“I dunno, Cub. From what I’ve heard, you’ve done plenty.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Not enough, though. For her, or for Ma.” There’s a soul crushing familiarity in his tone, and I know exactly what it’s borne of. Inadequacy. An emotional state I have resided in for many a year. Being so fluent in its language, I want to delve deeper. Offer reassurance, support and understanding.
The urge to do so sees my fingers tingle with the need to hug him. But I can’t. It’s selfish as fuck, but letting myself become more emotionally attached than I already am is a diabolically bad idea.
Stomach churning, I decide it’s time to deflect again.
Closing the drawer with a sharp thrust of my hips, I turn to face him, gaze still avoiding those mischievous blue orbs as I begin testing his range of movement. “I’m glad to see you wearing your glasses around your teammates. How does it feel? Have they responded appropriately?”
“Feels good, once they got over the whole,hey Clarke, are you sure you don’t have x-ray vision jokes, they’ve been good, too.”
“And with the … ahh …”
“Gay stuff?”
“Yeah, that.”
“They’ve been great. Actually mostly great. One or two have avoided me in the change rooms, but that’s their problem, not mine.”
“That’s a very mature attitude. I’m proud of you.” And we’re back to emotion. Fuck I am terrible at this. “So, how’s the movement felt today? No swelling that you’ve noticed?”
“Not in my shoulder, no.”
“Really?”
“Hey.” He arches his brows and slides those fucking glasses down his nose, sitting it right on the freckle covered tip. “You leave an opening that wide, I’m going to slip right on in.”
Rolling my eyes, I inhale, puff my cheeks and sigh. Using the time to mentally erase the image of Cory on his knees for me in this very room. “Jesus Christ, kid. You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Nope.”
With Cory’s eyes following the movement, my lips drop back into their naturally grumpy frown and the most awkward silence known to our generation takes hold.
“This will get easier, right?” he says eventually, voice pained. “The whole us being friends thing.”
In truth I have no freaking idea, but wanting something, has to count for something, too. “Of course it will. If we want it too, and I think we both do. There’s no pressure though. We can just keep it as colleagues if it’s too weird.”
“Nope. Na-uh. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. We’re buds who just happen to have had each other’s dicks in our mouths, and still wanna bone, but don’t. Simple.”
“Simple.” I nod again ‘cause it’s all I can seem to do. “Shoulder looks good.” He jumps a little, like he just realized I’ve been manipulating his arm the whole time, while he’s been zoned in on my ‘stache. “Give it some ice when you get home and it should be fine.”
It’s official.The little nerd has got under my skin.
Due to his injury, he’s not at practice much, and when he is, I’m working on his shoulder with Coach White breathing down my neck. All this means we haven’t seen much of each other, and I miss him. Like a lot. It’s unhealthy to think about him and his over the top, ridiculous flirting or the ludicrous, insufferable crap that flies from his mouth. That’s why I need this friendship thing—the one I am demanding because I’m a selfish jerk—to work.
With that in mind, it’s quite possible that this is the most autistic thing I’ve ever done, and coming from a man who has to practice smiling in a mirror, that’s really saying something.
I’ve just googled how to make friends.
I started with,what do boy friends do?As in two separate words, boy and friend, and that led me to many links, of many boys doing many things I don’t believe count as friendship. Then I tried,what do mates do?That was slightly more successful, but still, no. Only after adding platonic and group of, did I find anything useful.
Unsurprisingly, attending sporting events seems to be the most popular friend-adjacent activity, so that’s what I’ve settled on.
Sport. Since I’d rather chew on my own face off than watch football, basketball, or baseball, hockey it is.
Only friends or not, obviously, we can’t go to a Bears game. Northwestern is playing out of town, I hate Harvard so that leaves Boston University tonight—even if it means out of myself as a BU alumni, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay. I want—need—to show Cory that we can work as just friends, and this, according to google, is the only way to do it. Before doubt can overwhelm me and I change my mind, I book two tickets, snagging some great seats, then close the laptop that’s sitting on my chest.
Now to work up the courage to ask him. Blindly feeling around beside me, I find my phone twisted up in my sheets and raise it so slowly you’d think it was radioactive.
