21. Pickleball With a Guy Who Looks Like Hank
PICKLEBALL WITH A GUY WHO LOOKS LIKE HANK
Waking Jonathan up before seven on a day off was no way to thank him for last night, and yet Connor couldn’t stay in bed.
Everything under his skin was expanding the longer he laid here looking at Jonathan’s mussed dark hair, the soft curves of eyelashes against his smooth upper cheeks, and the tiny traces of dark hair above his upper lip and scattered across his chin.
But this was the Fourth of July holiday, and Jonathan didn’t have to work.
Connor knew not to disturb him with something as trivial as his need to touch the inside of his elbow to see if it felt as silky as it looked. He had to get out of bed. Besides, he and Hank were playing pickleball at nine.
Two hours gave him enough time for walking Ribby, taking a clean-up-the-evidence type of shower, and baking a batch of raspberry walnut muffins. He was starving and ate two bowls of oatmeal while waiting for the ding of the oven timer.
Last night…
He wanted to think about it, wanted to relive the feelings and think about how Jonathan had looked in the white shirt and pin, how he’d tapped into thoughts Connor never said out loud, and then the pretty words and petting after, what that all meant, but he had baked goods to manage and pickleball in forty-five minutes.
Thinking about last night would require a couch, a blanket, and a dog nose.
So, later.
Before he left for the court, he snuck three things on the table next to Jonathan’s side of the bed: a travel cup of coffee with a lid to keep it hot, which the anteater mug couldn’t do; a warm muffin covered with a napkin; and a note about his pickleball game.
He watched Jonathan for another moment, but he didn’t want to be creepy. Or, he wanted to be creepy but had epic self-control, so after two moments, only two, he shuffled out of the room and closed the door. If he couldn’t wake up Jonathan, Ribby wasn’t allowed either.
Even the stairs silently cooperated with his plan to let Jonathan sleep late. Sports bag and water bottle in hand, he went to the driveway.
Wait. He didn’t have a car.
When he’d made his ambitious plan to run back to the park and retrieve a car, he hadn’t remembered Friday pickleball.
Connor
Can you pick me up
Hank
Why
Connor
Cuz I asked
Also I left my car at softball and need a ride
Hank
Sure
Hank arrived sooner than Connor expected. The time between his apartment and Connor’s house was usually twenty minutes of stop lights and bridges, but this was more like ten minutes.
He opened the door and hopped up into the SUV, stowing a plastic container of muffins in the footwell. “Already on your way, huh? I brought snacks.”
Hank pulled away from the curb without a reply, which wasn’t different from usual.
Connor settled into his seat and shifted a couple times, but he didn’t have a problem back there, and even if he did, he wasn’t going to let Hank guess.
Inside his gear bag, his phone chimed. It was his mother.
Mom
Happy 4th of July!
Connor
You too!
On way to pickleball w Hank
She sent a selfie of herself in a T-shirt decorated with the distinctive scrolling text of the Declaration of Independence and the phrase Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.
It was very her. He could see the flag-themed bunting on the front porch rails, and small flags stuck in her pots of geraniums. When she smiled that big, her eyes disappeared.
He read the shirt slogan again. Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.
Mom
Tell him I said hi! When are you two coming to the ranch?
Wanting her questions to be about Jonathan, and that you two to be someone other than Hank, stabbed through him.
He stared at the red, white, and blue bunting in the photo. His parents were fun, happy, loving, and also very traditional. How could he be almost twenty-seven years old and not know if their type of liberty and happiness would include him and Jonathan?
Mom
Lots of fruit on the trees this year. Tons of pies and jam to make!
He swallowed back against the lump rising in his throat, and glanced at Hank. “Mom says hi and she wants you to visit. I think she wants to feed you.”
He could make a pie this afternoon, too, maybe mixed berry with a star design cut into the crust to be festive.
“If I cook tonight, you guys want to come over?” Hank and Emma were, as always, a package deal.
Hank moved his jaw side-to-side, a level of contemplation that wasn’t required for the simple motion of putting on his left-turn blinker.
“So. All Star Week.”
Fucker. “I’ve heard of it.”
Hank’s XXL chest cavity made a snort sound more like the noise Connor assumed a rhino about to charge made. Connor watched him, but all he did was let the steering wheel re-center and proceed down the street.
Man of few words, his friend Hank.
“All Star’s not going to be anything, seriously, I’m not even thinking about it, and things are going great with Jonathan. Really, really great.”
As usual, his bestie had lots to say with his face, but Connor wasn’t fluent in frown interpretation.
They were at the courts, so the thrill of competition would have to talk for them, because it was Friday morning shenanigans time. To make up for last week, he vowed to be game on, no rest.
They played half a game. Oddly, instead of bringing his usual bulldozer fervor, his buddy had more of a come-to-my-barbecue-after-the game vibe, which meant the score was tied.
Hank hit a nice arc serve, and the other team returned it with a drop shot two feet past the net. Hank, the dawdler, was back at the base line when the ball bounced a second time. They lost the serve.
“Thanks, Hank.” Mr. Math Genius gave a fluttery finger wave. “Appreciate it.”
Hank lifted his hand, but not with an extended middle finger. With a return wave. A legit acknowledgment.
What. The. Fuck.
Playing at the limits of his speed and occasionally past them slowed his logical thinking, but eventually two pieces of data sorted themselves in his head.
One, Hank had been much closer to Connor’s house this morning than expected. And two, dude was in a very good mood. The best mood of his adult life, Connor guessed, so good he didn’t even mind getting taunted by their opponents.
There was only one conclusion to be drawn. This was going to be so fucking delicious.
“You’re pretty relaxed today, Hitman.”
Hank grunted and returned the serve competently. Not great, not with his usual ferocity, merely competently. They kept playing, and they kept losing points. And Hank cared about the final score only about as much as Connor did.
“I mean, dude, you’re loose like a nine-year old’s tooth even though we lost the first game.” They bent for their water bottles at the same time and brushed shoulders. “And you smell like oranges?”
Third data point, bingo.
“Vanilla and oranges. Nice change, man. That’s really nice. Where’d you get that soap? Maybe I should try some.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s making me think of creamsicles. Good motivation tactic, I approve.” Connor took a long sip of water and kept his gaze steady on his friend.
Hank’s lips were pressed together, and he was turning some weird shade.
“Although, taking a shower before sports, that’s a lil bit strange. I mean, who showers before they run around getting sweaty? Only someone who was—”
Hank growled at him and smacked his bottle back on the bench.
Connor spread his hand dramatically across his chest. “Hank Kahue, do you have something you need to share with your good friend? Something to confess? Or acknowledge?”
Hank turned darker and grabbed the bottle again.
Connor understood the inability to decide what to do with your hands, but that didn’t mean he was going to let up. He took off in a circle around the half court, pumping his fist up and down in the air. “Finally! Tell me yes, buddy, tell me it happened! You and Emma!”
“Yes.” He yanked the lid off his bottle and poured water on his head. “Now shut up.”
Connor rolled up to a stop in front of Hank, lightly panting, and grabbed the monster shoulders with both hands. He’d try to make Hank jump up and down, but this was Hank, so Connor did enough hopping for both of them. “We are the two luckiest dudes in the world, aren’t we?”
Hank rolled his eyes. Stoic, that was the word.
He kept bopping until Hank dumped the rest of his water on top of Connor’s head. “Game time.”
As if a little exterior hydration was going to dent his excitement for Hank. Not a chance.
“We can double date! This will be so much fun. Jonathan likes movies too, although he sort of has a thing for old black and white stuff but most of it’s good so we can try that together, right?”
“You have the right to remain silent. You just lack the capacity.” Hank lifted the water bottle to his mouth and then glared into its empty depths.
“Hey! I’ve seen the ogre movie enough times with you and Emma to know that he’s just a big cinnamon roll.” He poked Hank in the approximate location of his belly button. “And you may fart like the guy, but you’re my guy and you can’t insult me. I won’t be insulted.”
That glare moved directly from the water bottle to Connor, but there was absolutely no heat behind it. Possibly a twinkle and a smirk and possibly, just possibly, a lurking smile. Oh, yeah, Hank was getting it good. And so, for that matter, was Emma. Nice.
“But seriously, barbecue? I can grill.”
“Ribs?” Hank never wasted words.
“Big old messy ones so you can gnaw on the bones.”
Hank dropped a log-sized arm across his shoulders. “Let me ask Emma but pretty sure we’re a yes.”
He silently mouthed let me ask Emma right back at Hank.
And ran.