Cheryl’s ancient drinking companion touched her forearm, and Patrick clenched his jaw. He wanted to march across the deck, throw Cheryl over his shoulder, and carry her off, but he had no right to do that.
In her mind, they were friends. In everyone’s mind, they were just friends. Cheryl and Patrick. Patrick and Cheryl. Joined at the hip in the most PG-13 way possible. It didn’t matter that they’d gone on hiking trips, slept in the same tent at music festivals, and had lunch every Sunday unless he was playing footy. They were Just Friends.
Last year she’d come home to Western Australia with him for New Years and stayed up all night drinking whiskey with his brothers.
“She’s a firecracker,” his dad said the next day. “Whoever marries her is one lucky bloke.”
No one was under the impression that bloke was him. Especially not Cheryl.
And if he needed more proof that she saw him as a friend and not a man, it was the way she cuddled up to him like a koala, kissing him on the cheek when they saw each other, snuggling into him on the couch, wrapping her arm around his waist as they walked.
He didn’t mind. The cost of touching Cheryl was worth any price. Same with hanging out all the time. He’d rather be with her than with anyone else, even if it sucked that it was never more. At least that’s how he usually felt.
He’d invited her to Derek and Mara Hardiman’s yacht party, expecting to spend the afternoon drinking together. But then he’d been pulled into a massive chat with an ex-football commentator and now Cheryl was drinking wine with some asshole, and he was trying not to follow her around being weird.
“Oi, Psycho!”
He glanced over his shoulder. In Rockingham he was ‘Patty’ but there were already two Patricks playing for the Sharks when he arrived, so Willow nicknamed him ‘Psycho.’ It was an ironic reference to his last name and “that American cunt who cuts people up—he’s a Patrick, too.”
Patrick loved the nickname, but he was pretty sure he’d have loved it if Sloan ‘Willow’ Williams had dubbed him ‘Fuckhead Jones.’ Playing professional football alongside the guys he’d worshipped as a kid was a dream come true. It had taken months to stop stammering like a nervous wreck whenever Derek Hardiman talked to him.
“Over here, Psycho.”
He rotated forty degrees. Willow and Derek were approaching with their kids. Willow, carrying his daughter Jupiter upside down, Derek wheeling his twins in a stroller. It was their first birthday and the reason for the yacht party.
Patrick bent to smile at Adam and Sean Hardiman who were dressed in baby tuxedos for the occasion. “Are they liking the party?”
Derek shrugged. He wasn’t much of a talker.
“Well, thanks for having me,” Patrick went on. “The weather’s great.”
Willow cackled. “Fuckin’ weather chat? You need to up your game, Hardo. This party clearly sucks.”
Derek ignored Willow, as everyone generally did. “How’s your pre-season looking, Psych? Gonna have another blinder?”
Patrick ducked his head. He’d done well this year, but praise from Derek still choked him up. “Fingers crossed. Coach wants to change things up a bit.”
“Well, he’s new.” Derek leaned on the back of his stroller. “What are you thinking? One more season with the Sharks, then a trade?”
Patrick hesitated. It was kind of taboo to discuss trades with teammates, but Willow and Derek had been retired for a few years now.
“Not sure. I’ve had a few offers, but I’m hoping it’ll work itself out.”
Derek’s brow furrowed. “It won’t. Call your agent. Get a new deal.”
Patrick blinked. “I dunno. I’ve got time, don’t I?”
“You think you’ve got time. No one knows how long they’ll last. Don’t blow your opportunities.”
“Or do and marry rich.” Willow turned a giggling Jupiter in the air. “Become a house husband, like Hardo.”
Derek glared at him. “I’m not a house husband.”
“Oh yeah? What do you do exactly?”
Derek’s glare intensified. There were rumours he was writing fantasy novels under a pseudonym, but no one from the Sharks was brave enough to ask him about it.
“I’ll think about a trade,” Patrick said, mostly to break the awkward silence.
