Ryker
RYKER
After that night, the rest of the week is good, too. I have two games, both at home, so I’m enjoying a full week of no travel at all.
A full week of Lake.
It’s the best week in forever.
I mean, objectively, it’s nothing special. We’re doing the most ordinary, mundane things. Lake goes to school, and I go to practices and meetings. We grab lunch and cook dinner together. Lake studies while I watch game tape, his feet in my lap, a pencil between his lips. I quiz him for his tests, and we go jogging together.
Lake comes to both my games and cheers so loudly his voice is hoarse after.
All the while, I push any thoughts of Scott out of my mind, and Lake doesn’t mention him either. I almost want him to fuck off for good, never to be heard from again. Let him be a blip on the radar that doesn’t become anything. That’d make things easier.
So, yeah. Objectively speaking, it’s all almost insultingly mundane.
But.
Lake and I get so few of those everyday moments together with our hectic schedules that every ordinary, regular, everyday moment becomes extraordinary.
“I don’t get basketball,” Kian says, eyes firmly trained on the ball. “Like, the game has potential, but there are just so many decisions made here that are just wrong.”
We’re in the nosebleeds because coming to the game was a last-minute decision, and these were literally the only seats left. Not that I really care. I’m not big on basketball anyway.
Lake tilts his head to the side and takes a sip of his beer. “Like what?”
“Where do I even start?!” Kian says. “These guys are on average seven feet tall or something, and they’re putting them on a court they can cross in two steps. What’s the point? Put them on a proper field and then we’ll talk. This is bullshit. On that same note, the hoop is too low. But the most egregious abuse of this sham of a game is how much they score. It’s every fucking minute. Where’s the excitement in it? Where’s the tension?”
The people sitting in the row in front of us turn their heads and glare at Kian. He nods at them. “Yeah, I said what I said.”
“I don’t know,” Lake muses. “It’s quick, so there’s a lot of action. And it definitely takes skill. There are way worse sports to watch.”
“If you tell me hockey’s on that list you’re dead to me,” Kian says.
Lake snickers. “As long as you people keep losing teeth, I solemnly promise that won’t happen. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t condone violence, but I do like to see blood.”
Kian high-fives him.
It’s Saturday, and we’re watching the Knicks play the Celtics.
After spending most of the day in bed, it seemed like a good idea to drag ourselves out of it when Kian texted, so here we are.
I glance at Lake out of the corner of my eye yet again. He’s wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, a forest green Henley, and a pair of sneakers. He’s effortlessly cool and way too sexy for his own good. Or my good, for that matter, because it takes a lot of effort not to openly stare at him.
“Oh, come the fuck on!” Kian gestures toward the court. “He didn’t even touch him. You know what? Basketball would be ten times more enjoyable if we gave them sticks and had them get into an occasional fistfight. Stop glaring! You know it’s true,” he adds to the people in front of us, who are once again frowning at him.
“What are the chances he’s gonna get us beaten up before the game’s over?” Lake asks. He doesn’t look particularly worried about the prospect.
“Why did you want to come to the game if you dislike it so much?” I ask Kian.
“Please. Like I’m the only person in the world who hate-watches shit.”
Lake sends him an amused look. “Yeah, but you don’t seem like the type.”
“To hate-watch?” Kian asks.
“To hate anything at all.” Lake waves at him. “You’ve got this sunny-person energy. It’s a bit repulsive, honestly.”
“Well, sure. But there are universal things all people hate. Even us nice ones.” Kian looks at me. “Back me up on it.”
“A single hair in your mouth. Specifically on the back of your tongue, so you either have to stick your hand in your mouth to get rid of it or try to swallow it,” I say.
“Pennies,” Kian says. “Pointless fucking coins. Just round up or down to the nearest five and call it good, for crying out loud.”
“People who stand on the walking side of the escalator,” I say.
“Saying the word ‘hashtag’ out loud,” Kian adds.
“Fruit flavored water. Drink juice or drink water. Just pick one.”
“Soul patches. Learn how to fucking shave.”
“Suburbs,” I say.
Lake snorts, looks at me for a moment with that bright smile, then says, “Pan flutes.”
“Wet socks,” Kian says.
“Laugh tracks,” Lake adds. “I recognize a fucking joke. I don’t need pointers.”
The vehemence in his voice makes me laugh out loud. The people in the row in front of us jump up and cheer.
Kian snaps his head toward the court again. “Did we win?”
Lake and I look at each other, and we both grin.
It takes us a bit of time to get outside after the game ends, but once we do, Kian looks between Lake and me and asks, “Beers?”
Lake meets my gaze, and I raise my brows at him.
“Sure,” he says, so I nod. “Why not?”
We walk, since finding a cab right now is mission impossible, and while we do, Kian keeps ranting about the flaws of basketball. I walk close enough to Lake that every now and then, my fingers brush against his. It’s cold outside, and his hands are cold. I pull my gloves from my jacket pocket and wordlessly hand them over.
Lake pulls them on and bumps his shoulder into mine. The back of his gloved hand is now pressed against mine. He keeps it there. We reach the bar Kian picked out way too fast.
We’re just about to enter when Lake stops, frowns, and digs out his phone. He glances at the screen, and his frown deepens before he looks up.
“You guys go ahead. I better take this.”
Kian pulls the door open, but I stay put.
“It’s my mom,” Lake says, then nods toward the door. Kian’s already disappeared inside. “You don’t have to freeze here. She’s either calling because she finally remembered I called two weeks ago, or she’s decided to divorce Glen again and wants to talk about it. It’s not going to be riveting.”
I don’t like Lake’s mother.
Or, to be more precise, I don’t trust her. I don’t trust her with Lake, specifically. Whatever else she’s up to, I frankly don’t give a shit, but Lake’s mine, and she doesn’t have a clue how to treat him the way he should be treated.
Not to say Lake doesn’t know how to handle her or how to stand up for himself. It’s just that I don’t want him to have to.
Lake looks half-amused and half-exasperated by my hovering.
“Go,” he says.
I do as he says.
I don’t like it.
But I do as he says.