Chapter 13 Griffin
Griffin
“Have you ever been with a dude?”
The words come out of my mouth before I even realize they’re forming as I’m sitting on one of the sagging couches in the living room with Mack with a cold beer in my hand. I’m simultaneously mortified and way too curious about his reaction.
Mack, who is probably the biggest manwhore and self proclaimed fuckboy in the entire universe lifts his bottle to his mouth and gives me this sideways look that is equal parts confusion and mild offense. His brow lifts like he’s trying to understand if I’m joking, serious, or actively deranged.
And honestly? I understand the confusion. We were literally talking about the upcoming game, our power play strategy, and Coach’s latest motivational speech. And then I leap straight into, “Have you ever been with a dude?” Because apparently my conversational filter is broken beyond repair.
“Um… yes,” he says after a beat, setting his beer down and turning toward me with narrowed eyes that are trying very hard to decipher what the hell I’m doing. “Why? Is that a problem?”
His voice is so defensive it feels like a slap in the chest.
“What the fuck? No? Why would that be a problem?” I sputter, immediately flinching, because holy hell, did I just offend the human embodiment of reckless grin and terrible life choices?
He lets out this long, relieved breath and leans back, like he’s been anxiously waiting to see if I was about to judge him for something, and sighs, “My bad.”
I blink at him, genuinely thrown off. I swear I can feel a tiny pinch in my chest because I’ve always thought Mack and I have this weirdly solid friendship.
The kind where we can yell at each other over video games, talk shit about ref calls, bury each other in goofy inside jokes, and still go skate the next day…
but serious topics? Emotional vulnerability?
Those aren’t exactly on our friendship menu.
“Dude, you actually think I would judge you?” I ask.
But I wouldn’t ever fucking judge him. Not for that. Not for anything.
He shrugs, still avoiding eye contact, and says, “No, I mean… maybe? I don’t know. It’s not something we talk about.”
And there it is…the realization that maybe he’s just as nervous about this conversation as I am, which now that I think about it, feels pretty obvious.
I shrug, trying, and clearly failing, to hide the tiny jab of hurt in my voice. “No, but we could talk about it.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at his beer like it has all the answers, and I sip mine slowly, watching him fidget with his fingers, unsure if I made him uncomfortable or if he actually wants to talk and just doesn’t know how to begin.
Emotions are not exactly my forte, in fact, they’re one of the things I avoid like body checks in the neutral zone, and Mack?
Well, Mack isn’t exactly the emotional expression champion either.
“Do you, uh… do that a lot?” I ask carefully and maybe a little fucking stupidly.
He looks up at me, brown eyes narrowing, and then he smirks this weird half amused, half cautious expression like he’s not sure if he’s about to be offended or entertained and says, “Fuck dudes?”
I genuinely snort out a laugh before I even stop myself, because wow, that’s probably the most straightforward, brutally honest phrasing this topic has ever received in the history of awkward conversations.
“Yeah, man,” I say, chuckling.
Mack just shrugs at me like he’s about to launch into a discussion of practice lines or whether Coach’s new drill makes any sense when you actually break it down, and says, “I mean… not a lot. I’ve… done it a few times.”
There’s this weird pause after that and I decide to push the conversation just a tiny bit further. “Was it, um… different? Like, than with girls?”
He nods and sideeyes me like I just asked him if water is wet. “Obviously.”
I snort again and shake my head because I can’t help it. This whole thing feels like I’ve wandered into foreign territory without a compass or a map or any instinctual GPS at all. “I mean, I know it’s different, but like… is it better or weird, or…?”
He lets out a full belly, loud, real laugh.
“If it was weird,” he says between chuckles, “I probably wouldn’t continue doing it. Jesus, dude. You have something you wanna tell me?”
I immediately grimace because yes, yes I have things I want to tell someone, but my brain immediately slams on the brakes and goes, no no no do not say what you are actually thinking.
I mean, how do you even begin?
Do you just blurt out, I jerk off to the thought of our trainer?
That seems like not just personal but deeply fucked up.
And it’s not that having a crush automatically makes me a creep, it’s just that my brain decided to attach itself to a guy who literally works with the hockey team.
If that had been Lauren, it would’ve been mundane gossip fodder.
So why does this feel like my head is actively plotting my demise?
My face probably reads like a blinking warning light.
And that’s when Mack, in a completely unexpected pivot, goes into this voice that sounds nothing like the guy who just bragged once about scoring with three cheerleaders in one weekend, but instead carries this warm, understanding tone that lowers some of the tension in my chest.
“Dude,” he says, without any teasing edge at all, “it’s cool if you’re not ready to talk about it.”
And for a second I just sit there with my lips sealed and shoulders hiking up to my ears, until finally I say, through what feels like gritted teeth and also an embarrassing lack of adult phrasing, “I just… I have this… crush or some shit.”
And wow. That sounds like a five year old trying to confess to eating the cookie jar.
Of course I sound like a fucking child and definitely not like a grown ass man.
Mack nods, like he’s processing the information and not rolling his eyes, and adds, “Okay… on a guy?”
I nod again, stiffly.
“And is it just a crush,” Mack continues, his tone, “or like… more than that?”
Without even thinking I respond immediately, because the idea of it being more feels like admitting Jacob feels something back, or even that he could feel something back, and that would be unrealistic.
“It’s just a weird crush or, I don’t know, infatuation,” I say.
Mack hums under his breath and stares at me for so long that I start to wonder if he’s just gone into some kind of meditation, eyes unfocused and almost glazed over, until he finally speaks.
“Do you want to be with guys?”
I shake my head on instinct, immediately trying to close off that line of thought, but then I stop and shrug like maybe the world is bigger than the box I’ve been trying to shove myself into.
I’m not…opposed to being with a man. Obviously, considering I jerk off to one these days.
But also, I never really thought about the possibility of being with one.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Okay,” Mack replies instantly. And for some reason, the pressure that I didn’t even realize was building in my chest just slowly dissipates at his easy acceptance.
It’s like I can finally exhale some of the thoughts that have been rattling around in my head, and there’s this surprising relief in hearing understanding instead of judgment.
“I, uh… jerked off and I couldn’t stop thinking about him,” I blurt out without warning, because apparently my brain has decided discretion is overrated. “I tried to think about Sab and all the shit we’ve done and my… uh… fuck, this is awkward,” I groan, half laughing at myself.
Mack just chuckles and makes a shrugging motion with his hand like, Keep going, I’m listening.
“Ugh,” I continue, like ripping off a goddamn Band Aid, “my dick literally went soft just thinking about her.”
And Mack, of all people, full on laughs.
“Bro,” he says between laughs, and he’s shaking his head with that weird combination of serious and amused, “my dick would go soft too. That doesn’t exactly mean you’re into dudes. It means your girlfriend is a bitch.”
I wince at the use of girlfriend, because yeah…
girlfriend is complicated as hell. Here I am, thinking about another man, apparently getting off to another man, and I still have a girlfriend.
And you can call it emotionally cheating or whatever you want, but when the guy you’re thinking about is real and not some hot celebrity stereotype, it feels different.
That realization hits me like cold water.
Mack sighs when he sees my expression. It’s more the sound of someone who sees a friend walking straight into an obvious problem.
“Dude,” he says, slower this time, “you need to end that.”
I know where he’s going with it before he says anything else. That part of me that’s been trying to keep my relationships intact by doing exactly nothing is suddenly shouting that he’s right.
“I know,” I reply softly.
“Why don’t you?” Mack presses, and his voice gets a little firmer, like he’s not trying to be a dick, but he is trying to shake some sense into me. “I don’t want to be a dick, but you two always fight and she stresses you out. You aren’t even happy. And none of your friends even like her.”
I look up at him and I say what’s really in my head, the thing I’ve been sitting with for weeks but haven’t spoken because it feels like accepting defeat out loud.
“It’s easier to be with her.”
The words come out slow. I don’t look him in the eyes when I say it, because honesty hits weirdly in the gut, but he hears it just the same.
“She’s familiar,” I continue. “I know her. I know what she wants, what she expects, how to keep her steady. There’s nothing unknown about that. Nothing scary. Nothing that makes you stop breathing and wonder what the fuck you’re doing.”
Mack listens to that and his brows knit. Then, after a beat he looks at me and says, matter of fact, “But you aren’t fucking happy.”
I nod along, and the admission feels lighter once it’s out but no less true. “No,” I say softly, eyes on my beer. “I’m really not.”
“Would you be happy with your mystery guy?” he asks with this small knowing smirk.
I shrug, a long slow exhale escaping me, and even though the question stirs something unfamiliar and uncomfortable down in my chest, “That’s not even a thing, dude. He doesn’t know and I don’t want to tell him…”
“Why?” Mack asks, open and straightforward.
I shrug again. “I’m not ready for whatever would happen,” I answer truthfully.
He just nods, like he gets it. And, I don’t know, maybe he does. Maybe Mack has been in my situation before and was more prepared to actually face the new part of himself.
Then he stands, stretches a little, and without missing a beat he asks, “Want another beer?”