Page 24 of Save the Game

“Yeah, we know,” Wendy shouts back. Interfering bastards.

“Let’s go outside,” I tell Max. “I need to get out of here for a bit, I’ve been going stir crazy. Unless you need something? I made your coffee.”

I point toward the machine and his gaze follows my finger. He shakes his head, so I grab his hand and tug him gently toward the door. Once we’re outside, I breathe a sigh of relief. The evening is cold and I don’t have a jacket on, but Max is here and I’m just so relieved I can’t bring myself to care about anything else. The words I want to say are crowding my throat, and my pulse is racing.

“Did you get my text? I texted you. I also went to your apartment this morning, but I don’t know your schedule and nobody answered the door. I’ve sort of been freaking the fuck out all day, because I feel like I might have messed up. Like, what if you were having a heart attack and I just dropped you off at home and left you there?” I run a hand through my hair, still holding onto Max’s hand. He looks alarmed. “And I know you weren’t—having a heart attack, that is—but the fact remains that I was a dick for leaving and I’m sorry about that. And I’m also sorry if I freaked you out, because I’m pretty sure you had a panic attack, and so I’m sorry if I scared you.”

My lungs burn and I take a moment to breathe a couple deep inhales of cold, night air. Max is gripping me so tightly he’s squishing the bones of my hand together. His golden eyes skitter away from mine, down to the pavement.

“I did get your text,” he says, voice low, “but you don’t have anything to be sorry about. I, uhm…actually, I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“What? Why?”

“I puked on your bed, Luke.”

“People get sick. It happens,” I shrug. “I have a washing machine; it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Uhm, right, no I get that, but…I’m sorry about the crying and the breathing thing, too. I just feel like I made a really bad impression and that I ruined something good between us, and I wanted to apologize because I feel terrible. I’m sorry for crying,” he repeats, as though this is an unforgivable offense.

“Hey, stop it,” I shake his hand, flummoxed. I don’t even know where to start with everything he just said. “Crying is fine, puking is fine, all of it is fine. I cry all the time; put on a sports movie and I’ll be a mess by the end.”

He smiles at me, but it’s weak. “You’re being nice. We were having sex, Luke, not watching a movie. You should have run for the fucking door.”

“No,” I reply slowly, frowning, “I shouldn’t have.”

He gives a single solid shake of his head, like a dog trying to dislodge water from its ears. “Well…thank you. For, well, you know.”

“You’re welcome. Do you have panic attacks a lot?”

“Uhm, no. That was the first time, actually. Honestly, I didn’t even realize that’s what it was until you said it.” He frowns, looking down at our linked hands. “Christ. I’m sorry for messing up your night.”

“Stop saying sorry or you’re going to piss me off. You didn’t offend my delicate sensibilities. I’m fine; we’re fine. You didn’t ruin anything. Fuck, Max, have you been worried about this all day? You thought I’d be mad, or something?”

“Disgusted, I guess.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, incredulously. Disgusted with him? Not on my fucking life. “Absolutely not. But Max…I feel like maybe I did something to freak you out, and I don’t like… Listen, I don’t want to be that guy, that’s all I’m saying. So, if I did something wrong, can you please just tell me? So that next time I won’t make the same mistake?”

“Next time,” he repeats under his breath. I shake his hand again, bringing his gaze to mine.

“Tell me.”

He’s having a hard time maintaining eye contact, and he’s rolling his bottom lip between his teeth in an outward expression of nerves. I’m more certain than ever that it was something I did to scare him. It feels worse than being punched in the face.

“Maybe,” he starts, and here his confidence fails him and his eyes trail off until he’s staring over my head, “don’t hold me down. Like, my arms.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I start, but he waves a hand and cuts me off.

“It’s not a big deal. I just don’t like it, that’s all. I shouldn’t have had such an over-the-top reaction; that’s on me, not you.”

Worry curls up in my chest, and I bite my lip. I want to push the subject—try and get him to tell me all the things he’s not saying. But I don’t, because what right do I have to that information? Two dates and a hook-up doesn’t constitute a relationship. I have to do the best I can with what I have.

“You should come inside. Drink your coffee and read your book,” I tell him, tugging on his hand and stepping toward the door. It’s cold as fuck out here.

“I need to get home, actually. I need to try and get some sleep,” he laughs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I had an, uhm, interesting talk with my coach today and I’m pretty wiped.”

“No, of course. You should sleep,” I say automatically.

Letting go of his hand, I replace the hand on the back of his neck with my own, pulling him toward me and into a hug. He comes easily, wrapping both arms around my waist and burying his face into my shoulder. I copy the movement, closing my eyes and enjoying his warmth.

---