Page 22 of Man On

The elevator dings, and I step out into the hallway. Two huge guys I recognize as linebackers from the football team are pounding on the door next to ours. They look pissed. Our neighbor, and the starting keeper for the soccer team, opens the door and starts cussing at the two guys who woke him. I wouldn’t want to be the target of his anger, however small in stature the guy is. I’m pretty impressed with the way he tears into the two giants looming in his doorway, and in my inebriated state, I snicker audibly. He scowls at me, even though I have nothing to do with waking him up.

I'm barely processing whatever they're arguing about, but from what I can gather, the two brick shithouses live in the apartments below and are pissed that someone up here is making a bunch of noise. But it's clearly not Lionel, as he was obviously sleeping and pretty pissed they woke him up. They eye me as I'm fumbling with my key. I hold my hands up in front of me.

"I'm just getting in. I don't know shit." I may or may not also mumble under my breath that my roommate’s biceps are bigger, and that I wouldn’t fuck with him, but then I realize I’m just asking for trouble.

I finally get my key in the door, and one guy pushes me through the threshold. The door swings open so hard it crashes into the wall behind it.

"What the fuck, dude?! You can't just?—"

There's a single lamp casting a dim light in our living room, but it's enough to see Lane. He's laying on the couch, sweating profusely, shaking and pale. Ignoring the two behemoths that step into the room behind me, I run to his side.

"Shit. Lane? What's wrong?" His pulse is fast, but he's breathing and doesn't seem to have a fever or anything.

"What's wrong with him?" One guy asks, looming behind me.

"Did he take something?" The other guy asks. “I can call an ambulance.”

"Definitely not. He's as straightedge as they come. Just give me a second.”

My mind spins. The smell of cleaning solution is so strong my eyes are burning. With a quick glance around, I notice that everything in our apartment is sparkling clean.

Oh.

I'm pretty sure I know what's happening. Lane would hate me for knowing, but I'm pretty sure he has panic attacks. I think he uses exercise as some kind of coping mechanism. Not a healthy one, for sure, because I've seen him overdo it to where he made himself physically ill like this before. I’m not going to tell these meatheads his business, but I also can't have them calling an ambulance like they're suggesting.

I struggle to come up with an excuse to get these two assholes out of here so I can take care of him in private. My brain feels fuzzy, and I regret the number of screwdrivers I drank at that party tonight.

Wait. Screwdrivers. That's it.

"Would you mind grabbing some orange juice from the fridge for me? Cups are above the sink."

One guy heads into the small galley kitchenette next to the sitting room, and the other helps me prop Lane up on some pillows. Lane's eyes flutter, and I panic a little, knowing how out of sorts he can get when anyone else sees something he considers a weakness. It's why he hates me so much, I think.

"Thanks," I say, taking the coffee mug of juice that's handed to me. "He's, uh, got low blood sugar," I explain while herding the two beefcakes from our apartment. "When it gets bad, he has these fits and passes out, gets kind of loopy and weird. But I've got this." I push them through the door. "I can take it from here. Thanks so much for your help. I don't know what would have happened if you didn't hear him."

They look a little stunned as I thank them again and slam the door shut in their faces. When I turn back to Lane, he's still slumped against the pillows. He looks like he's about to puke when he finally opens his eyes a little. I worry he's going to react badly to my presence, but I need to make sure he's okay. Just because I’m not a huge fan of his doesn’t mean I want him to suffer.

"Hey man," I say cautiously. "I, uh, got you some juice."

"Juice?" His voice is gravelly, like he's been asleep for a long time.

"You passed out, dude. I thought maybe you had low blood sugar or something?"

He blinks several times before realization dawns on him, and his eyes dart around the room. "Was someone else here?"

"Huh? No. I was talking to someone in the hallway before I came in," I lie, holding the mug out to him. He takes it gingerly, looking into the cup with suspicion. "I didn't spike it or anything," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Thanks, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I was just sleeping. I fell asleep on the couch waiting up for your dumbass. How much did you drink tonight?"

Too much.

"Just a couple. I'm fine." The last part isn't a lie. I'm certainly feeling sober now. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he says sharply.

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