Page 42 of The Last Guy On Earth
It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. He’s failed plenty of tests in his life. And Clay is always a couple of steps ahead of him. Clay, who was always too bright and shiny for Busker, New York, or for the third-tier league.
Losing him will be a blow, for sure. In so many ways. But this is still a great moment. It’s just proof that the universe understands that Clay is the best there is.
So then why does he look so apprehensive?
“You worried?” Jethro guesses, stepping back to give Clay some room.
Clay grabs the back of his neck. The gesture is so familiar now that Jethro feels a pang in his chest. “Not about the hockey. But…” Clay frowns, and his sentence dies.
“What’s wrong?”
“We…” Clay clears his throat. “You and me. After the playoffs. I could come back.”
“Come back? But theysignedyou.” Did he read that wrong?
“For the summer,” Clay clarifies. “I could be here. In Busker. Well, not for more than a few weeks. I’m invited to the rookie training camps in New York.”
“Holyshit,” Jethro whispers, because that’s huge. A smile spreads across his face, picturing Clay doing drills with the greatest players in hockey.
“So…yeah. It’s going to be a busy few months. But we could still be…” He clears his throat.
Jethro is silent, trying to take it all in. It doesn’t help that Clay—who can always find the right words for everything—isn’t explaining himself very well. “Be what?” He’s going to need to have it spelled out.
“Together,” Clay snaps.
“Oh,” Jethro says with genuine surprise. “But…”
They won’t be together, though. That’s the whole point of this conversation. Clay is going to Buffalo and New York City, too. Jethro isn’t.
Clay’s face falls, like Jethro has failed yet another test. “God, never mind. Forget I said anything.” He turns around and stalks into their bedroom.
“Hey,” Jethro says, following him. “You know I’m kind of slow. What are you really asking of me?”
His roommate doesn’t answer. He’s cramming the last of his expensive clothes into a giant suitcase that’s open on the bed.
“Clay—”
“Forget it,” Clay says, sounding tired. “This solves all your problems, right? You were in it for the home-cooked meals and the blowjobs.”
“Uh…” The truth is he loves the home cooked meals and also the blowjobs. But Clay is making it sound like some kind of exploitive situation. Which it wasn’t at all. “Why are you being a dick right now?”
“Me? I am?” He zips the suitcase angrily. “Most days you don’t even smile, yet just now you looked like you won the fucking lottery. Never seen you look so happy as when I told you I was leaving.”
“Because you—you gotcalled up!” he stammers. “How’m I supposed to look?”
Clay lifts one muscular arm and clamps a hand on the back of his neck again. He huffs out an angry breath, and Jethro can actually see his pulse beating beneath his Adam’s apple. “Fine. You don’t get it. You’re allergic to feelings.”
Jethro is, in fact, allergic to feelings. That doesn’t actually matter in this situation, though, because neither of them is allowed to have any. Notthosekind, anyway.
“Clay, if you think about this for a minute, you’d realize this is for the best. You and me are a no go. Hockey doesn’t work that way.”
Clay looks up only long enough to shoot a laser glare at him. “Yeah, I didn’t say it was easy. But if you were the one driving away tonight, I’d be really fucking upset. Because…Iloveyou, jackass.”
“You’re crazy,” Jethro says before he can think better of it.
Clay’s expression shutters immediately. “Message received.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
