His lip quirks up on one side and he scratches along his impressive jawline. “This could work.”
I open the fridge and pull out a carton of eggs. “Well then, the first order of roommate business is breakfast. Followed by a trip to the Y to shoot some hoops with our geriatric buds.”
“Yes!” he beams and grabs my shoulders from behind me, shaking me violently.
I laugh and push into his broad frame. Has he gotten bigger since I’ve seen him? Up close like this, it looks like he’s put on even more muscle over the last year.
“They’ve been counting down the weeks for you to come home, man.”
And I’ve been counting down the minutes.
“Well, I can’t disappoint them. Ten bucks says Doug is wearing that baseball jersey from the 1970s and the knee-high, black compression socks.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m going with the wrestling singlet and jorts. That’s one of his favorite combos.”
We both guessed wrong. Doug showed up wearing a fly-fishing vest, short-sleeve dress shirt, and black cargo pants. Naturally, everything was four sizes too big for him.
But honestly, we forgot about the bet because as soon as Marco and I walked into the gymnasium together, the whole crew cheered and patted him on the back welcoming him home again.
I like that I’m part of this home for him—as much as it slowly kills me.
We spend the next few hours running up and down the court. Our grandpa gang has dissipated and a few other guys have come and gone, but we stay, poking fun and juking each other. We take breaks and work on our free throws to calm our heart rates, only to launch into some half-court one-on-one until we’re beat and breathing hard again.
Walking into the locker room, I start to peel my sweat-soaked shirt off. “I’m gonna grab a shower before we head home.”
Marco follows suit and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. “I’ll join you. I don’t wanna stink up your car.”
Shit—am I going to see him naked? I should probably wait until he’s done showering to do it myself. But then that would be weird… It's a communal shower. I’ve showered with other men before; this shouldn’t be any different. But it very much is. This is Marco fucking Borrelli we’re talking about here. I shake off the thought of what this means and focus on the task at hand.
Make fun of him or something, Jay.
I huff a laugh as we strip off the rest of our clothes and I focus my stare on his face. “Yeah, thanks for that. My car will appreciate it.”
He throws his shorts at my chest and chuckles. And listen—I know this is gross—but his sweat-soaked, stanky shorts are rank, and if I was alone right now, I’d clutch them and inhale. Ilovethe way he smells. It doesn’t matter if it’s his natural body odor after a workout or if he’s fresh from a shower, I inwardly lose it whenever I get a whiff of him.
Regretfully, I throw his shorts back at him and pretend I find it repulsive as I walk past him toward the showers, taking a couple towels with me. We turn on our faucets as he stands a few bays down from me. There’s another guy on the wall of showers behind us, but I focus on my space only. The old tile wall in front of me. The shampoo and soap dispenser. The tan floor and metal shower drain below me. I close my eyes and let the water flow over my hair, then run my hands through it, flinging the suds and excess water behind me.
The man behind us turns off his shower and I see him walk away in a towel out of the corner of my eye. But then my eye catches on Marco—and he’s looking at me.Reallylooking at me. My whole body. My whole body that is now so hot, even the cold shower I’m having isn’t cooling the flames.
I raise my eyebrows and look side to side and right back into his stare. “What?” I ask.
He pushes out his chin in a quick nod as he continues to assess my body. “You’re looking fucking fit, dude. You been working out more since I’ve been gone?”
He’s still not looking away, and it’s taking everything I have not to lower my gaze to check him out the same way he’s checking me out.
But he’s not really checking me out—not the same way I do him, I mean. He’s just making an observation, and an accurate one at that, because yeah, I have been working out more. It helps me clear my head and focus on other Not-Marco things.
I turn my head back and pump some body wash into my hands. “Yeah, well, I gotta stay in shape so I can kick your ass on the court when you come back home.”
He gifts me with that dumb laugh that’s like music to my ears. Thankfully, he drops the subject as we finish our showers, wrap up, and get dressed.
As he’s finishing putting his shoes on, I check my phone and see a text from Isabelle. “Hey, did you have plans tonight? If not, my cousin is inviting us out for some drinks and live music.”
He finishes tying his shoe and looks up at me. “I don’t have any plans. Let’s do it.”
We decide to leave early and walk to the bar. It’s about thirty minutes away, but both of us are up for the jaunt.
We arrive at an old school Irish bar in Center City. With dark wood and low lighting, it’s moody and relaxing. Why yes—I’m exactly in the mood for a Guinness.
