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“I don’t think anyone sees you as just a drinking buddy. I don’t. Why are you itching yourself raw?”
“Because you’re messing up the pattern. Fuck around, have fun, say goodbye.” I scratch at my lower back.
“I don’t want to say goodbye.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “Everyone does. That’s how it works.”
“How what works?”
“Life. You get close to people and they let you down. That’s why I don't do boyfriends. Only hookups. Get it?”
He’s looking at me like I’m deranged, and considering I look like a monkey in a zoo, I get it. Only he thinks it’s my reasoning, not my sudden rash, that’s irrational. I know better.
People like to tell you they care all the time, but in my experience it’s just talk. A line people feed you because it’s expected. Since my wake-up call nearly a decade ago, I’ve learned most of that talk isn’t malicious. Friends, colleagues, acquaintances…they get wrapped up in their own shit and forget about yours. I get it. It’s when the people closest to you don’t give a shit that messes with your head, and I figure it’s better to avoid those situations altogether than to give someone the chance to break you.
That’s how I’ve operated for the past ten years, and it works for me. I haven’t had any crushing disappointments because I haven’t put myself in a position to experience them. Given the way Noah’s looking at me right now, like he’s not going anywhere, I have a feeling I’ve already let him get too close.
“Who hurt you?” he asks softly.
No. Nope. Not going there. I don’t tell anybody that. Ever.
“Not your concern, big guy. The takeaway here is, I don’t do boyfriends. So, this has been fun and all, but you’re gonna have to find someone else to experiment with.” I stand, ready to bolt out of the kitchen, and find him blocking my path. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re trying to keep me from leaving.”
He crosses his arms in front of his chest, adopting a very Thor-like stance. “I am.”
“I’d say that’s kinky if it didn’t have a kidnappy undertone.”
“Joke around all you want. I’m still not letting you leave until we finish talking.”
“We are finished. Besides, haven’t you missed enough games?” I point to his ankle. “I don’t think you’re prepared to give chase, and I will run if I have to.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“Yeah, right.” I snort, glancing around to plot the best exit route. "You can't be serious."
“Deadly.” His calm tone is so unexpected I can’t help looking at him to see his expression, which is nothing short of sincere.
“You’d risk hurting your ankle again just to stop me from leaving?”
“Not my ankle. My career. If I don’t get back on the ice, chances are the Bulldogs won’t have a reason to keep me around. I’m too old for other teams to give me serious consideration. If I have to sacrifice the game to convince you you’re important to me, so be it.”
The itch that had started to fade comes back with a vengeance. He wouldn’t really do that, would he? “Nice speech, but I don’t buy it. You’ve been jumping out of your skin to get back on the ice.” I claw at the back of my neck.
“I was jumping out of my skin. You helped with that. You knew what I needed to calm down and get out of my head, and you helped me deal with my fear and frustration.”
“Glad I could be of service, but I think we can agree I’ve exhausted my usefulness.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Downplay what you’ve done for me. Downplay this. You’ve been staying here for nearly a month, sharing my bed and my life, and even though I’m not on the ice right now I’m happy. I think you are too. Or you could be if you get out of your head.”
That’s usually my line, the thing I tell him when he’s overthinking. I’m not sure how I feel about him using it on me.
