Page 16 of Save the Game

“No, it’s not…I like him fine. He’s fine. But,” the hand finally lowers and that cautious expression is back on his face, “he’s not exactly the kind of person you want dating your best friend.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, to put it delicately, he’s a man whore. I’m pretty sure his one and only goal is to sleep his way through the gay population of SCU. He’s got the attention span of a squirrel; dates one guy for a week before moving on to the next.”

“I…” My phone vibrates and I look down to see a text from Luke. My face heats. Is that what’s going on? I’m the next notch in his gay bedpost? “I didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t even realize you knew him.”

“No, I don’t. Well, we met only a few days ago. When I was out walking.” I gesture vaguely toward the front door and Marcos’ jaw clenches. It worries him that I like to walk when I can’t sleep.

“Ah. Are you going to see him again?” He asks carefully. I shrug.

“Dinner, yeah. We agreed to go to dinner.”

I can tell he wants to say more; wants to convince me to stay here with him, where he can keep an eye on me and protect me. I’m glad he doesn’t voice any of those words: if he did, I think I would scream. I’m sick—so fucking sick—of him looking at me like I’m a sad, broken thing. I’m sick of being a sad, broken thing. If I want to go out to dinner with a man whore, that’s what I’m damn well going to do.

“I’m going to go,” I declare, and Marcos’ face falls before he fixes it back into place, carefully neutral.

“You should. He’s…fun. You should have fun.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, looking back down at my phone and the half-finished pizza order. “Hey, I’m not that hungry, actually. Is it okay if we take a rain check on the pizza?”

“Sure, Max, whatever you want,” he says, just like I knew he would. I could ask him to do anything in this world and he would agree. His guilt makes me feel sick to my stomach; a virus infecting the pair of us and rotting away at our friendship. I don’t call him back as he disappears into his bedroom, but stare at his closed door for a long while after he’s gone.

5

Luke

I’m in the batting cage, working on my swing, when movement behind me catches my eye. I don’t look away from the ball machine, because that’s a good way to get a broken rib; I’ve made the mistake once, and I’m not about to do it twice. Probably just one of my teammates, waiting for me to finish so they can take their turn. I focus on my swing.

“Hey, Kelly,” a voice says from behind me, and my eyebrows rise in surprise, even as I maintain my concentration.

“Hey, Marcos. You need the cage?”

“Nah. I was hoping I could talk to you. When you’re done.”

Oh fuck it all, now I’ll never be able to focus. Sighing, I step back out of the strike zone and lift my helmet. Marcos the Grouch is leaning against the chain-link fence, arms crossed and his perpetual scowl in place. I turn off the ball machine and step around him to replace the bat.

“What’s up?” I ask, smiling at him because I’m a friendly guy and not a dick, like some people.

“What’s going on with you and Max?”

“What?” I ask, because of all the things I’d thought he would say, those are not the words I expected to come out of his mouth. I’m so thrown, I don’t even notice the tone of voice he used. “We’re going to dinner tonight, why?”

He crosses his arms, shoulders rigid and posture defensive. It puts my back up and makes me wonder if I need to worry about the possibility of a fight. I’d rather not go to a date with a fresh black eye, but needs must.

“I just want you to be…you can’t treat him the same way you treat all those other guys. He’s not a quick fuck—someone you can roll off of and send on their way. Max is?—."

“A grown ass man,” I interrupt, not bothering to keep my voice down. I’m seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are? His dad? What is wrong with you, man, what happens between Max and I is none of your business.”

He stares at me, impassive. The longer he stands there in silence, the more pissed off I become. Who does something like this?

“Fuck you,” I say, pushing past him and out of the batting cage. If I don’t leave I’ll do something stupid like punch him in his interfering mouth.

“Kelly,” he says, but I don’t turn around. You can’t treat him the same way you treat all those other guys, he’d said, and I could hate him for that alone. I’m a good guy, I don’t mistreat anybody, and the implication feels like a knife between the ribs. I want to turn back around and tell him I’m not obligated to marry every single person I sleep with. I want to tell him that just because I go through a lot of guys, it doesn’t mean I’m mistreating them.

“Goddamnit, Marcos. Goddamnit,” I mumble, as I drive home. That fucker just had to go and ruin my perfectly good mood.

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