by Van Barrett
He's probably too wasted to even make it out here, I reasoned with myself. And then I buried my phone in my pocket and made myself forget about that little moment of weakness.
***
The boisterous crowd began to thin around 1:00 AM as tired, drunken students staggered off into the night and wandered home. With my phone now safely in my pocket, I took a look around my environs.
That's when I noticed an empty stool at the bar. I made a move to grab the stool before anyone else could. But as I approached, I had a moment's hesitation about actually taking that stool.
Why? Because the guy I would've been sitting next to was big and intimidating. I've mentioned my irrational fear and/or hatred of jocks by now, right?
Okay, I'm probably over-selling my issues here. It's not like I cower in fear any time I see a big, jacked and beefy dude-bro. But I do think it's wise to use a little caution when you sidle up next to strangers.
Especially when it's late, and alcohol is involved, and the guy just so happens to be fucking statuesque. And built like a God.
Dude-bro's body language screamed DON'T GET CLOSE TO ME. His elbows sat atop the bar, extending in both directions, like muscled bulwarks that fortified his personal space from anyone who might even think about coming near him. The big, flat-screen TV that hung behind the bar had completely ensnared his attention.
So I approached cautiously. With an uncertain gulp, I stepped just behind the empty stool. I put my hand on it, cleared my throat and projected my voice as confidently as I could. (Never show fear; jocks are like dogs. They can pick up the scent from a mile away. And if you run, they'll give chase.)
“Is this seat taken?” I asked.
He glanced my way. Briefly. He wore a black baseball cap. The brim was curved and pulled low, obscuring his eyes in shadow.
“Nope.” His gaze returned to the TV. A hockey game was playing. “Go for it.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled quietly.
His arms still took up so much space, I'd be lying if I said I was feeling totally safe about this seating arrangement. The last thing I needed, after all, was to accidentally touch his damned elbow that was all up in my space. I'm sure that would cause a scene.
So I dragged my stool a half-foot away from him before I hopped on it. But to my surprise, he snapped out his television-induced stupor and quickly drew his arms in.
“Oh, sorry dude. Didn't mean to take up all your space.”
“Don't worry about it,” I said with a chuckle. And probably with a breath of relief, too. I felt a lot more at ease knowing that he wasn't purposely being possessive of his territory.
And, hell, in this guy's defense – if I was as large as he was? I'd probably be getting in everyone's way unintentionally, too. I mean, he was big.
I'm not a small guy by any means at 5'11 – in fact, statistically, that puts me at a height advantage over most guys. But not in this case. No way. Sitting next to this guy was like … I felt dwarfed. Minuscule. Trivial.
I guess it was a good thing his attention was so wrapped up in that hockey game on TV. Because yeah, I totally used the opportunity to check him out.
He wore a red and white raglan shirt – the classic 'baseball' shirt with the ¾ sleeve. Which was a very, ahem, flattering cut for a guy with his build: broad shouldered and wide chested. His sculpted pecs bulged under his shirt. His sleeves stretched thin, struggling to contain the hard curves of his biceps. His forearm was so meaty and thick, I was convinced that I'd need both hands to span it.
That … that was a lot of man.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath. I couldn't peel my eyes off him. Which was strange, 'cause normally, big muscles aren't really my thing. I've always tended to favor a lean and cut look. But I guess his small showing of politeness earlier tipped the scales in his favor.
It might sound totally crazy, but with every peek I stole, I could swear I felt myself drawn more to this guy. Almost as if we were connected by some cosmic force or intelligence. Some as-of-yet undiscovered element that bound us together. Something bigger than life itself.
Maybe he was so big, he had an observable gravitational effect on me? Because he seemed to grow larger the more I focused on him. As if I were literally being drawn closer to him. Hell, I even started to pick up on his scent, when--
Bonk.
Imagine the horror when I realized what had just happened: my head totally just bumped into his shoulder.
Oh dear God.
And hey, it was a nice, thick, round and muscular shoulder. But obviously I had no right to be feeling it up with my fucking forehead! I scrambled to sit upright, retreating to my personal space in a hurry.
“Uh.” He broke his stare to glance at me again. “You alright bud?”
“Shit! I'm so sorry! I'm drunk. God, I'm an idiot! Sorry! Sorry.”
He shrugged it off with a slightly uncomfortable chuckle, content to go back to watching his hockey game. “No big deal.”
I was so mortified, I was ready to slink out of my stool and disappear. Hell, if I made it out of here alive, I'd vow to never step foot in this bar again. But the second I started to slither off my stool, the dude-bro stopped me.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he said. He shook his index finger at me as if he'd just made a revelation. “That's your friend over there, isn't it?”
Dude-bro gestured across the bar. I squinted, trying to steady my liquor-goggles, searching the faces in the crowd.
Oh. Oh! He meant Devon. She and Blue Polo were still talking. But now they sat closer. And they took turns whispering (totally innocent things I'm sure) into each other's ears.
“Yeah, that's my friend, alright,” I said, still feeling an embarrassed warmth in my cheeks.
“Cool. Thought so. That's my good buddy talking to her. Jono.” He nodded in their direction. Suddenly, his spine straightened. “Uh oh. I hope you didn't come over here to try to find out what kinda guy he is?”
“No! God no.” I laughed, raising my palms at him. “I swear, I didn't even realize you were his friend. I just saw an open stool and took it.”
“Oh. Alright.” He gave me a sneaky smile. His full, pouty lips were a soft contrast to his otherwise hard-lined, jagged, and overwhelmingly masculine presence. I liked that kissable mouth of his. It balanced him out and took off some of the edge.
“Good,” he added quietly, as if he were letting me in on a secret. “Because I can't vouch for his intentions.”
I let loose a delighted snicker. “Trust me. It won't be a problem. Devon's a heart-breaker. If anything, you should tell your friend Jono to watch the hell out, and don't get too attached.”
Dude-bro really liked hearing this. He slapped my chest with his backhand, hard, and roared with laughter. I laughed along, too – but what I found deliriously funny was the fact that I hadn't gone flying backwards off my stool when he slapped me.
Dude-bro's laughter tapered off into a sigh. “Well how 'bout you? Are you in love with her?”
“Me? Ha! No.”
“I had to ask. 'Cause we were trying to figure out if you were her boyfriend or not.”
“Oh, no,” I laughed. “I don't go for w–”
The millisecond I realized what my drunken loose lips were about to admit, I swallowed the words right back down my throat. Dude-bro cocked his head at me. And for the first time, I got a glimpse at those eyes – such sweet, expressive brown eyes!
I tried again, my voice calm and measured. “--um, as a personal rule, I don't hook up with any of my female friends.”
“Ha, yeah. Totally, man.” Dude-bro relaxed with a knowing grin. “Some people think guys and girls just can't be friends without feelings getting in the way. One of 'em always ends up falling for the other.”
“Yeah,” I huffed, trotting out my best macho straight guy voice. “Being friends with women can sure be a bitch, right? Hey, let's drink to that!”
I held out my glass for a toast. But dude-bro left me hanging.
Uh o
h. I bit my lip with worry. Did I slather it on too thick? Has he already figured me out?
He shook his head. “Your glass is all ice, man. You're not supposed to toast with an empty glass. Here, lemme buy a round.” He slid off his stool to reach for his wallet.
“Oh, no, you don't have to do that,” I protested as my eyes darted to his back-side. His ass, like the rest of him, was round and firm and perfect, goddammit. And seeing his hand slip into his back pocket inspired more than a few filthy thoughts.
I had to force myself to look away. Fuck. Don't get caught gawking, Lane.
“C'mon, I insist,” the dude-bro said, waving the bartender over. “Besides. Look over there. Our friends are hitting it off.”
I looked Devon's way again. Well, he was right about that. Blue Polo had his hand cupped around her face as they kissed, sloppily swapping tongues. Right there, in the middle of the bar.
Not Dev's finest moment, but hey, who am I to judge?
The bartender swooped over and blinked at us impatiently, expecting our order approximately two seconds ago.
“Oh, uh, I'll – I'll take what he's having,” I said.
But dude-bro quickly waved his hand at the bartender to cancel my order. He leaned toward me. “You don't want that. I'm--”
“Two more of whatever he's having,” I re-assured the bartender. I had to prove I was man enough to drink what he was drinking. Probably straight whiskey.
The bartender turned his back to us and quickly went to work.
“I like surprises,” I told dude-bro confidently.
“Okay. … I guess it'll be a surprise then.”
A brief quiet fell over us while the bartender fixed up our drinks. I wasn't sure what to say to this guy. He didn't seem to be the testosterone-addled, can't-wait-to-get-into-a-fight jock stereotype I had imagined when I first saw him.
Then again, he couldn't take his eyes off that damned hockey game. So maybe I wasn't all that far off.
“So they actually play games this late?” I pointed at the TV, wanting to make conversation.
“Huh?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “No. No way. This is a re-broadcast of today's game.”
“Which game?”
“North Dakota versus Denver.”
“Oh!” my eyes lit up. “I was at that game!”
“Were you?” he asked, but it sounded like he didn't believe me.
“Sure was,” I said matter-of-factly. “Did you see how it ended?”
He wiped at his mouth, trying to hide his boyish smile from me. “Not really.”
God, he's kind of a cutie, I thought to myself.
The bartender placed the two glasses in front of us. Dude-bro threw down some cash and we clinked our glasses together, the proper way – with liquid inside them. I sucked through the straw and swallowed the fizzy concoction down, waiting for the smooth after-burn of alcohol.
Only it never came.
“Huh,” I chuckled, inspecting my glass. “This drink is either really good, or really weak, 'cause I can't taste the booze. At all.”
“Surprise.” He grinned. “It's club soda.”
I let out a disappointed grumble. “Aww.”
“Here. Lemme buy you a real drink.” He reached for his wallet again.
“No, no. Forget it.” I reached for his forearm to stop him. I couldn't help myself – I wrapped my fingers around his thick muscle and gently squeezed.
Fuck. He was rock hard.
“You know, I really shouldn't drink more tonight, anyway,” I reasoned. “I'm plenty tipsy already. Hell, just a minute ago I fell off my stool and bumped into you.” Whoops, I didn't need to bring that up again, did I? I quickly changed the subject. “So, uh, are you the world's biggest fan of club soda? Or just the designated driver?”
Dude-bro chuckled and sipped his club soda through the straw. “I guess both.”
“Yeah, well.” I stirred the ice cubes around in my glass and took another sip. “I do like the bubbles. They feel nice in my mouth.”
He laughed, not breaking his gaze from the hockey game on TV. “Yeah. Me too.”
I looked up at the TV just in time to see it – the big moment from the game earlier. The Fighting Hawks captain River Brame stole the puck and broke away from the pack, skating all alone towards the net.
“Oh, this is it! This is the overtime goal! Watch this guy!” I pointed at River on the television. “He's such a jackass.”
Dude-bro laughed. “Is he?”
“Yeah! Watch. Watch this move he does and you'll see!”
We both watched the TV as events unfolded again. River rushed at the net, juked the goalie out, then waited for a second before he scored. Seeing the play a second time, it actually … well, it didn't seem as bad as I remembered it to be. I guess in my mind, I'd built that moment up to be several minutes of agony before he scored.
The bar-goers erupted in celebration, even though I'm sure they'd already seen the game, too. A bunch of random people suddenly clapped Dude-bro on the back. He kept his head low, hiding his smile, and took a long drink from his club soda.
Amid all the cheering and celebrating, someone suddenly wrapped their arms around my neck from behind. Panicked, my eyes grew huge – was someone trying to attack me?
“Guess who,” a familiar voice came from behind – and so did the sour stench of too-much alcohol.
Oh. My. God. I'd totally forgotten.
“Paulo,” I muttered angrily, wrestling his arms off my neck.
“Hey slut.” Paulo tried to run a hand down my chest and cop a feel. I forced his hand away. And then he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.
“Don't!” I hissed, pushing him away. Nervously, I glanced over to make sure the dude-bro hadn't seen. He hadn't. “Not here, not now!”
Off-balance, Paulo swayed. He pointed at the dude-bro dismissively with his thumb. “What? Who the hell is this guy?”
He turned towards the dude-bro as if he was going to actually talk to him.
I grabbed Paulo by the arm and pulled him back. “Stop it, Paulo! For God's sake!”
“Pshhh,” He laughed, leering at me. God damn, was he ever wasted. “So? You wanna get outta here? Go back to myyyy place?”
The guy couldn't stand straight. His speech was sloppy and slurred. His eyes darted left and right, unable to focus.
Hell no, I didn't want to go back to his place. But I also didn't want to make a scene, either. I had to get Paulo out of here.
But I knew I shouldn't push my luck. Having a drunken and handsy Paulo grope me in front of a bunch of hockey-loving jocks wasn't the smartest idea.
With that group of frat boys still crowding around the dude-bro and slapping his back and grunting about what a game they'd just witnessed for a second time … I slunk off my stool and whisked Paulo towards the exit. I rolled my eyes as Paulo tried to grab my ass and suck my neck.
“Stop, Paulo.”
“So who the FUCK was that guy?” Paulo asked with a spurt of irrational anger that only a drunk can muster as we burst through the bar doors. I had to help support his weight as he stumbled and staggered down the sidewalk.
I paused. That was a good question, and it dawned on me that I hadn't gotten dude-bro's name. I'd gotten his friend's name, but I hadn't asked his name.
“I don't know who he is, Paulo,” I replied at last.
“Dunno who who is?” Paulo asked, having already forgotten what he'd asked me. He started yammering on and on with some other incomprehensible rant.
With a sigh, I tuned Paulo and his nonsense out.
Yeah. It's safe to say I totally regretted ever texting Paulo back. Making sure his drunk-ass gets home safely should be his boyfriend's job – and that's a role he doesn't want me playing, as he'd made perfectly clear.
So how the hell did I get suckered into this? Why was I saddled with all the shitty parts of being in a relationship, but none of the good stuff?
I felt bad that I never thanked the dude-bro for that club
soda. I felt bad that I never asked his name, too. I dunno why. It's not like he'd care or remember me. But still. It didn't feel totally right. I felt a sadness, leaving in such a hurry.
No, I didn't know who the hell that guy was. And that kinda drove me a little crazy.
But I did know that he was the nicest meat-head I'd ever met.
7
The Room
– Lane –
“Go go go!” the coach yelled at his players, his voice echoing through the nearly empty arena.
After a couple long talks with Stan, I had to face the facts and realize that, no matter how much I complained or tried to volunteer Devon for the job, this assignment wasn't going away.
So there I sat at the Fighting Hawks practice, along with twenty-five or so other reporters, on a Wednesday afternoon.
The first thing I noticed at practice was that everything was so much louder here than it was at the game last Friday. Without all those crazy, screaming fans, I could hear everything that happened out there on the ice.
The crunch of ice and snow beneath the players' skates. The solid clap of a stick on the ice surface, slapping at the puck for a shot. The puck bouncing off the goalie's pads with a loud but dull thud.
More amusingly, I could hear all the chatter on the ice, too –
“Auughh!” a player groaned in frustration after he missed a wide-open net, shaking his head at the arena's roof.
“Nice fuckin' shot, Ocho!” One of his teammates teased, immediately giving that same guy a hard time.
“Fuck yoooooou!” another player yelled – joking, I assume – after one of his teammates swatted the puck right off his stick.
“Woooooo!” River's teammates howled like a pack of coyotes after he wound up, blasted the puck away and scored another goal in scrimmage.
Keeping my eye on River, I scribbled some thoughts into the notepad that rested on my thigh. He seemed to be popular with his teammates. I guess, if they're gonna make you a captain, you kinda have to be?
I zoned out while the players skated back and forth across the ice. Brr. Without the body heat of all those wild fans, this place sure seemed nippy. I zipped my sweater up and shivered.