sound so fami-”
And then it hits me like a freight train.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper. “Griffin’s girlfriend?”
I whip my head around instinctively, like someone might be hiding in a bush, recording this conversation. They’re not, obviously. But now I’m spun the hell up. Because of course I know that name. It’s always attached to the one guy I’ve been actively not thinking about.
“Wait… isn’t Connelly Griffin’s roommate?”
Hughie grunts again because apparently we’re speaking in guttural noises now and keeps walking. But I can see it in hisjaw, the way he’s clenching and unclenching it like he’s trying to hold in a scream. He’s so beyond pissed off because he never wanted to have this knowledge hanging over his head.
My brain’s moving at a thousand miles an hour. I mean, maybe they broke up. Maybe it’s just bad timing. That would be shitty, sure, but survivable. Bros shouldn’t go after their teammates' exes, but it’s not the literal apocalypse.
But if they didn’t break up?
