“Well good for you. I’m getting out of here. I don’t need to be insulted for nothing,” Nicholas says, turning on his heels ready to leave and not come back.
“It’s not for nothing.”
Nicholas stops, refusing to turn and look at Andrew. “Explain.”
“Come sit down at the table and have dinner, then I’ll explain.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Nicholas argues, unable to stop himself from turning to look at Andrew who for reasons unknown is smiling serenely.
“Of course not. You’re a big boy who is the boss of himself, aren’t you?”
Unsure if that’s insulting or something he’s supposed to agree with, Nicholas levels Andrew with what he hopes is a glare sufficient enough to convey his feelings either way.
“Listen here you boring beige fucker.”
“Nicholas,” Amanda shouts, but Andrew squeezes her shoulder before striding towards Nicki.
“No, you listen here you overgrown manchild.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, thank you. I’m not interested.”
“I wasn’t—oh, fuck you.”
“I’m not intimidated by you, Nicki.”
The name sounds different coming from Andrew, equal parts taunting and familiar. Strangely, it makes Nicholas want to goad him even more just to get Andrew to push back at him. People rarely challenge Nicholas. Dismiss him, physically fight with him, but not challenge him. At least, not unless he’s on the ice. It’s exactly why he’s always loved hockey. He was nothing more and nothing less the version of himself that made it onto the ice that day.
“You want a fucking medal?” Nicholas snaps.
“No. What I want is to sit down and eat. I’m hungry, it’s thirty minutes past my dinner time, and I would much rather be at home reading than listening to you have a tantrum.”
“Atantrum. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
“A grown man who acts like a child,” Andrew surmises. “A man who thinks his money and infamy can excuse his rude behavior. You don’t have to want to fuck or date me, I don’t care either way. You do need to respect me if you want my help.”
“Maybe I don’t want your help anymore,” Nicholas snarks.
“Fine, then I can eat my dinner.” He turns to walk away, and Nicholas acts without thinking, grabbing his arm.
“I don’t like being touched without permission,” Andrew says, pushing away Nicholas’s hand.
Guilt is another emotion he normally doesn’t experience but looking at the discomfort on Andrew’s face has him feeling some kind of way.
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas forces out, pretty sure this is the first time he’s ever apologized of his own volition without being forced by a parent, teacher or coach.
“Apology accepted.”
The ease with which Andrew forgives him catches him off guard, as does the way Andrew schools his features into a congenial smile, the discomfort that was written so plainly there only seconds before nowhere to be seen.
“Does this mean you’ll help me?”
“There will be rules.”
“Rules,” Nicholas frowns. “Who the fuck needs rules for fake dating?”
“I do. Plenty of them. Give me a few days to draw up a contract and?—”
