But Trevor could only shrug. “I’m not saying it’s true, but I do believe that’s what he thinks.”
“Well, he’s wrong, then,” Cam said loyally even though Cam technically had no reason to think otherwise. They still seemed more like acquaintances, not friends. At least not yet.
“Thanks,” Trevor said wryly.
“I also think,” Cam said and Trevor couldn’t miss the careful note in his voice, “he wouldn’t hang around the apartment so much if he didn’t like you. If he thought you were too sweet or too nice or too dorky or whatever.”
Trevor wanted to believe that was true but it was hard because ever since he’d been drafted to the Thunder, he knew Lane had faced a certain amount of unsurprising pressure to welcome Trevor. To mentor him. To be his friend.
“Maybe.” Trevor wasn’t convinced. Not really. But Camwasright, still. Surely if Lane thought he was such a drag, he wouldn’t stick around so much. Wouldn’t seek him out.
It was the one reason Trevor had been disappointed—he kept telling himself it was not a huge thing in the face of all the positives—that he’d been drafted by Toronto. He’d always kind of hoped, maybe stupidly, that Lane would someday like himon his own, not because Lane’s mom wanted him to, or because Trevor’s dad convinced him it was in his best interest, or because Lane’s team had also drafted Trevor, thinking they would be a two-birds, one-stone kind of deal.
“Listen, weshouldhang out more,” Cam said, flushing. “I’ve been a little . . . distracted.”
Trevor laughed. “Yeah, we’ve all seen that.”
“But us rookies have got to stick together, right?” Cam lifted his glass and clinked it against Trevor’s.
“Right,” Trevor echoed, taking a long sip of his tequila. It burned on the way down, erasing some of the uncertainty and weirdness he’d felt.
Lane was in heaven and hell, which was pretty par for the course these days.
It had been horrible enough watching that pretty girl flirt with Trevor. Not as bad as knowing, deep down, that when he did end up with someone, it would be a girl like her.
But the more girls Trevor brushed off—that was hardly the first since Trevor had come to Toronto—and the more time they spent together and the deeper he sank into the realization that Trevor was just as sweet and adorable and charming andhotas he’d always secretly imagined, the worse (and the better) Lane’s feelings got.
The more acutely the fledgling hope he kept trying to shove down kept cutting him.
Tequila slid down his throat and he forced himself not to look for Trevor. He’d left him with Cam and Dawson, and that had felt safe. Safe-ish.
Much safer anyway, than Lane pinning Trevor to the bar and demanding to know why he kept indifferently pushing all these perfectly fine girls away.
It’s giving all this shit inside of me too much air,he wouldn’t say.It’s making me think I’ve got a chance and that’s the best and the worst thing you could ever do.
“What did that tequila ever do to you?”
Lane glanced over at where Nate had apparently approached while he’d been preoccupied at trying not to stare at where Trevor’s head was just visible over the crowd.
“Uh, nothing,” Lane said. He swallowed the rest of it.
Drunk was no good around Trevor. His tongue might loosen. But a few drinks was good. Especially tonight, with Trevor in that dark suit, tight in all the right places, white shirt making the remnants of his tan glow.
“You seem particularly pent up lately,” Nate observed.
Lane huffed out a breath. His friend had no fucking clue how pent up he was. He’d returned to Toronto this season with every intention of resuming his normal activities. His normal social schedule. But it turned out that with Trevor right there, he couldn’t. He didn’t evenwantto. Meaningless sex couldn’t hold a candle to sitting on the couch, watching as Trevor did one of his stupid puzzles, little crease between his eyebrows as he tried to fit a piece in where it didn’t belong.
He and his right hand had become very, very well acquainted in the last few months. It was like he was thirteen again, discovering jerking off for the first goddamn time.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Lane said. Aware that nothing he’d said actually meant anything, and that would probably tip Nate off more than dissuade him from continuing to ask.
“Come the fuck on,” Nate said.
“You don’t get to judge,” Lane whined. “You’re like, all in love and happy and shit. WithRamsey.”
“I know,” Nate said smugly. Lane loved him like a brother—probably the way he should’ve felt about Trevor, if fate hadn’t been a bitch—and he wasn’t going to punch him in the face, because Lane’s problems didn’t mean Nate deserved that.
“Glad there’s no hard feelings,” Nate added when Lane only made a face.
