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And for that matter, who the fuck is “just me”? I’m busy playing so many damned roles in every different setting of my life that sometimes I lose track of who Ryan Caulfield really is.
Why does anyone care what I do behind closed doors anyway?
Well, just so happens, Stefan’s seen exactly what happens behind my closed door. And it involves a jock teepee.
I’ll never live that down.
“What if it’s not … with an adoring fan?” I propose.
The words come out in half breath, half voice. I’m so nervous. Every second that passes feels like emotional sandpaper to my soul, and Stefan’s here to witness every humiliating second of it.
“Yeah?” grunts Stefan. He’s still facing me. He’s still staring at me. I can feel it somehow, from the direction of his voice, from the intensity, from his lack of movement. He’s staring at the back of my head and trying to figure me out without the help of my face, which gives it all away. “So who’s the lucky one who scores with you in your fantasy? Is it some sexy, prodding news reporter?”
“No.”
I’m making this hard for him. Stefan knows. He wants me to say it, too, and here I am forcing him to say it instead because I’m not strong enough to do it myself.
“Is it someone in the stands cheering for you?”
“No.”
“Is it a … friend?” Then, his voice goes soft—really soft—and he finally says it: “Is it me?”
And my reaction: “Pfft. Screw you, man.”
“It’s me, isn’t it?”
“Shut the hell up.”
“Wow.” I hear the smile in his words. “Really, man? It’s me? Wait a second. You seriously fantasize about me?”
I’m off the couch the next instant. “I’m going to bed, bro.”
“Ryan. C’mon.”
“Goodnight.”
I slip into my room and, after a second of remorse for the way I’m treating him after we’d just gotten back to normal, I shut the door. I pry open my dresser drawer for something comfortable to sleep in, then end up just standing there staring through my clothes with blank eyes and a screaming brain full of confusion.
This is me playing the role of a guy who can’t come to terms with himself in front of his former best friend. Am I afraid that letting Stefan see the whole me is going to destroy my masculinity that I spent countless seasons of baseball building up in front of him? Don’t I trust him more than that?
The door opens suddenly. I look up. Stefan’s face appears.
“I’m just going to say one thing,” he tells me.
I stand there in front of my opened dresser drawer and wait.
Stefan’s gaze drifts down to my chest as he gathers his words. When he meets my eyes again, he has a look of determination on his face. “I remember the night you came over to my house to apologize for calling me … a name. What I said back to you that night in my room, it still stands: I don’t care if you are one.”
I stare at him unblinkingly, my jaw tight. He remembers. Then I choose to mutter the same question I threw right back at him that same fateful night he’s referencing. “One what?”
A corner of his mouth curls up. “One bad ass motherfucker, that’s what.”
I snort out a dry laugh, my face still tightened.
“Hey, I meant it. No idea why a hot chick … or handsome fellow … hasn’t snatched you up. You look sexy as hell in a jock, by the way,” he adds in a grunt, snorts, then says, “Night, bro.”
He’s out of my room—and I’m staring at my doorway, eyes widened and tension twisting itself up in my chest all over again.
Did I just hear him right?
Did Stefan Baker just call me sexy?
I’m paralyzed, standing there and replaying his words over and over again in my head, but each time I hear them, they change. What did he really say?
Was it just straight-guy teasing? Or something more?
I don’t even pay attention to what I change into. I sleepwalk to my bed in a total daze, then lie on top of the sheets to stare at the ceiling while continuing to grasp at his fading words like tendrils of smoke before my eyes.
I’m sleepy, that’s what this is. I’m delirious and drunken by ideas that only dance into my brain when I stay up past five in the morning. Or when I’m horny and haven’t gotten off in a while.
Or when Stefan Baker is in my house and staying in the room right next to mine.
Definitely no life-changing realizations here.
Go to sleep, Ryan.
And then I’m out of my bed again, quickly padding over to my door and poking a wide-eyed head out. The guest room is right next to mine, and Stefan left the door wide open, apparently not as concerned about his privacy as I typically am. He’s always been that way: a totally open book. But what if there’s a chapter he’s never let me read?
