26 - Jess
Jess
The sight inside our small apartment derailed every expectation of a quiet night on the couch with a box of takeout.
Brock and Hunter occupied the long leather sofa, their massive frames pushing the limits of the cushions as they shoved each other over a close replay on the screen.
Dane sat slightly apart in the armchair, a sweat-slicked bottle of IPA balanced on his knee, his posture carrying a trace of his usual guarded reserve.
David bustled between the coffee table and the kitchen counter, a bright, manic grin on his face as he arranged bowls of pretzels and Buffalo wings.
“What’s happening here?” I demanded, dropping my tote bag onto the entryway bench.
“Jess! You're just in time,” David squealed, gesturing toward the screen with a bottle opener. “It's a big game, and big games are always more fun with a crowd.”
Suspicion hardened my expression instantly. I crossed my arms, looking from David’s pristine, un-sweated designer tracksuit to the massive flat screen. “Oh yeah? Who's playing?”
David gaped at me. His mouth opened and closed like a stranded goldfish before he flicked a desperate, pleading look toward Hunter for assistance.
“The Celtics and the Heat, Jess,” Hunter supplied with a soft chuckle, shaking his head at David's complete exposure.
“Right, exactly, what he said,” David recovered quickly, trying to breeze past the blunder.
“The point is, I hit the gym after work—a total shocker, I know—and I ran into the boys. Since you always keep them tucked away in that weight room like a hoarded collection, I took it upon myself to invite them over for game night.”
Brock leaned back, a lazy smirk touching his lips as his blue eyes raked over my rumpled work pants and the loose bun atop my head. “He caught us right after the five o'clock rush. Didn't think you'd mind the company.”
“We brought the beer,” Dane added from his armchair, his voice a smooth rumble. He raised his bottle in a mock toast, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a private, smoldering heat that referenced our encounter on the lifting platform.
The familiar dynamic between the three men filled the room, a layered history playing out in the space of a few feet.
Hunter and Brock engaged in their effortless, lifelong shorthand, trading friendly insults about a college basketball bracket, while Dane watched them with the careful precision of a guy who only joined the inner circle three years ago.
He still viewed them as the competition in this bizarre new landscape, his shoulders held tight.
“Let me remind you, Jess,” David chimed in, leaning close enough to nudge my shoulder, “if I hadn't given you my free trial membership card three months ago to pull you out of your funk, you wouldn't even know what a barbell looked like. Technically, these fine specimens are my fault. I deserve to reap the social benefits.”
Bewildered, I stared at the arrangement on the couch. The three men currently dominating my romantic portfolio sat less than five feet apart, sharing snacks and discussing defensive fouls in my living room. It defied every boundary of traditional dating logic.
David grabbed an empty plastic bowl from the table and vanished into the kitchen. I followed him instantly, the swinging door cutting off the noise from the television.
“Are you insane?” I hissed, cornering him near the refrigerator. “You went behind my back and sprung a whole man-cave convention on me without a single text message? I’m still wearing my work clothes, David. I literally smell like an unventilated museum basement.”
David remained entirely nonchalant, pulling a fresh six-pack of IPAs from the bottom shelf.
“You smell fine, Jess. Stop being dramatic.
I was curious, alright? I wanted to get to know the guys who are currently occupying your weekends.
Since you've been holding them hostage like a secret state project, I took the initiative.”
“This isn't your initiative to take,” I reminded him, my voice a tense whisper.
David dismissed the protest with a wave of his hand, thrusting a platter of hot chicken wings into my palms while he gathered the condensation-chilled bottles under his arms. He paused at the swinging door, giving me a sharp, knowing look.
“Look, you can either go sulk in your room like a teenager, or you can go out there and have fun with the men who can't stop staring at the door waiting for you to walk through it. Your choice.”
The platter of chicken wings landed on the coffee table right as the stadium horn blared from the speakers, signaling the start of the second quarter.
David immediately commandeered the floor space by the ottoman, legs crossed, a fresh IPA held like a microphone. “Alright, so explain to me why the guy in the green shirt just ran across the line without the ball. Is that a penalty or is he just confused?”
“He's running a baseline screen, David,” Hunter said, his deep laugh rumbling through the room as he reached for a wing. “He's trying to get his shooter open on the perimeter.”
“Right, a screen. Obviously,” David muttered, nodding with an intense, fabricated seriousness that fooled absolutely nobody. “I knew that. Just testing you.”
Brock snorted, leaning his bulk over the back of the sofa to pinch a pretzel from the bowl. “Sure you did, princess. Next time just say you like the shorts.”
The casual camaraderie between Brock and Hunter filled the living room, a comfortable, well-worn rhythm established through decades of shared locker rooms and bad college decisions.
Hunter threw a sofa cushion at Brock's face without looking, his eyes glued to a fast break.
Brock caught it out of the air with a lazy flick of his wrist, chuckling.
The tension in my shoulders, carried home from ten hours under the archive lamps, began to bleed away. A cold bottle of cider found its way into my hand, courtesy of Hunter, who gave my wrist a quick, warm squeeze as he passed it over.
On screen, the Heat's point guard drove the lane, pulling two defenders with him before kicking the ball out to the corner.
“They need to stop forcing the paint on the pick-and-roll,” the comment slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. “The Celtics drop coverage is clogging the lane every time. They need to reset at the top of the key and exploit the mismatch on the switch.”
The living room went quiet for a beat. Brock froze with a wing halfway to his mouth. Hunter turned his head, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face, while Dane’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise.
“Well, damn,” Brock murmured, a low spark of appreciation dancing in his blue eyes. “Our girl knows her basketball.”
“My dad had season tickets to the Wizards during the high school years,” I explained, a flush of heat creeping up my cheeks under their collective scrutiny. “You pick up a few things when you're forced to watch eighty-two games a year.”
“Remind me never to bet against you during March Madness,” Hunter laughed, his shoulder brushing mine as he leaned back.
David waved a celery stick to regain control of the floor. “Okay, basketball analysis aside, we have bigger issues to discuss. I need dating advice. I've been talking to this guy from the West End gym for three weeks and the conversation is as dry as a rice cake. How do I seal the deal?”
The three men shifted, their distinct personalities immediately coloring their responses as the game ticked down in the background.
“You're overthinking it,” Brock said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Stop text-messaging him a thousand questions. Send a time, a place, and tell him to show up. Confidence is the only thing that works. If he's interested, he'll be there. If not, next.”
“Spoken like a true caveman,” Hunter countered, shaking his head.
“Don't listen to him, David. You need to find a connection.
Ask him about something he actually cares about, like his family or his dog.
Show some real interest. Women—or guys, whatever—want to know you're actually listening, not just trying to check a box.”
David nodded, soaking in the contrasting philosophies before turning his gaze to the armchair. “Dane? You're quiet over there. What's the verdict?”
Dane took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze flicking toward me for a fraction of a second before settling on David.
“Don't chase him,” he said, his voice flat, carry a distinct edge.
“Let him wonder what you're doing. If you make yourself too available right away, people take advantage of it. Keep your cards close until you know exactly what he wants.”
The response carried a weight that had very little to do with David’s gym crush.
The subtle friction of the arrangement hummed beneath the surface.
For Brock and Hunter, sharing the couch and trading barbs felt like an extension of their usual competitive nature.
They found amusement in the overlapping boundaries.
Dane, however, sat on the periphery, his jaw tight as he watched Hunter’s arm rest along the back of the sofa behind my head.
The third quarter clicked away, the television noise providing a steady cover as the night deepened. The initial awkwardness of having my life collide in one room dissolved into a strange, comfortable warmth.
Moving away from the center of the sofa, I crossed the small rug and slid onto the wide leather bench of Dane’s armchair, resting my thigh against his knee.
His posture softened instantly. The rigid line of his shoulders dropped, and his dark eyes lost some of their guarded intensity as he looked down at me.
He didn't say a word, but his hand moved to the small of my back, his palm warm through the cotton of my shirt, a private weight in the middle of the crowded room.
“See, that's what I'm talking about,” David pointed a finger at us, oblivious to the undercurrents. “Dane's approach sounds exhausting. I don't have the stamina for mind games.”
“It's not a game,” Dane muttered, his fingers tracing a small circle against my spine, a possessive gesture that made a delicious shiver run down my neck. “It's preservation.”
“It's brooding,” Brock corrected, tossing a crumpled napkin at Dane’s knee. “Don't ruin the kid's chances with your dark-and-twisty philosophy. Some people actually like to have fun on a date.”
“Like you'd know anything about romance, Brock,” Hunter chimed in, leaning over to grab another beer from the cooler. “Your idea of a romantic evening is a double session of deadlifts and a protein shake with two straws.”
The laughter that followed filled the apartment, loud and unforced.
Watching them trade insults, the reality of the situation settled into my chest with a surprising lightness.
The exhaustion from the museum archives felt miles away, replaced by the heavy, electric presence of the three of them occupying my space.
By the time the fourth quarter entered the final two minutes, the score tied at ninety-eight, even David abandoned his analytical persona and yelled at the screen alongside Hunter.
Brock yelled a string of colorful profanities at a missed free throw, his fist thumping the coffee table hard enough to make the beer bottles rattle.
Dane’s hand remained steady on my back, his thumb rubbing comforting strokes against my hip. I leaned my head against his shoulder, my eyes watching the final buzzer sound as the Celtics clinched the win.
Instead of reaching for keys or announcing an exit, Hunter rose from his spot on the main sofa, stepped across the rug, and squeezed onto the wide armchair leather on my other side.
The tight fit forced my body flush against Dane's ribs while Hunter wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his chest. Brock stretched his legs out on the couch, locking his hands behind his head with an expression that suggested he planned to occupy our living room until midnight. Nobody showed any sign of leaving.
David chuckled from the kitchen doorway, clearly enjoying the sight of his roommate pinned beneath a mountain of gym-honed muscle, before he disappeared back inside to rinse the wing platters.
Hunter tilted his chin down, his blue eyes flashing with a soft, affectionate heat as he looked at my face.
He closed the remaining distance and pressed his lips to mine, a slow, deep, cozy kiss that tasted of cedar and beer.
My hand found the back of his neck, responding to the unforced sweetness of the gesture.
Beside us, the warm skin beneath my thigh stiffened into a rigid column.
Dane cut off the physical contact, his hand vanishing from my hip as he stood up from the chair in one swift motion. The leather hissed as the pressure released. He snatched his keys from the side table, his jaw clamped into a hard, defensive line that shut out the relaxed atmosphere of the room.
“Whoa, man,” Hunter pulled back from the kiss, blinking up at him in surprise. “Where's the fire? The post-game analysis just started.”
“I need to go,” Dane muttered, his eyes avoiding mine as he stared fixedly at the hallway entrance. “I have an early meeting with a restructuring client tomorrow. I need to review the files tonight.”
Brock frowned from the sofa, his casual posture tightening. “Come on, don't walk out like that. Stay for one more drink. You're fine.”
“I'm out,” Dane repeated, his tone clipped, refusing to engage with Brock's attempt to keep the peace.
I stood up from the chair, the sudden chill on my skin prompting me to follow him toward the door. “Dane, wait. Let me walk you down to the lobby.”
He stopped at the threshold, turning his head just enough to catch my gaze. The guarded wall in his dark eyes looked restored, blocking out the connection we shared on the lifting platform earlier in the week. “It's okay, Jess. I can manage. Stay with them.”
The front door clicked shut behind him before the sentence could even settle in the hallway.