Chapter 25 James
Cory’s breath ghosts over my neck and the sliver of collarbone my polo exposed. I pretend I don’t feel it or the resulting dick twitch. Best I make some attempt at conversation. What’s a topic that would turn me off?
I know.
“Your sister is quite something.” I’m standing at the end of the bench, a distractingly shirtless Cory’s sitting on.
He turns to face me, but I’m too quick. Grabbing his head and shoulder, I hold him in place.
He fights it, he really wants to make eye contact, but I want, no need, the opposite more.
With a huff he resigns and goes back to facing the basin.
“As a half Aussie, shouldn’t you say, she’s a top notch sheila—owww.” I’m not sure if I’ve taken some skin with it, or if it’s the reminder of his sibling, but Cory winces as I peel the tape from his shoulder.
“No one but seventy year old men or bogans trying to be retro-edgy say Sheila. Now stop being a baby, and sit.”
“What’s a bogan? Also, you’re the one who started talking.”
“That’s true. But I presumed that a gifted athlete such as yourself would have mastered talking and not moving at the same time.
Now, sit still and answer the question. The bogan talk can wait, Cubby.
” I know he’s as much of a fan of Cubby, as I am Jamie.
But again like me, I think we’re both warming to it when coming from each other.
My suspicion is confirmed when he sits up as though I’ve shoved a stick up his ass. “Good boy.”
“Fuck.” He reaches his left arm over and slap his hand over mine. “If you want us to be locked in the friend zone, good boy-ing me is going to make that very difficult.”
“Noted.” Giving his shoulder a squeeze, I slide my hand, and the rest of me, as far as I can get in. Which isn’t far.
This clinical white treatment room, sparsely furnished with a table, small desk I can barely fit behind, a series of stainless steel draws and cabinets and basin with a small mirror hanging over it, suddenly feels so crowded I can hardly breathe.
That’s where I linger, by that basin, and though half of his face is reflected back at me, it’s enough to see the wicked smile I’m equally desperate to ignore and to kiss off.
Perhaps if you stop flirting, he will stop looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.
Clearing my voice, I try to steer the conversation back to safe territory. “So, your sister.”
“My sister …” he sighs, “is indeed something. She’s had to be. Derek, that was her boyfriend, broke her heart so thoroughly she’s not been with anyone since. Not seriously anyway.”
“I can’t imagine she’d have much time for it, what with Billie, school and now nursing. Her determination and work ethic is admirable.”
“It’s exhausting, and I’ve only watched on from the sidelines.”
“I dunno, Cub. From what I’ve heard, you’ve done plenty.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Not enough, though. For her, or for Ma.” There’s a soul crushing familiarity in his tone, and I know exactly what it’s borne of.
Inadequacy. An emotional state I have resided in for many a year.
Being so fluent in its language, I want to delve deeper.
Offer reassurance, support and understanding.
The urge to do so sees my fingers tingle with the need to hug him. But I can’t. It’s selfish as fuck, but letting myself become more emotionally attached than I already am is a diabolically bad idea.
Stomach churning, I decide it’s time to deflect again.
Closing the drawer with a sharp thrust of my hips, I turn to face him, gaze still avoiding those mischievous blue orbs as I begin testing his range of movement. “I’m glad to see you wearing your glasses around your teammates. How does it feel? Have they responded appropriately?”
“Feels good, once they got over the whole, hey Clarke, are you sure you don’t have x-ray vision jokes, they’ve been good, too.”
“And with the … ahh …”
“Gay stuff?”
“Yeah, that.”
“They’ve been great. Actually mostly great. One or two have avoided me in the change rooms, but that’s their problem, not mine.”
“That’s a very mature attitude. I’m proud of you.” And we’re back to emotion. Fuck I am terrible at this. “So, how’s the movement felt today? No swelling that you’ve noticed?”
“Not in my shoulder, no.”
“Really?”
“Hey.” He arches his brows and slides those fucking glasses down his nose, sitting it right on the freckle covered tip. “You leave an opening that wide, I’m going to slip right on in.”
Rolling my eyes, I inhale, puff my cheeks and sigh. Using the time to mentally erase the image of Cory on his knees for me in this very room. “Jesus Christ, kid. You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Nope.”
With Cory’s eyes following the movement, my lips drop back into their naturally grumpy frown and the most awkward silence known to our generation takes hold.
“This will get easier, right?” he says eventually, voice pained. “The whole us being friends thing.”
In truth I have no freaking idea, but wanting something, has to count for something, too. “Of course it will. If we want it too, and I think we both do. There’s no pressure though. We can just keep it as colleagues if it’s too weird.”
“Nope. Na-uh. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. We’re buds who just happen to have had each other’s dicks in our mouths, and still wanna bone, but don’t. Simple.”
“Simple.” I nod again ‘cause it’s all I can seem to do. “Shoulder looks good.” He jumps a little, like he just realized I’ve been manipulating his arm the whole time, while he’s been zoned in on my ‘stache. “Give it some ice when you get home and it should be fine.”
It’s official. The little nerd has got under my skin.
Due to his injury, he’s not at practice much, and when he is, I’m working on his shoulder with Coach White breathing down my neck.
All this means we haven’t seen much of each other, and I miss him.
Like a lot. It’s unhealthy to think about him and his over the top, ridiculous flirting or the ludicrous, insufferable crap that flies from his mouth.
That’s why I need this friendship thing—the one I am demanding because I’m a selfish jerk—to work.
With that in mind, it’s quite possible that this is the most autistic thing I’ve ever done, and coming from a man who has to practice smiling in a mirror, that’s really saying something.
I’ve just googled how to make friends.
I started with, what do boy friends do? As in two separate words, boy and friend, and that led me to many links, of many boys doing many things I don’t believe count as friendship.
Then I tried, what do mates do? That was slightly more successful, but still, no.
Only after adding platonic and group of, did I find anything useful.
Unsurprisingly, attending sporting events seems to be the most popular friend-adjacent activity, so that’s what I’ve settled on.
Sport. Since I’d rather chew on my own face off than watch football, basketball, or baseball, hockey it is.
Only friends or not, obviously, we can’t go to a Bears game.
Northwestern is playing out of town, I hate Harvard so that leaves Boston University tonight—even if it means out of myself as a BU alumni, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay.
I want—need—to show Cory that we can work as just friends, and this, according to google, is the only way to do it.
Before doubt can overwhelm me and I change my mind, I book two tickets, snagging some great seats, then close the laptop that’s sitting on my chest.
Now to work up the courage to ask him. Blindly feeling around beside me, I find my phone twisted up in my sheets and raise it so slowly you’d think it was radioactive.
“Just call him you dick.”
I hang up, call back, hang up and call back three times. Before I can get to phone, he’s calling me.
“Jamie, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, hey. Hey, Cory, Nothing. Why do you presume something is wrong?”
“Ahh, because you called and hung up like a hundred times.”
“Oh, you can see that?”
As what I just said kicks in, he gives the cutest ‘you idiot’ laugh, that’s laughing at me without laughing at me. “Yeah, Grampa. These newfangled phones can do that. Now tell me what’s got you in a panic.
“Willyoucometoahockeygamewithmetonight?” It’s one word, and screamed. He gets it though, and I get an immediate—
“Yes, James, yes. I’d love too. What time?”
Ignoring the instant chub hearing, “yes, James yes,” has inspired, I pull the phone from my ear, and glance at the time “Can pick you up in an hour?”
“Done.”
“Great. Oh, and Cubby, just to reaffirm, this is a friends hanging out thing, not a—”
“Date. Got it. See you soon, babe.”
“You can’t seriously be wearing that?” Cory is standing at the open passenger-side door, abs fully exposed and perhaps dusted in glitter, with one of his slutty little cropped tanks, low slung baggie jeans and chunky white runners I just know a pair of crisp white tube socks slid inside of.
“Duh, I have a jacket.” The jacket he holds out looks like something that would fit an American Girl doll, but it is technically a jacket.
“What’s wrong, friend?” He smirks as he deposits is round ass into the seat, then slides his glasses down his nose to stare at me above them. “Don’t you like my outfit?”
“No, it’s the opposite and you know it. That’s why you wore it.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about.” Buckling his belt, he flutters his lashes innocently. “We’re just two hot friends, heading to a hot hockey game in enemy territory. Why is that, by the way. Coach ask you to do some recon?”
“No, not at all. Faith was home, Dylan is super chill, and I just felt like getting out.”
“Fair enough. And just to make sure, we haven’t seen much of each other this week, so it has nothing to do with missing me?”
“What? No way. Absolutely not. That’s crazy. Didn’t even enter my mind one bit. Nope.”
“Well that is very convincing. Glad you cleared that up,” he says, slapping my thigh.
“Cubby.”
“Yes, Jamie?”