“I thought it’s what you wanted!” he says, voice cracking. “We always talk about marriage and settling down and…and for crying out loud, Pen, we haven’t even had sex! I thought you weresaving itfor marriage!”
My chin drops. “So…wait. Because I didn’t let you into my pants, your next logical move wasmarriage?”
“Of course not! But. It’s beensix months!”
“Croix. Sixmonths.Not sixyears!”
“And we say we love each other all the time, and—”
“I know, but—” I cut myself off before I can complete the thought.
He catches it. Tilts his head with a mix of curiosity and offense. “But what, Pen?”
I swallow hard. The truth has been a slow boil for a while now, simmering just under the surface. We’ve both been too busy and perhaps too afraid to address it.
“Croix.”
“Say it,” he urges gently. “Say it out loud so we both know what we’ve been feeling isn’t just in our heads.”
I take a deep breath. “I love you. But…it’s notthatkind of love. I’m sorry. You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted it to be.Hopedit could become more. Serious.”
He closes his eyes as if I’ve struck him. “For crying out loud,” he mutters. “All this time, Pen. You let me believe I was holding on for—”
“I’ve been saying it,” I interrupt. “In my own scared, roundabout, emotionally stunted way, I’ve been saying it. You’re my best friend. My person. But when I’m with you, that’s all it feels like. A friendship. A deep one, but that’s where it ends. No matter how much I try to force it.”
He’s quiet for a long beat before asking, his voice thin and shaky, “Is there someone else?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I would never.”
He lets out a slow breath, then cracks a crooked smile. “You’re my best friend, too, Pen. You’re not like the guys on my team. But if I’m being honest, you arecloserto one of the guys than a girlfriend. I guess I thought maybe a proposal would…I don’t know. Move the ball further down the pitch for us.”
I blink. “I’m sorry,what?”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never mind. soccer metaphor.”
“Let’s stick to metaphors that don’t make me want to run headfirst into traffic.”
He grins. “Fair enough.”
Then he glances down at my hand—the one that nearly held an engagement ring—and runs his thumb slowly over the bare finger. The motion is quiet. Solemn.
When he looks back up at me, his voice is softer. “I get it, Pen. I hate that it took an embarrassing display for me to get it. But, if I’m honest. It makes sense.”
“And I’m sorry, too. I should have been a grown-up and faced what was glaring right at me.”
He squeezes my hand and I squeeze his back. “Friends?” He asks innocently.
“Best friends,” I say, stepping forward and kissing him gently on the cheek.
He exhales in relief. “Just promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Now that we know what this is, you’ll come see me play. As a friend.”
“Absolutely,” I say, nodding. “As soon as you’re back from training camp, I’ll be there. I’ll even wear a jersey.”
He gasps. “You’ll wear a jersey with my name on it?”
