CHAPTER 3. TRICKTREAT #2
“You are,” I say, sliding out of the booth. I did feel shitty for not telling him—I just didn’t want to make things more complicated. “Sorry.”
“If you buy me a drink, maybe I’ll forgive you,” Eric says, and I can already tell he’s not actually mad, even if it still stings a little.
“Next three rounds are on me,” I say, then glance at Nick. “What do you want?”
Nick pinches his chin. “Hmm. There was something about a Labubu, I think?”
“The Stolen Lafufu,” Eric says, and Nick nods.
“But don’t talk about Moon without me,” Nick says, giving us a stern look.
I nod.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re back at the table with six more drinks—we figured we’d stock up so we wouldn’t have to wait again. As promised, we hadn’t said a word about Moon. Not that we could’ve if we tried—it was way too loud.
Still, Eric kept throwing me disappointed looks, like he couldn’t believe I’d kept something that scandalous from him.
“This is The Stolen Lafufu,” Eric says, setting a neon-green drink in front of Nick. “And this one’s The Iron Curtain,” he adds with a grin, pushing a glass as black as tar across the table. Then he turns to me. “So…wanna start talking, maybe?”
“Alright,” I snort—but before I say anything, I glance around, just to make sure Moon or his Joker date aren’t anywhere nearby.
So I tell Eric everything, from the beginning. And this time, I even mention Moon getting hard—only because I’m drunk enough, and partly because no one can see the color of my face in here.
Nick and Eric immediately start hollering and wheezing, which would be hilarious if the story weren’t about me. Calling them shocked would be an understatement.
By the time I finish, my second beer is gone and I’m feeling a little lightheaded. I don’t usually drink this fast.
“Let me get this straight,” Eric says. “He got on top of you, got hard, and then kissed you—after calling you a fag?”
I nod, glancing around again, just in case.
Eric freezes, like he’s turning something over in his head.
“Wait,” he says. “Was that why he sucked so bad during the friendly?”
“That’s my theory,” Nick says confidently, nodding. “I texted Mark right after the match and said it—I think the guy had a full-on sexuality meltdown in the locker room, and now he can’t even play because Mark broke him.”
Eric bursts out laughing, and I snort.
“I don’t think he’s in any kind of crisis, considering he’s out there basically getting jerked off by some guy in a dark corner,” I say, trying not to sound like I care.
Because I don’t. “Though I guess it does explain why he freaked out when I called him a closet case during the quarterfinals.” I pause.
“I kind of feel bad about that. Knowing he’s gay now. ”
“Who cares,” Eric says with a shrug. “If you act like a homophobe, don’t expect people to be nice to you.”
I shrug too. “Maybe. I still don’t like being part of the problem.”
“You’re too nice,” Eric says, giving me a look that’s almost empathetic. “He’s an ass, so fuck him. No pun intended.”
“He’s hot though, right?” Nick says, glancing between us like he can’t tell.
I take a swig of my third beer, mostly to avoid answering.
“Objectively, maybe,” Eric says. “But who cares if he’s a douchebag. I’m a green flag kind of guy.”
Nick nods. “Yeah, I saw you flirting with the bartender.”
Eric grins and puts his hands up like he’s been caught. “Yeah, he’s cute. But I don’t think I want any more one-night stands.”
Nick and I almost spit out our drinks.
“Did you fall on your head during the match on Wednesday?” I cough, trying to clear beer from my windpipe.
Eric gives me a broad smile, but I can’t tell what’s behind it.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I’m getting old, but I want something real. Something that lasts.”
I look at him, barely stopping my jaw from dropping. Never in my life did I think I’d hear that from Eric.
“I’m proud of you, man,” Nick says, reaching across the table to slap his shoulder—almost choking on the words.
“Thanks,” Eric says, and maybe it’s just the light, but his cheeks look a shade darker.
We spend the next hour talking about our love lives.
Mine—basically non-existent, since I spend most of my time training.
Eric’s—a long streak of one-night stands he used to be fine with but isn’t anymore.
And Nick’s—one big monogamous win. He gets so drunk he goes on a twenty-minute rant about how happy Samia makes him, how she’s the love of his life and the best person on Earth.
It’s actually kind of sweet. But I think it makes both me and Eric a little sad—because neither of us has ever had anything close.
To be honest, I’m only half present—partly because I can feel the buzz kicking in faster than I planned for, and partly because my eyes keep darting to the other side of the room, where I know Moon is sitting with his hookup-slash-boyfriend-slash-whatever, even if I can’t see him through the crowd.
I try not to look too often, though—I don’t want Nick or Eric to notice—but it’s like I can feel him from across the room.
When all six of our glasses are empty, Nick volunteers to go for the next round.
“I’ll go,” I say quickly, getting to my feet. “I promised to pay for three rounds, and this is the third.”
“I’m coming with you,” Eric says, and I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Scooby calling for you, Shaggy?”
Eric snorts, rolling his eyes. “I told you—I’m not looking for a hookup.”
“Alright, alright,” I say, giving him a smile that says I don’t buy it.
We make our way to the bar, and Eric’s so big people basically part for him like he’s Moses. I follow behind, and the second we squeeze through the crowd, it’s so packed I end up plastered against someone’s back—while someone else immediately presses up behind me.
I’m too far from the bartender, so Eric shoots me a quick what-do-you-want look.
I glance at the beer list, spot a random IPA, and shout, “Heterofatalism!”
But before I can tell him I’m paying, someone right behind me leans in. I catch this hit of lime and green tea—and my heart just takes off, like it already knows.
And when I finally turn, a second later, there he is.
Sawyer Moon.
Half his body is pressed against mine in the crush of the crowd. I glance at him, and my breath catches—we’re that close. His face looks different up close, eyes unfocused, lips puffed like he’s been kissed for hours—which is not something I want to be picturing.
“Hi,” I blurt out, caught off guard by how close we are—and immediately regretting it. Why the hell would I even say hi to him?
His eyes land on mine like he’s only just now realizing I’m here.
His lips part, about to say something—but before he can, an arm slides around his neck, and the guy in the Joker costume shows up at his side, pulling him in.
“Come here,” the guy says, throwing me a quick look that borders on rude.
Moon’s gaze lingers on my face for a second, then he lets the guy pull him toward the bar and turns away.
“Mark,” Eric calls from up front, nodding for me to come closer.
I push through the crowd and lean against the bar top.
“Is that Moon?” Eric asks, leaning in to yell into my ear.
I nod, glancing to the right to check if Moon might’ve heard. There are two people between us, and with the music this loud, I doubt he caught anything.
“He’s wasted,” Eric says, smirking. “And who’s the Joker?”
“No idea,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation. “Did you pay? This round was supposed to be on me.”
“Relax,” Eric says, waving me off, already back to eyeing the Scooby-Doo bartender who’s shaking up his cocktail. The guy glances up, catches Eric staring, then ducks his head—cheeks flushing.
I give it five minutes before Eric breaks his celibacy pact and fucks him in the storage closet. The guy’s the walking definition of his type—big eyes, soft curls, that wide-eyed, slightly overwhelmed baby deer look Eric goes feral for.
“Your drinks,” another bartender says to my right, setting two cocktails on the bar. I turn—and realize the guys who were standing next to me are gone. Now it’s Moon and his date beside me, the Joker’s arm still slung possessively around his neck.
The Joker grabs his drink. Moon takes his too and starts to turn toward me.
I shift closer to the bar to give him room—just as he stumbles, his drink tipping and spilling down my front before he crashes into me.
The glass slips from his hand and hits the floor, shattering with a clink loud enough to cut through the music.
The crowd pulls back with a few shouts, clearing space around the broken glass.
Moon’s still clinging to me, all his weight leaning into mine as he tries not to go down, while his date’s already a few feet away—cursing, pissed, like Moon’s just embarrassed him in front of the whole club.
There’s noise all around us, bartenders calling for a janitor, people stepping back to avoid the mess.
I grab Moon by the elbows, trying to steady him, but he’s so out of it he keeps swaying, barely able to stay upright.
“Come here,” the Joker says, reaching for him.
But instead, Moon leans into me, arms looping around my neck, his face close—lips brushing my ear—as he whispers, slurred, “He spiked my drink.”