“What?”
“Six years of liking him, you don’t justlikehim,” Aidan said, shooting him an expectant look.
And what the hell did Aidan expect him to say?
“Please, man, youlovehim. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” Aidan said, chuckling now. Like this was all funny, and not horrifying.
Good, too, Lane supposed, but horrifying that he’d never really considered the possibility before.
“Uh-oh,” Aidan continued. “You’re looking like maybe youdidn’tknow that.”
“I . . .” Lane didn’t know what to say. Hehadn’tknown that, but clearly he should have. All those months, all those years, of course he couldn’t put it behind him, because every time he tried, he’d end up back home for one reason or another, and all the time, even as limited as it was, did was show him more of Trevor. Trevor smiling, Trevor laughing, Trevor playing football, Trevor shoveling eggs into his mouth, giggling as Delia ruffled his hair.
Trevor glancing up at him, admiration shining in his eyes. Wishing, so obviously, for them to be closer, for them to befriends, and Lane rejecting violently the idea. Couldn’t even imagine it, no matter how many times he’dtried.
And that was why, clearly.
He hadn’t just liked Trevor; he’d loved him.
Oh, God, helovedhim.
“You didn’t know,” Aidan said softly. He put his arm around Lane’s much bigger, much broader shoulders. “Listen, I didn’t get it either. So it’s okay.”
“I should have,” Lane said. “Ishouldhave.”
It was so fucking obvious, now that someone else had said it.
For a split second, there was that horrible, terrified corner of his brain that rebelled, screaming that he should tell Trevor he couldn’t do a relationship after all. Because if he did, and it ever ended, he was going to be totally ruined. Annihilated, honestly.
But then, wasn’t he already?
Nobody else was going to be touching and kissing Trevor. Making him laugh. If he had anything to say about it,justLane.
“Listen, this shit is hard,” Aidan said sympathetically. He patted him on the chest. “So hard, we’re allowed to be dumb as hell about it.”
“Even you?” Lane asked, because that was easier than asking,even me?Despite the fact that he’d made his peace long ago that he was good at a lot of things, most of which happened on a football field, but that he’d never besmart.
“Even me,” Aidan admitted.
“Huh.” Lane’s brain still felt like it was recalibrating. After the initial fear, and the initial reaction that he should push Trevor away—which really, how fucking stupid wasthat?—now he was really thinking about it, that helovedTrevor. And it was actually really fucking good. Trevor, always, tucked up next to him, near enough to touch and near enough to poke and prod Lane when he needed it.
Because he was always going to need it. Always going to need Trevor.
Aidan patted him one last time and stepping away as he chuckled. “You’re gonna be okay. Don’t expect you to say anything about Trevor, but . . . just throwing out that the way he looks at you? Probablymorethan okay.”
“Sure,” Lane said. Now he just needed to get through the next time he saw Trevor without just blurting it out. Now that heknew,it seemed incredibly silly tonotsay it as soon as possible, even if it was clearly way too soon.
“And if you wanna be grateful by giving me any ideas on how to demolish the Piranhas’ defense,” Aidan joked.
“You know how to do that,” Lane said.
Aidan just shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Yeah,” Lane said, swallowing hard, a flare of nerves rising inside him. Aidan gave him one last sympathetic glance and then wandered off, probably to find hisownboyfriend, leaving Lane to try to parse through all of this.
Tomorrow could be the first playoff game he and Trevor won together, or it could be the last game of Trevor’s rookie season.
When it was over, what were they going to do? Stay in Toronto? Go back to Arizona? Would Trevor want to move out? Lane wouldn’t blame him for wanting his own space—and most couples didn’t move in before they ever got together, but then they’d alreadybeenmoved in together.
