Exceptionally good friends.
The implication that we’re anything more than “good friends” slams into my chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
NICK
I’m skipping today’s scheduled workout—all this walking should make up for it, right?
I hardly even know where I am. Ever since I left Dean’s place with my tail between my legs, I’ve been directionless. The lake serves as a convenient landmark, and I’m walking…north, I think. This area has a lot more people around, now I’ve left the tranquil neighborhood behind, and my best guess is that they’re tourists.
Holy fuck, there are a lot of tourists. I think I remember this being a tourist destination, so I might as well look on the bright side and get some sightseeing in. It’s a good day for it, too—the sun’s out, it’s warmer than December should be, at least in my mind, but I’m not gonna complain about strolling around in jeans and a sweater. If anything, it can distract me from how big of an idiot I am.
Still, not even the prettiest view can keep my mind occupied for long. After figuring out how to order a drink from an app, I pick it up and find an empty bench to sit and sulk. It’s warm and tastes like lemons, which manages to soothe my racing thoughts a little.
What the hell was I even thinking?
About…everything.
Not that I have a ton of history to go off of, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that I can’t get physical with someone unless Ilikethem, and not just in a friendly way. How I was able to delude myself for a month is beyond me—maybe it was all the hormones shutting my brain off or something, or maybe I was distracted from finally being able to have fulfillingsex again.
Looking back, it’s clear, and I’m an asshole for unloading my feelings onto him just like that. I’m an even bigger asshole for accusing him of just having his fun way with me when he’salsodying inside.
And even if we’re on the same page, there’s still the fact that we’re going our separate ways in April. He’s coming back here, where I’ve seen him way happier than he ever was in the US, and I’m…maybe going pro? My agent’s been almost silent about my prospects with taking Nowak’s spot on the Detroit Mallards’ roster, and he’s apparently working to get me on some A-league teams’ radars. All in all, those aren’t great odds for my undrafted ass.
So maybe Idon’thave to go pro?
I mean, I’ve always been dead set on playing ball for a career, and I’m also not the best at changing my stubbornly held plans.
Exhibit A: not calling things off with Dean when I got in too deep.
I exhale into my now-empty paper cup, glaring out at the lake over the rim.What would I even do?
Maybe travel—that’s something people do, right? Take a gap year and backpack through, like Asia or something?
Hold up.
Hold the fuck up.
I could?—
No.
Dean wouldn’t want that, would he?
Me traveling around Asia for a year and going to see him often so we could be together?
Probably not. We’ve been friends with benefits for maybe a month. He’d definitely find it weird if I suggested changing my life plans to be with him, even if we both like each other.
This fucking sucks.
But I’m assuming things again, and look where I am now—sulking and alone after making a dramatic exit.
If Dean doesn’t want to try things with me, I should at least give him the chance to prove me wrong.
My hands are shaking, and I don’t know how much caffeine was in that lemon drink because I don’t even know what exactly it was, but either way, I’m freaking wired.
The last time I got this close with someone, it was with Josh. And he dumped me in favor of staying in fucking Paris. I don’t need a therapist to tell me how my past might have affected me a tiny bit.
