Page 82 of Boyfriend
Abbi didn’t. She cut me loose, and I ought to be grateful.
So why do I feel so blue?
“Yo, Griggs,” Tate says. “Whatcha doing standing there? Let’s go play some Beer Jenga and get our drink on.”
“One beer,” Coach says from across the room. “Don’t celebrate yet. Gotta beat ‘em again tomorrow night, boys. And what the fuck is Beer Jenga?” Coach asks. “Wait—never mind. I don’t wanna know.”
“Right, Coach,” Tate agrees. “Good call.” He grabs me by the elbow. “Let’s party.”
I follow him out the door. But I don’t feel like partying.
* * *
The next couple of days are rough. My brain goes in circles, like a dog chasing its tail. I vacillate between knowing this break with Abbi was inevitable, and a guts-deep feeling that I’ve just made a huge mistake.
Either way, it feels wrong to me to end things on a bad note. So I try to call her. Twice. But she won't pick up.
Then I try texting. Hey, I know you're a little mad at me, and you made a few good points. But can we at least have a talk? But I get no response.
And now I’m just plain irritated.
“How bad was this argument?” Tate asks as I sit on the bench in the locker room, checking my texts for the millionth time.
“It wasn’t that bad! I had no idea Abbi was so damn stubborn.”
“Then maybe it's better that you broke up,” Patrick suggests.
“Maybe,” I grunt. “But I’m in such a pissy mood. I feel so..."
"Dismissed," Paxton, Patrick's twin, says. "Prolly the same way the girls usually feel when you're done with them.”
“No way,” I argue. “They know the score going in.”
“Do they?” Paxton mutters.
My shoulders slump. It's starting to dawn on me that I have inconvenient feelings for Abbi. If it weren’t true, I wouldn’t care so much that she's done with me.
Shit. How did this happen?
“Time for dinner,” Tate says. “Let's go to the Biscuit.”
I let out a low moan, and the whole locker room laughs.
“Aw, Griggs!” Tate says, patting my back. “Maybe this is just what you need. Your girl can't ignore you face-to-face.”
I'm sure he's right. And I really want to talk to Abbi. But I'd rather do it without an audience.
“Come on, man.” Patrick slaps my shoulder. “Back on the horse. Maybe you can find another playmate for the night. Someone to take your mind off her.”
“That's not happening,” I snap. Not only am I not in the mood, I'd never do that to Abbi.
“He's right.” Tate says. “Our guy has to be discreet at the Biscuit after this. What if we lose our table?”
“What if the entire waitstaff turns on us?” someone else asks.
“Then no more wings and beer,” Patrick says sadly. “Didn't we warn you about this already?”
“I’m not ready to switch to a steady diet of pizza,” someone complains.
