“Were you expecting something else?”
“A thumbs up, Donovan. I might as well have sent you a picture of my socks if a thumbs up is all I’m gonna get.”
“I don’t know about that. Are they nice socks?” I reply, with a grin.
“Fuck you,” Oakley laughs. “Of course they are. They have little palm trees on them.”
“Thumbs up emoji.”
“Asshole. Why did I even call you?”
“You wanted to be a dick about the crush I used to have on your teammate,” I offer. “Either that or you wanted to brag about your two-goal game. It’s not a hat trick, but it’s pretty impressive I guess.”
“Two goals, one assist,” Oakley replies.
“Still not a hat trick.”
“First of all, I’ll get a hat trick next game just for you, asshole. Second. Used to have? Last time we chatted and I brought his name up, you were all heart eyes for him.”
“I was not.”
“Dude,” Oakley says. “You totally were. I was going to do an introduction next time we’re in town. See what ends up happening, right?”
“I don’t need you to hook me up with your probably straight teammate, Oak. I’m fine.” I’m not in the habit of chasing people who aren’t meant for me to catch.
Oakley is silent on the other end of the call for a few moments, then he inhales a sudden, sharp breath. “You met someone.”
“What?”
“You met someone,” he repeats. “And about fucking time, might I add. Sitting alone in your apartment is depressing as fuck, but you met someone. Who are they? He? She?”
Black hair with strands of deep green.
Chipped nail polish and beauty he can create with his hands that he believes is trash.
A thief who was carrying a knife the night we met and somehow ended up with my wallet and keys, which he used to steal my team hoodie from my apartment. In return, I took him out to eat and then offered him a ticket to my game because he interests me in a way I haven’t been since I landed here in Boston.
I can’t even begin to try explaining any of that to Oakley because it sounds batshit when I even think about it. “Nobody.”
“Nobody,” he repeats.
“I didn’t meet anyone,” I say, hoping he can’t sense the lie over the phone. If we were face to face, it’d be a different story. I’ve never been able to keep a secret from him, but in return I know exactly what he looks like when he’s lying as well.
“Smells like bullshit.”
Shit. Apparently he can sense a lie even with distance between us. I open my mouth to respond, and what comes out next has us both cringing for different reasons. “How’s Jude?”
Oakley goes silent and I wince, preparing myself for the worst. That was a low blow, and if he tells me off, I deserve it. Oakley and his stepbrother Jude are like oil and water, polar opposites in nearly every way, but there’s something deep that runs between them, tying them together in ways I can’t possibly understand.
“I haven’t talked to him in months,” Oakley finally offers, his tone short and clipped. “He’s off making music in someone’s garage and working at some fast-food joint or some shit. I don’t know.”
“Oh,” I reply, because I don’t quite know what else to say now that I’ve opened this particular can of worms. Fuck me. I can feel the urge to make this right bubbling up inside me, and without a single thought, I open my damn mouth again. “His name is Shiloh.”
“Shiloh?” Oakley breathes, sounding relieved that I haven’t prodded at him more about his stepbrother.
“Yeah,” I reply, with a small smile, as I look over to the art gallery on my fridge. “Shiloh.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
