Four.
Like I’m heading out to a goddamn date and not to a study session that’s supposed to be purely academic and entirely platonic and absolutely not me mentally spiraling over my partner’s smile like a lovesick fucking idiot.
Which, yeah, I’m fully aware issogoddamn lame I don’t even know what to say about it. I’m cringing at myself in real time.
But the fact of the matter is that I came to the deeply unfortunate conclusion that this crush isn’t going away. It’s not just a one-off oh-he’s-hot realization. It’s a full-blown, stomach-flipping, shirt-obsessing, I-wonder-if-he-likes-coffee-or-tea kind of crush.
And I hate it.
Because let’s take inventory, shall we?
One: I’m the team’s primary trainer.
Two: He’s Hughie’sveryclose friend. The one that he just recently started hanging out with again.
Three: I’m Hughie’s brother. I need to be firmly on Hughie’s side with everything that is going on.
And four (the cherry on top): Griffin has a girlfriend. A long-term, cheerleader-bodied, manipulative-as-hell girlfriend that I know is cheating on him with one of his roommates, and he has no fucking idea.
So yeah, the guilt? It’s there. Sitting in my chest like a goddamn cinder block. I’m not even doing anything wrong, technically. Like sure, I’m just harboring a crush. But it still feels like I’m betraying someone. Like if I look at him too long or laugh too hard at something he says, I’m somehow complicit in the mess he doesn’t know he’s in.
I groan like I’ve been stabbed and rip the white t-shirt off, tossing it onto the growing pile of reject shirts on my bed. Then I dig through my closet again like the answer to all my problems is hidden behind my winter jacket and that flannel I stole from Hughie in sophomore year.
First shirt I tried on was a navy polo, which made me look like I was about to ask him if he’s ever thought about opening a Roth IRA. Then I switched to a plain black tee, which would’ve been fine if it didn’t fit like it had shrunk in the dryer. Cool, love that for me.
Third attempt? A gray shirt with the basketball team logo on it. I don’t even like basketball, but it was clean, and I was desperate. Then I remembered I was walking into a hockey house and decided not to wear it for fear that I get heckled into oblivion before we even open the textbook.
So now I’m shirtless, annoyed, and ten minutes late to leave. But sure, yeah, everything’s fine.
Totally normal.
Just a dude about to study with his definitely straight, definitely taken, definitely way too pretty partner and pretending like it’s not slowly turning him into an emotional piñata.
I grab the first non-offensive thing my hands land on, a soft, well-worn navy blue university hoodie with our school’s stupid crest stitched into the chest. I yank it on with a huff, giving up on looking cool or effortless or like a person who isn’t spiraling about his fucking outfit before a study session.
Like, Christ, I’m not trying to seduce the guy. I just don’t want to look like a troll. Is that too much to ask?
The second the hoodie’s over my head and I’ve smoothed my hair back into some semblance of order, Hughie walks in like he owns the place. Which, okay, technically he kind of does since we share the apartment but he makes himself real comfortable by throwing his massive goalie body right onto my bed like a sack bricks.
He stares at the ceiling for a second, breathing like he just finished a therapy session (which he didn’t…but he should), and then casually turns his head to look at the absolute disaster that is my room. The floor is littered with every shirt I own, most inside out, some half-hanging off the dresser, one somehow draped over my desk lamp.
He raises a single judgmental brow.
I sigh dramatically and flop onto the chair at my desk. “Don’t ask.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” he mutters, eyes drifting back up toward the ceiling. “Looks like a war zone in here, though.”
“It was a war zone,” I shoot back, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s fine now. Ceasefire. We’re moving on.”
He snorts but doesn’t push. That’s the thing with Hughie…he always knows when to press and when to leave it the fuck alone. Probably because he knows me too well. And also because he’s lowkey emotionally stunted and would rather die than talk about feelings unless forced to.
“Where you going, looking like a brooding academic?” he finally asks, eyeing my hoodie with mock suspicion.
I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder like it might steady me. “Study session. Physiology. Group project.”
“With?” he asks, even though I know he knows.
I hesitate. “Griffin.”
