Page 11 of Scoring Zone
The silence in our apartment echoes as loudly as a blaring alarm. Soundproof windows block out the city noise and traffic. Austin and I live together, but this is a busy part of the season, and we don’t have downtime together. Correction, we’re not prioritizing each other in our downtime.
We don’t have to avoid each other.
I stay late every night to work on players who are wearing down from the toll the game takes on their bodies. By the time I get home, Austin has crashed.
He counsels players before practice and games who are mentally losing their edge. Today he’s worried about Kenney and is picking him up to drive him to practice.
I haven’t had the headspace to address the situation. Maybe it’s me. Maybe there is no situation. Maybe Austin is fine with our wary friendship.
The lack of certainty bothers me.
I’ve been racking my brain to find evidence that I suppressed my feelings for him. I had noticed how fantastic the Captain America costume looked on him. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself for years.
I shake my head because it doesn’t matter.
I’m a walking cliché, catching feelings for my straight best friend. One night has me tied in knots, thinking it was special, like we were meant to be. Thinking that I could have it all—my best friend as my insatiable lover. It’s something I never knew I wanted until I had him.
That’s my problem, not his. It’s not fair that after one night, I went from happily being Austin’s friend to pining for him like a puppy. Now I notice his ass and dick outline in his sweatpants. I blame it on knowing what he looks like naked; lusting for a friend is against bro code.
As his friend, I appreciate his big heart and selflessness, which adds to my new physical attraction. It’s official—I’m a mess.
Our two-bedroom apartment is normally a cozy refuge above the city, but every foot represents space between us. As if the view of nondescript skyscrapers conspires to stretch endlessly to the horizon. I’ve loved the open living room and kitchen, but without Austin, it’s lifeless. The large TV is off, and the gaming consoles dangle, waiting to be picked up. The only joyful things in the room are the purple pillows with the team logo that his mom made for us.
Trevor’s basic bitches comment comes to mind. I haven’t given much thought to decorating and it shows. It’s also odorless, without his personal vanilla woodsy smell.
We moved in after I finished my master’s degree and got a job offer from the Enforcers. Although we had to sign waivers not to blame the team if anything went wrong when I treated Austin, he introduced me to everyone, got me the internship, and lobbied for me to get the job permanently.
From the living room, I glance at his open bedroom door at the end of the hall past mine. There’s no use in fighting the urge to straighten his room. He needs to see everything but leaves a mess to clean that stresses him out. I have five minutes before I should leave, which gives me enough time to clear off his bed and toss his stinky dirty clothes in the washer. Unfortunately for me, the stench of his sweat is a turn on.
The dark navy comforter with gray stripes is balled up on his bed like he got in a fight with it. My comforter is the coordination opposite of his, gray with navy stripes. We thought it was fun to match. But really, we added gray and navy to a basic collection of neutral beiges, whites, and blues.
His room has walls so pale blue they almost look white. I can’t help but smile at his wall of sticky notes all lined up like a calendar so he doesn’t forget things. A quick skim and I take down the ones that are irrelevant or have passed. The desk in the corner is covered, but there’s no time to straighten it out.
From experience, he won’t notice what I’ve done, but I’ve always wanted to make his life easier since his body takes such a beating for his job.
The sinister voice starts a rant about how we were never equal friends and it’s only a matter of time before our friendship ends. I recognize the intrusive thoughts and practice mindful breathing. The thoughts linger longer than usual.
I should’ve asked in the group chat if anyone wanted to carpool, but then I wouldn’t have a ride back to the city unless my last patient/player gave me a ride. I’m not burdening an injured player with my transportation. No one on the team has an obligation to me.
Music blasts in the car to keep me company.
A few players come to see me before practice, including Liska. His back sprain isn’t serious. He needs to rest it, but it’s hard for him to accept that getting better means no strenuous activity.
Trevor’s with him today. “Don’t mind me. I’m here to listen and make sure he follows directions.”
I bite back a grin as Liska grumbles. I grill him about his activity and remind him of his weight limits. Trevor gasps in horror.
“You didnottell me you couldn’t pick me up,” he huffs.
“Grayson never said I shouldn’t specifically do it.” Liska crosses his arms over his chest.
“Semantics.” Trevor waves his hand dramatically. “You know I weigh over thirty pounds.”
“Now it won’t happen again,” I say, hoping to end this conversation before they tell me more about their sex life.
“Men.” Trevor rolls his eyes.
Austin pops into my head, and I agree a hundred percent.
