Chapter 21 Connor
Connor
He runs well, maintains his stamina, and doesn’t give the Bruins an inch. After months of training, Dane still isn’t the best player on the field, but there’s improvement in every stride he takes and pass he makes.
Lowering my camera, I say, “Uh, no. My best friend.”
My best friend. It’s not a lie, but it also doesn’t feel wholly truthful. Maybe I’ve never really had a best friend before, but I’m pretty certain most best friends don’t have sex with each other and spend hours on the phone trading pouty I miss you’s after a stupid spat.
In a split-second decision, I correct myself.
“He’s my boyfriend, actually,” I say, testing out the word on someone who doesn’t know my name and will never see me again after today.
Even though boyfriend isn’t totally honest either, since among all of last night’s I miss you’s, Dane and I hadn’t defined our relationship in such certain terms.
The Aztecs lose 1-4, and that’s a wrap on Dane’s junior year season.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here stressing over a stupid word.
It beats stressing over what all Thalia said, though.
All the stuff I don’t buy but can’t stop thinking about.
I push as much of it as I can into the deep depths of my mind while I focus on more important things, like how I’m going to cheer Dane up from a season-ending loss.
I text him I’ll be waiting for him in the promenade, and that’s where I loiter until the Aztec men file out of the locker room.
Being the tallest guy on the team, Dane is easy to spot, and as soon as he spots me, he breaks away from Randy and Bryce to walk into my arms. Not whining or pouting.
Not vibrating with glee either. It’s the first time we’ve been face to face since our argument, and he whispers, “Thank you for being here,” into my hair.
We separate a moment short of looking suspicious and right before a cluster of Dane’s teammates trot past.
“Is he coming?” Randy asks Dane while nodding to me.
Dane sends me a demure smile before telling Randy, “For sure. We’ll meet you guys there.”
When they’re well enough into the parking lot not to hear us, I ask Dane what that was all about.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s gonna be fun.”
In the end, it doesn’t matter where Dane takes me. Any place that he is, is the place I want to be, simple as that. Sitting in the front seats of my car together, surrounded by Dane’s freshly showered scent and his richly smooth voice, is enough to ease any lingering uncertainty.
While Dane punches a destination into my dashboard GPS, I put my eyes on every inch of him I can see. His messy, towel-dried curls down to his knobby knees. He holds the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and all I want to do is taste it.
“There.” His tongue slips back behind his teeth as he smirks at me. “Ready to go?”
I intercept his hand as it retracts from the dash, and I bring it to my mouth to bury my nose between his knuckles. His nails are still blue from the chipped remnants of the manicure he gave himself last weekend. I breathe in his skin and purse my lips against the back of his hand.
“You were amazing out there,” I say. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Lost like a champ, huh?”
“Your team lost. You played great.”
“Thanks, baby. You look really cute.” He pinches the San Diego State Aztecs t-shirt I'm wearing and gives it a playful tug.
I kiss his skin again and ask, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” That sly smirk returns to Dane’s smooth face, full of endearing mischief that makes my heart melty.
The GPS guides me to Venice Beach. But it takes time and a sharp eye to find parking anywhere near the boardwalk that doesn’t cost a small fortune. There are people everywhere, all merging in one direction—the same direction Dane pulls me toward with a hand clamped over my shoulder.
There are fences that form queues that lead through metal detectors and ticket-taking kiosks. Two scans of Dane’s phone screen and a diligent search of my camera bag later, and we’re in.
The sand under my feet, the gulls circling above, and the blue ocean in the near distance prove we’re at the beach, but everything else about the enclosure looks like a rock concert.
There’s a stage and scaffolding set up at one end, tents with food vendors and first aid lined up at the opposite end, and more port-a-potties than I’ve seen outside of a county fair.
And there isn’t a single bathing suit in sight, save for a woman in a gold bikini beneath a mesh bodysuit.
Dane tips his chin toward her as she walks away from us in platform heels. “You think she’s hot?”
I unglue my eyes from her figure and smirk at Dane. “Just wondering what you’d look like in that outfit.”
“Ha!” Dane swats my back before he spots something over my shoulder. He shoots his arm up and waves it around, shouting Randy’s name.
I flip around and spot half of Dane’s team coming through the metal detectors.
Once we’re all in a hoard together, I get the lowdown on what this event is—an electronic dance music festival.
It explains the colorful outfits and gaudy jewelry choices of a lot of the people here.
It reminds me of Mardi Gras, not that I’ve ever been to Mardi Gras.
Dane’s friend, Bryce, says something about getting drinks, and we all break off to find the best booths for alcohol. Before I head off to find some beer, Dane pulls me close and tells me where to meet him. Then he tells me, with dead seriousness, not to let anyone put anything in my mouth.
“The fuck?” I laugh. “Why would someone put something in my mouth?”
“Because half these people are gonna be tripping balls within an hour, and people who’re tripping assume everyone else wants to trip with them. Just keep your mouth closed until you find me.”
“And what are you gonna put in my mouth when I get back?”
“Unnf, Connor, don’t try me while my friends are around. I might do something that’ll scar them for life.”
We trade sneaky smiles before separating.
As I walk off in search of beer, I unpack my camera and keep an eye out for anything photo-worthy.
I snap a few shots of girls in rave pants and guys in crop tops, wondering where all these people shop, and I snag some low-angle shots of a bulldog with a golden chain.
Had I known Dane had this up his sleeve, I would’ve worn something cooler than cargo pants and an Aztecs tee.
Dane isn’t dressed any more stylishly, but he looks incredible in anything… or nothing.
I find a tent that’s selling something other than Bud Lite and join the ever-growing line. As all of us inch forward at a steady interval, I focus on my viewfinder and do what Dane would call “stalker behavior.”
My body freezes as my looking eye falls on two men in the near distance.
The crowd separates in the right fashion at the right time for me to snap a shot of them kissing.
Both bearded, mid-thirties maybe, buff and tatted and kissing.
And not the cautious, in-public pecks couples normally dole out.
More like the sort of kissing I saw in The Rowdy Seamen, or the sort of kissing Dane and I did in that diner.
It feels wrong to watch. My ears get hot and my heart sinks, realizing I’m no better than whoever posted that video of me and Dane on TikTok.
I drop my camera and stuff it back into its bag while the line keeps moving.
By the time I get to the head of the line, I don’t feel worthy of inebriation, but I order a Corona anyway.
Three steps back the way I came, a familiar-looking thirty-something cuts into my path, stopping me mid-sip.
“Hey, were you taking our picture?”
I sweat so much so fast it feels like the sun just sank right on top of me, baking me into a puddle of anxiety.
Bringing my tallboy down, I stammer, “Um, uh, y-yeah. I’m—I’m so sorry. I’m a photographer. A photography student, actually. I take pictures of everything. I don’t do anything with them. I’m sorry—”
“No, no, it’s okay,” says the man in front of me. A flourish of his hand wafts my apology away.
Beside him is his make-out buddy, slightly taller, slightly heavier, and with a slightly fuller beard. He chuckles as he slips his thick, hairy arm around his companion’s shoulders. “Nico just wants to know if you’re a talent scout.”
“I have headshots in the car,” the first guy, Nico, tells me.
“Babe, the kid is wearing a San Diego State t-shirt.”
“True artists always have the worst fashion sense. You should know that better than anyone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Cut-offs? In 2025?”
The two men stare each other down with twin smirks.
I’m smiling, too, relieved my voyeurism hasn’t offended them, and also enjoying the banter.
Maybe they aren’t just make-out buddies.
The taller one in the cut-off jeans has a black and silver band around his ring finger.
So does Nico. Are these dudes, like…husbands?
“It’s not my shirt,” I say. “I stole it from my boyfriend who goes there. I’m at UC San Diego. Getting my master’s in photography. I can delete the photo.”
I’m already struggling to unzip my bag one-handed when Nico says, “No, honey. You’re fine. I was just hoping I could see it.”
“Oh, yeah! Totally!”
The taller one helps me out by offering to hold my beer for me with his free hand, and I whip my camera out of its case. It’s like déjà vu to the day I met Dane, except a lot less flustering since neither of these men are half-naked or hitting on me.
“Aww,” Nico coos after I hand him my camera. He simpers and shows his partner the screen. “Sam, we look so hot.”
The taller one, Sam, nods with less enthusiasm but more thoughtful appreciation in his eyes. “We do look good. That’s a good photo.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I can send it to you if you don’t mind giving me your email.”