Page 61 of Scoring Chance

And now there’s this...thing between us.

Not a wall, exactly. More like fog. A thick, quiet haze that follows us from room to room, softening the air between us, making it hard to tell what’s normal and what’s changed.

He doesn’t bring it up, and I don’t ask.

Because it was just a favor, right?

And if I can’t stop replaying the sounds he made in the dark—his breathing, the way his hand gripped my arm—well. That’s just a side effect. Muscle memory.

Right?

He needed release. He hadn’t touched anyone since his wife passed. I’m a good friend. That’s all. There are guys who give kidneys to their friends in need. I merely went with another body part.

Saturday night, we go to bed in silence. The kids are finally down, the dishes are done, and I climb into Tanner’s bed like it’s any other night.

Except it’s not.

Now I know what he sounds like when he falls apart under my touch. I know how he feels—hot, strong, trembling—how he tastes. After nearly thirty years of friendship, I got to discover new parts of Tanner. That’s not the kind of thing that goes away.

We lie on opposite sides of the mattress, not touching, not talking. The silence is heavy, loaded with everything we’re not saying.

There will be no heart-to-hearts or good friend blowjobs. I’m great in a room. I can schmooze and pitch and persuade with the best of them. But in this small, cramped room with creaky ceiling fan and dusty nightstands, I feel out of my depth.

I stare at the ceiling and listen to him breathe.

I don’t sleep well.

Sunday morning, we suit up for our recreational hockey league game. I’m grateful for it. At least on the ice, things make sense. There are rules, boundaries. Structure.

In the locker room, Tanner pulls on his gear beside me, his eyes cast down, focused on lacing his skates. His jaw is tight. I want to say something—make a joke, break the tension—but my throat is too dry. Everything I come up with sounds too risky, too honest.

Our teammates mill about us, seemingly unaware of the tension.

“Charlie thinks we should start a book club,” Mitch says as he laces up.

“At the bar?” Griffin asks. Mitch owns our favorite bar in town, the Stone’s Throw Tavern, which he runs with his husband Charlie.

“He says it could pull in more female patrons.” Mitch shrugs. If he had his way, there would be no evolving the business. Stone’s Throw would serve beer and nothing else.

“Isn’t it too loud to host a book club?” Bill wonders. “Don’t you need quiet?”

“You should do a book club with male strippers,” Hank says, totally serious.

“I’ll run it by Charlie.” Mitch arches an eyebrow. “So who are we playing today?”

“The Special Deliveries,” Bill says, slathering war paint under his eyes. “They’re a bunch of UPS drivers.”

“We can take ‘em.” Hank puts on his goalie gloves.

“Hank, these guys can hurl seventy-pound packages onto your doorstep. I’d take them seriously,” Griffin says as he tapes up his hockey stick. He looks up at Derek rubbing his eyes. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yeah. Jolene and I were up late. There was a meteor passing through the sky at 2:45 in the morning. It was pretty cool.” Derek’s teenage daughter is big into astronomy and even secured a part-time internship with the local college’s observatory. I’d love to watch a meteor shower with Tanner. Holding hands as the sky lights up. Maybe Lulu sitting on my shoulders.

Damn. I should be dreaming about a hot chick’s legs resting on my shoulders, not a precocious five-year-old.

“Des, you’re quiet. You actually nervous?” Griffin asks. I feel everyone look at me, including Tanner, aka my teammate, my best friend, my husband.

“I don’t get nervous. I’m mostly concerned about the state of my packages when we wind up kicking their asses. I might need to switch to FedEx.”