Page 8 of The History Between Us

I nod, schooling my features. “Yeah, I know. I saw him the other day at my doctor’s appointment.”

Mom’s face lights up. “Oh, that’s right, Roger retired. I completely forgot about that.” She pats my leg before standing. “He’ll be here soon, so like I said, get dressed. Maybe splash some water over your face while you’re at it.”

“Trying to tell me I look like shit, Mom?” I tease, earning me a scowl only a mom could perfect. “Alright, alright, I’ll be down in a bit.”

She closes the door behind her, and suddenly, my mood got a whole lot better. William has been on my mind a lot since running into him at his clinic. He had moved away from Copper Lake over a decade ago. I never thought I’d run into him here, or anywhere, ever again, so it was quite the pleasant surprise hearing from him that he took over his family’s private practice.

I’m not naïve enough to think we could ever have a repeat of that night at the bar in Seattle, but subtly flirting with him when nobody else is around tonight could be fun. Especially since I’m not getting any other type of action these days. It takes much longer than it should, but eventually, I’m dressed in Wranglers and a t-shirt. I skip the socks because that’s too much damn work one-handed. I’m already winded just from trying to maneuver my t-shirt over my arm without moving it too much. After I grab my black Powder Ridge baseball cap, I flip it onto my head backwards before I call it good and leave the room.

Low chatter reaches my ears as I descend the stairs. When I reach the bottom, the living room comes into view, as do my dad and William. They’ve each got a beer, and they’re standing in front of the TV. I can tell without even seeing the screen thatthey’re watching the sports center highlights from last night’s baseball game. Max Bishop is nothing if not a huge sports buff, and while it’s been many years since I’ve seen William in this house, I recall him being the same.

My dad spots me first, a grin spreading across his lips. “Hey, son. How you feeling?”

William’s jaw flexes as he flits his gaze over to me. “Hello, Colt,” he offers nicely enough.

“Howdy. I’m feeling alright, Dad.”

“How’s that shoulder today?” he asks, like he has almost every day since my accident. The support and encouragement I’ve gotten from both of my parents has been immense.

I drop down into the recliner. “Same as it was yesterday. Sore, but alright.”

Both men continue to watch the highlights—I was right—and talk about this play or that one, but I’m finding it hard to pay attention. From where I’m sitting, I have an excellent view of the backside of William, and fuck, is it a glorious one. His raven black hair is longer than I remember, slicked back, but it looks like throughout the day, he’s ran his fingers through it a time or two, messing it up. It’s clear, based on his white button-up shirt, navy blue Chinos, and a pair of rich brown dress boots, he came here straight from the office.

William and my dad have been friends for as long as I can remember. Pretty sure they went to school together before my dad went pro. I was around fifteen when he moved away from Copper Lake with his wife, who I’m assuming he doesn’t have anymore, given the lack of a ring on his finger. Well, that and the liquor-fueled night we spent together two years ago.

I have to bite back a grin at the memory of that night. Much of it is choppy at best, thanks to all the shots I downed,but what slips through my recollection is one for the books. It’s been top-tier spank-bank material more than once.

“Dinner’s ready!” Mom calls out from the kitchen. Nobody prepares a meal quite as good as my mom, and I’m not just saying that because I’m her son and have to say that. Everybody in town knows that she’s an incredible cook.

William is directly across from me, and it’s more than obvious he’s doing his best to avoid looking at me altogether. It’s quite comical. Every time our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, his gaze darts away immediately.

“How is it being back in town, Will?” my mom asks.

William wipes his mouth with the napkin in his lap as he finishes chewing. “It’s been nice. Different,” he adds. “But I’m happy to be back.”

“Do you miss the city living?” she asks.

A deep chuckle rumbles in his throat. “No, I surprisingly don’t. If I’m being honest, it’s all a bit much for someone like me; I was just too comfortable to realize it until it came time for me to make the decision to come back. The slow and steady of this small town is perfect for me.”

My mom smiles. “There is something so charming and comforting about this little town, isn’t there?”

The conversation fades a little the more we all eat. Figuring out how to eat left-handed has been a challenge all in its own. You never realize how much your dominant hand does every single day until you aren’t able to use it. The easiest, most routine tasks suddenly become a challenge. Using a fork, getting dressed, tying your shoes—it’s a damn good thing the only shoes I typically wear are boots—brushing your teeth. Hell, even wiping your ass is difficult.

“Colt,” my dad starts, flicking his gaze to me. “When doyou start physical therapy?”

“Wednesday.”

With all this downtime, I’ve had plenty of time to research my injuries and the surgeries I’ve had, and I have a pretty decent idea of how long it’ll realistically take me to get back to a normal use of the limb. According to Dr. Google, I should be able to do easy, normal daily activities within two to three weeks, but it’ll be several months before I can get back to training. The latter makes my blood pressure spike. I’m itching to get back on a bull, and knowing that I have to take it easy forthatlong makes me want to scream. It also makes me want to try to beat that recovery time. Surely, there’s something I can do to heal faster and get back out there quicker.

After dinner, Dad helps Mom clear the table and put the leftovers away, then he immediately gets started on washing the dishes. It’s been this way since I was a little kid; Mom cooks and Dad does the dishes. Granted, during my teenage years, I helped with the cleaning too, but my dad has always been very firm on the fact that my mom shouldn’t have to do the dishes if she makes the meals.

William makes himself at home in the living room, watching more game highlights after he offered to help my dad but got shooed away. I grab a water bottle out of the fridge and pad across the floor toward the staircase. It’s time to take my meds, and they’re upstairs. I pass by William on my way, our eyes meeting briefly, and I can’t help the smirk that tugs on my lips as I watch his throat work against a swallow.

“Looking good, William,” I murmur quiet enough for only him to hear before I toss him a wink and bound up the stairs. He doesn’t respond, nor did I expect him to, but the deer-in-headlights look on his face is enough to make me chuckle. Iprobably shouldn’t find enjoyment out of his clear discomfort, but I do. I’m stuck at my parents’ house, unable to compete—or really doanything—so I have to find amusement where I can.

Part of me wants to push him to see if he’ll acknowledge the history between us or if he’s going to keep pretending like it never happened. If it weren’t for the way he can’t seem to hold my gaze, I’d think maybe he didn’t remember it at all. Who knows how much he had to drink that night before I spotted him. But he remembers… I know he remembers, and something about that turns me on something fierce. Maybe it’s the secret of it all. Or it’s simply the fact that I can’t properly jack off, so I’m sexually frustrated as it is. Maybe it’s both.

Once in my room, I flip on the light switch and cross the space to my dresser where my meds are. I toss them back quickly before heading back downstairs. Disappointment clouds my mind when the living room comes into view and my mom is sitting on the couch already, talking to William about work.So much for getting to mess with him.

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