“I’ll go with you,” Eric says, finishing his drink and shooting me a look. “But I’m still pissed you didn’t tell me. I thought I was your best friend.”
“You are,” I say, sliding out of the booth. I did feel shitty for not telling him—I just didn’t want to make things more complicated. “Sorry.”
“If you buy me a drink, maybe I’ll forgive you,” Eric says, and I can already tell he’s not actually mad, even if it still stings a little.
“Next three rounds are on me,” I say, then glance at Nick. “What do you want?”
Nick pinches his chin. “Hmm. There was something about a Labubu, I think?”
“The Stolen Lafufu,” Eric says, and Nick nods.
“But don’t talk about Moon without me,” Nick says, giving us a stern look.
I nod.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re back at the table with six more drinks—we figured we’d stock up so we wouldn’t have to wait again. As promised, we hadn’t said a word about Moon. Not that we could’ve if we tried—it was way too loud.
Still, Eric kept throwing me disappointed looks, like he couldn’t believe I’d kept something that scandalous from him.
“This is The Stolen Lafufu,” Eric says, setting a neon-green drink in front of Nick. “And this one’s The Iron Curtain,” he adds with a grin, pushing a glass as black as tar across the table. Then he turns to me. “So…wanna start talking, maybe?”
“Alright,” I snort—but before I say anything, I glance around, just to make sure Moon or his Joker date aren’t anywhere nearby.
So I tell Eric everything, from the beginning. And this time, I even mention Moon getting hard—only because I’m drunk enough, and partly because no one can see the color of my face in here.
Nick and Eric immediately start hollering and wheezing, which would be hilarious if the story weren’t about me. Calling them shocked would be an understatement.
By the time I finish, my second beer is gone and I’m feeling a little lightheaded. I don’t usually drink this fast.
“Let me get this straight,” Eric says. “He got on top of you, got hard, and then kissed you—aftercalling you a fag?”
I nod, glancing around again, just in case.
Eric freezes, like he’s turning something over in his head.
“Wait,” he says. “Was that why he sucked so bad during the friendly?”
“That’s my theory,” Nick says confidently, nodding. “I texted Mark right after the match and said it—I think the guy had a full-on sexuality meltdown in the locker room, and now he can’t even play because Mark broke him.”
Eric bursts out laughing, and I snort.
“I don’t think he’s in any kind of crisis, considering he’s out there basically getting jerked off by some guy in a dark corner,” I say, trying not to sound like I care. Because I don’t. “Though I guess it does explain why he freaked out when I called him a closet case during the quarterfinals.” I pause. “I kind of feel bad about that. Knowing he’s gay now.”
“Who cares,” Eric says with a shrug. “If you act like a homophobe, don’t expect people to be nice to you.”
I shrug too. “Maybe. I still don’t like being part of the problem.”
“You’re too nice,” Eric says, giving me a look that’s almost empathetic. “He’s an ass, so fuck him. No pun intended.”
“He’s hot though, right?” Nick says, glancing between us like he can’t tell.
I take a swig of my third beer, mostly to avoid answering.
“Objectively, maybe,” Eric says. “But who cares if he’s a douchebag. I’m a green flag kind of guy.”
Nick nods. “Yeah, I saw you flirting with the bartender.”
Eric grins and puts his hands up like he’s been caught. “Yeah, he’s cute. But I don’t think I want any more one-night stands.”
