Chapter 13 Vince
Vince
The hotel restaurant feels worlds away from the chaos of the past few days.
Warm amber light spills from overhead fixtures, casting everything in honeyed tones.
The clatter of silverware against plates mixes with the gentle murmur of conversation, creating a cocoon of intimacy around our corner table.
I find myself relaxing into my chair for the first time since Adrian walked back into my life.
I watch the others settle in, noting the way Trevor immediately claims the seat closest to the window.
He always needs the best view, even at dinner.
Lance drops into his chair with the kind of boneless exhaustion that comes from too much sun and alcohol, while George sits with that straight-backed posture that screams military training even in civilian clothes.
It’s Adrian who surprises me, though. Instead of taking the seat farthest from me like he usually does, he slides into the seat directly across from me.
He is close enough that I can see the faint freckles across his nose, close enough to notice that his brown eyes are rich and warm, almost like melted chocolate catching the light.
“Pass the bread,” Trevor says, reaching across Lance, who’s mid-story about a particularly difficult patient who insisted his broken arm was actually a government conspiracy.
“So I’m standing there,” Lance continues, gesturing with his fork, “trying to explain basic anatomy to a guy who thinks his radius is a tracking device, when…”
“When you realized you should’ve gone into veterinary medicine instead,” George cuts in, deadpan. “Animals don’t argue with the X-rays.”
The table erupts in laughter. Even Adrian, who’s been quietly sketching in the margins of his napkin, looks up with a grin that transforms his entire face. Relief loosens in my chest at the sight, a knot I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
Across the table, Becca leans toward Adrian, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries anyway. “So, Holly mentioned you help friends with their parties and things? That’s quite the skill set.”
Adrian’s cheeks flush slightly. “I like organizing things, events. Plus, I have an eye for detail. It comes from the art background, I think.”
“Oh, I bet you do,” Becca says with a knowing smile that makes my stomach tighten. “Trevor’s told me about some of the…creative gatherings you’ve helped with.”
The way she emphasizes “creative” makes Adrian nearly choke on his wine. One of the bridesmaids just looks confused. “What kind of gatherings?”
“The fun kind,” Trevor supplies unhelpfully, grinning at Adrian’s mortified expression.
“I helped with a friend’s art show opening once, and also on some themed parties,” Adrian says quickly, clearly trying to steer the conversation into safer waters. “I’ve done some backstage work too, both in school productions and a few professional theater gigs. Nothing too exciting, really.”
I feel that familiar tightness in my jaw whenever I’m reminded of all the parts of Adrian’s life I don’t know about.
The friends he’s helped, the parties he’s thrown, the whole rich existence he’s built without me in it.
But watching him fumble for his composure, the slight hunch of his shoulders, I recognize a tell I’ve seen before, though I can’t place where.
“Vince?”
I blink, realizing Lance has been talking to me. “Sorry, what?”
“He was saying you’ve been staring at our boy, Adrian, for a while now.” George grins, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Lance snorts into his beer. “More like what’s not going on up there, and probably down here,” gesturing at my crotch.
A prickling warmth rises to my cheeks and neck. I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing, keeping my attention focused where it needs to be. Apparently, that skill has abandoned me completely where Adrian is concerned. “I wasn’t…”
“Oh, you absolutely were,” Lance presses. “That’s the same look you get when you’re analyzing defensive formations. All focused and intense.”
“Except Adrian’s not running a playbook,” George adds with a smirk.
Isn’t he? I think, but keep it to myself.
Because watching Adrian navigate this group feels exactly like watching someone run plays.
The way he deflects personal questions with humor and draws attention away from himself by asking about others makes everyone feel included without revealing too much of himself in return. It’s masterful, really.
I’d been an asshole on the boat the other day, trying to convince myself and him that he didn’t really belong in the group. I could see he’d figured it out long before I even said it. It had been my stupid way to deny the fact that he’s back in my life.
Instead of answering, I deflect with a shrug. “Just a little tired.”
I can feel everyone’s attention on me now, the sharpness of their collective curiosity. Even Adrian has stopped sketching, his pencil frozen mid-stroke.
As if sensing the shift in mood, Trevor leans closer to Adrian. “You okay? You seem…tangled up more than usual tonight.”
Adrian’s laugh is soft but edged with strain. “It’s nothing. Just a lot to process, you know? This whole week so far has been…”
He trails off, glancing at me before looking away. “Different than I expected.”
I know exactly what you mean, I want to say. Instead, I take a long pull of my beer and try to ignore the way Adrian’s voice goes quiet and thoughtful.
“Different how?” Becca asks, and I can tell she’s genuinely curious, not just making conversation.
Adrian considers this, twirling his pencil between his fingers. The gesture strikes me as familiar. “I guess I forgot what it was like to be around people who actually want to get to know you, you know? Not just what you can do for them.”
There’s something in those words that makes me look up sharply. In the soft restaurant lighting, Adrian looks younger somehow, more vulnerable than the confident performer who walked into Trevor’s suite just days ago.
“L.A.’s rough like that,” Holly says sympathetically.
“Well, you’re stuck with us now, mate,” Trevor declares, raising his glass. “We want you for your ability to make us feel cultured.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lance says. “I mainly want him for his surprisingly extensive knowledge of sports medicine. Did you know he can diagnose a pulled hamstring just by watching someone walk?”
“Stage combat training,” Adrian explains, looking more relaxed now that the conversation has moved away from his personal life. “You learn to spot injuries before they become serious problems.”
“That’s actually incredibly useful,” George says, and I can hear the genuine respect in his voice. He doesn’t give praise lightly. “How’d you get into that?”
“Community theater,” Adrian says, and a knot forms in my chest without warning. “I was just doing set design, but they needed fight choreographers and I had dance experience. I helped out with some little roles too.”
A half-formed memory stirs in the back of my mind, someone moving with careful precision. But it slips away before I can grasp it fully.
The conversation moves on, discussing wedding logistics and seating arrangements, but I find myself drifting.
I watch Adrian’s hands as he gestures, the confident sweep of his fingers as he explains some detail about lighting design to Becca.
There’s an almost hypnotic quality to those movements, making my pulse quicken in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.
Adrian moves through the group dynamics like water, adapting to each person’s energy without losing himself in the process.
With Holly, he’s playful and protective.
With Becca, genuinely interested and supportive.
With the guys, he holds his own against their ribbing while never pushing back too hard.
It strikes me that this isn’t an act. This is just who Adrian is.
He is someone who makes people feel seen, heard, and valued.
The kind of person who could make a shy freshman feel included in group conversations, who could remember everyone’s birthday, and who could show up to every rehearsal even when he didn’t have scenes to run.
Wait. Where did that thought come from?
“What are you working on there?” Becca asks, nodding toward Adrian’s napkin.
Adrian glances down at his sketching like he’d forgotten he was doing it. “Oh, just…capturing the moment, I guess.”
He turns the napkin around, and my breath catches.
It’s not a portrait of any one person. It’s all of us, rendered in quick, confident strokes.
Trevor mid-laugh, his head thrown back. Lance gesturing wildly with his fork.
George’s dry smile. Holly’s bright eyes.
Even Becca, leaning forward with interest.
And there, in the corner, is me. It’s not idealized or romanticized, just…me, looking contemplative, maybe a little guarded, but undeniably present. Undeniably real.
“This is incredible,” Becca breathes. “You did this while we were talking?”
“It’s nothing fancy,” Adrian says, but I can see the quiet pride in his expression. “Just muscle memory.”
“This is talent. Real talent,” Trevor says, grabbing the napkin for a closer look.
The way Adrian ducks his head at the praise, like he’s not quite sure he deserves it, twists something in my chest. There’s an achingly familiar quality to that gesture, though I can’t place what.
“You’ve got Lance’s ‘I’m about to say something ridiculous’ face perfect,” George observes, leaning over to look. “That’s not easy to capture.”
“I spend a lot of time watching people,” Adrian says simply. “It’s part of the job, I guess. Or the art. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
There it is again. That brief, charged moment of eye contact with him that feels like a shared secret even though everyone else is watching. I feel the familiarity of it, like déjà vu I can’t quite grasp.
I’ve felt this before, haven’t I? That sensation of being truly seen by someone. Not as the sum of my stats or my potential draft position. Not as Victor Holloway’s son or the team’s golden boy, but as just…myself. Complicated, uncertain, and human.
The feeling is so strong it’s almost a memory, but when I try to focus on it, it slips away like smoke.
“Vince?”
I blink, surfacing to find Lance watching me with raised eyebrows. The entire table is looking at me, actually, and I realize someone must have asked me a question.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you wanted dessert,” Lance says slowly. “But you were somewhere else entirely.”
Whatever I was thinking about feels monumentally important, even if I can’t quite remember what it was. It’s like trying to hold onto a dream after waking, something that goes way back to our years together in high school. The more I try to reach for it, the faster it fades.
Lance and George have moved on to whispering between themselves, shooting occasional glances my way.
I catch fragments of their conversation, like “chemistry” or “about time.” But I don’t have the energy to shut it down.
I let them theorize. They’re not entirely wrong, even if they don’t understand the full picture.
Neither do I, apparently.
As the evening winds down and the check is settled, I find myself lingering at the table. I’m not ready for this bubble of warmth and possibility to burst. I’m not ready to go back to my room and lie awake thinking about all the things I can’t say, can’t even fully remember.
Adrian is gathering his things, folding the napkin sketch carefully, and tucking it into his jacket pocket. Our eyes meet again as he stands, and this time neither of us looks away immediately.
There’s a different quality in Adrian’s gaze now. Recognition, like he’s seeing part of me that I can’t see in myself.
“Good night,” Adrian says softly, and the words feel layered with more than politeness.
“Good night,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intended.
I watch him walk away with the others, noting the easy way he falls into step with Holly, the genuine warmth in his goodbyes to the group. But there’s tension in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he doesn’t look back, that suggests the evening has affected him too.
Back in my room, I stand at the window overlooking the moonlit beach and try to make sense of what’s happening to me. For years, I’ve kept my life carefully compartmentalized. Football here, family there, everything else locked away in boxes I rarely open.
But Adrian keeps breaking through those walls, stirring up memories and feelings I thought were safely buried.
Outside my window, the ocean rolls endlessly against the shore, and I find myself wondering what it would feel like to let myself be swept away instead of always fighting the current.
I think about getting his number from Trevor, but some conversations can’t happen over text. Some truths require proximity, shared air, and the ability to see each other’s faces when the words are finally spoken.
Tomorrow, I will decide. I’ll find a way to bridge the gap I can’t even fully understand. I’ll try to figure out how to ask the questions I can’t quite form.
I’m still wondering when I finally fall asleep listening to the sound of the ocean, a constant reminder that some forces are too powerful to resist forever.