Page 30 of The Last Person
And that right there is the problem.
I’m enjoying all the things about our friendship that give me the closeness and intimacy of a relationship, while not actually having a relationship with him. It’s messing with my head and my heart.
But absolutely none of that is something I’d admit to Hardy, so I fall back on an easy excuse.
“Eh, it’s been a bit since we went out, and I forgot how overwhelming it can be. I had a bit of an introvert spiral and thought alcohol would help. Won’t be making that mistake again.”
He folds his arms over his chest as he looks at me. “You know, you don’t have to suggest going out if you hate it.”
“You don’t have to stay home with me just because it’s not my scene. Contrary to how the team teases us, we aren’t an old married couple. You should do what you want to do, not cater to me.”
He frowns, then turns and focuses on cleaning up the few dishes he made. “Who says I’m not doing what I want to do?”
“Because you were never the guy to skip out on a party or going out with the team.”
“Oh, so a man can’t grow, change, or mature?”
“I’m sure a man can, but you?” I tilt my hand back and forth.
He clutches his chest. “Hey, I can be mature. I’m more mature than at least a quarter of the guys on the team.”
“Comparing yourself to TJ, Beckett, and those types of guys is a low bar.”
“Well, let the record reflect that I’m the one who helped you home last night and put you to bed.”
“You did not put me to bed. You followed me to my room.”
His smile turns feral, and something whirls in my stomach. “Technically, you dragged me.”
“I… did?”
I frantically replay everything I can remember about last night, horrified that I might’ve said something—revealed something to him.
He laughs and smacks my shoulder. “Relax, man. It’s not your fault. I know I’m irresistible.” Then he winks at me and walks toward the hallway to his room, calling over his shoulder. “Be ready to go in thirty!”
I hang my head, but not in frustration at his bullshit. Because I’m a mess, and if I want to keep our friendship safe in its perfectly manufactured box, messy is one thing I can’t be.
But I’m sure getting my shit together—or better yet, getting over my feelings—will be simple. Easiest thing I’ve ever done. Might as well make the game-winning touchdown at the Super Bowl while I’m at it.
I meander back to my bedroom, sipping on my milkshake. There’s no way I’m rallying before practice.
Thirty-six hoursand two showers later, I still smell like alcohol.
Thank god practice yesterday was mostly game footage and weight lifting. I still almost puked toward the end of weight training, but I held it together.
Today is our day off for the week, and I slept like the dead last night.
I’ll probably have to change my sheets tonight because they stink of sweaty alcohol. With a pinch of Hardy in there. I’d like to keep that. Bottle it and spray it everywhere. That wouldn’t be weird, right?
Ugh, I’m hopeless.
I can’t get Hardy out of my head, and a part of me doesn’t want to. That fantasy where he’s mine is too delicious to get rid of. Even if it is slowly killing me.
Not as much as Hardy walking around the apartment in low-slung gray sweats and nothing else this morning.
Steam spills out as I open the shower door and climb in.
I just need a hot shower. Let it all wash away.
