And I am so fucking ashamed of myself it feels like a bowling ball lodged in my chest.
Embarrassment and self loathing are not nearly strong enough words for the parade of cringe I’ve been dragging around since that moment he tore his mouth off mine with the kind of shock and guilt in his eyes that was loud enough to have its own theme music. He didn’t just look startled; he looked like someone had slapped him in the face,like remorse had set up camp behind his ribcage and was sending postcards.
And yes, I know it isn’t completely my fault because I didn’t force myself on him but I also didn’t exactly cover this whole situation in dignity either. I moaned when his lips met mine, a sound that was embarrassingly loud and embarrassinglypleasurable,and yeah, I fucking ground against him.
I let myself be carried away by one too many drinks and one too many hormones and one too many desires, and I definitely allowed him to kiss me even though my brain was screaminghe’s drunk and has a girlfriend.
No, like I said, I didn’t throw myself at him, but I participated.
Actively.
With enthusiasm.
And now he won’t talk to me.
He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t acknowledge me. No, he has elevated avoidance to an art form, and I’m sitting in my room, halfway packed for the season opener, stewing in everypossible permutation of guilt and shame andholy shit did that really happenthat my brain can conjure.
And now I need to focus on my fucking job and the first away game of the goddamn season.
It’s a five hour bus ride south and we’re staying in a hotel. That means I am going to be trapped in the same confined space with him for literal hours. With no escape. And when we get there, I’m supposed to treat him like a colleague, a professional, a human being with whom I have strictly platonic training obligations.
Except I’m pretty sure every time I look at him, I’m going to see that image of his lips on mine, or feel the stupid phantom memory of his jawline against my cheek, or recall the sound of his voice.
And what really kills me, the truly humiliating cherry on top of this emotional sundae of disaster, is that it’s probably because of Sabrina.
Because maybe, just maybe, his body responded to her grinding on him like that back in the house right before he fled. And maybe that, mixed with some alcohol, is why Griffin Thatcher kissed me so hard that I can still feel him a week later.
So yes, I need to remember that Griffin is not into me in that way.
And I need to stop being a fucking sap about it.
A crushingly horny, emotionally compromised, self aware sap. And an embarrassed one at that.
I groan and leave my room, dragging my feet all the way down the hall toward Hughie’s door. He’s already packed, sitting on his bed like the calm eye of some hurricane of impending disaster, scrolling through his phone with that quiet focus that he gets before he has to be a brick wall in the net.
“You ready?” he asks without even looking up, voice low and unbothered.
And just like that, my brain accidentally lights up with the idea of telling him everything. Not just the kiss, not just the grinding accident, not just the awkward retreat but all of it, the whole catastrophically embarrassing mental replay reel.
I want someone to know. I want someone to validate that I’m not totally insane for reacting that way. But then the other part of me imagines Hughie’s expression if I say those words out loud. I can already imagine the mixture of disappointment and pity.
And then I imagine him telling me “I told you so,” with zero sympathy, and that’s the part that actually makes me sweat.
So of course, I don’t say any of it. I clamp my mouth shut and I choose to keep something from my best friend for the first time…ever.
“Yeah,” I say instead, shifting from foot to foot. “You got everything you need?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, still eyes locked on the screen.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, genuinely curious despite myself, intrigued that he’s so glued to that phone of his that nothing else seems to matter.
He finally glances up, face immediately folding into this adorable little scowl. “Looking at stats. Why?”
Okay, defensive.
Jeez.
Nothing says “I have nothing emotional going on” like immediate irritation when someone asks a perfectly harmless question.
