The Friend Zone

by Kristen Callihan

  “You’re making a fool out of yourself,” I tell him. “Go on. We’re done here.”

  Jonas’s nostrils flare. Instinct has me transferring my weight onto the balls of my feet, my thighs clenching, prepping for a tackle. Jonas is a big motherfucker, but he’s been out of the game for years, and I’m stronger, faster, with better balance. He’ll go down and stay down.

  Because he is, at heart, still a lineman, he reads my intent with perfect clarity. It’s in the eyes. We’ve been trained to broadcast “I’m gonna fuck your shit up” with one look.

  “You think you can take me, little bro?” Jonas smirks like there’s no chance.

  “I can bench four-thirty, so that just might be enough to toss you.” I shouldn’t taunt Jonas but he brings out the worst in me.

  He bares his teeth at me. “I shit bigger than you.”

  “I believe it.”

  When he makes a noise as if he’ll soon charge, I clench my fists. But Ivy’s cool hand lands on my stomach. “He isn’t worth it, Gray.”

  Her dark eyes are wide and worried, gleaming up at me with a silent plea. And I soften. I don’t want her to see this ugliness. But my distraction is a mistake. I hear Jonas snarl.

  “Thought I told you to mind your fucking business, girlie.”

  He lunges, and I can only think of Ivy, threatened. My vision goes white, a roar tears from my throat. I’m barely aware of moving. I slam into Jonas with enough force to rattle my bones. Fisting his shirt, I propel him upwards, my thighs bunching with effort. And he goes airborne.

  His massive shape is a silhouette in the streetlight, and then he’s crashing down onto the pavement with a loud thud. I stand over him, my teeth grinding. A slow shake works deep through my guts. “Get the fuck out of here, or I will end you.”

  He stares at me, all wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open. Blood dribbles from his lip, and my knuckles throb. Had I hit him? I don’t even remember doing it. But he spits a glob of red from his mouth as he rolls over, so I must have. Slowly he stands.

  We stare at each other for a long moment. When I speak, the finality of our relationship feels like shards going down my throat. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

  He just shakes his head. “Mom wasted her time on the wrong kid.”

  And then he leaves me there, gutted and filled with useless rage.

  * * *

  Ivy

  Rain has started to fall. It taps against the roof of Gray’s truck with a metallic rattle and runs in rivulets down the fogged-up windows. Inside, it’s warm, the old heater blowing steadily as we sit not speaking.

  We’re parked in front of my house, listening to Nine Inch Nails’ Right Where it Belongs play softly on the radio, the sound haunting in the relative silence. Gray hasn’t moved, and I’m hesitant about saying a word. He’s clearly in his own world right now, his strong profile unmoving as carved stone as he stares blindly forward.

  Every line of his body is tense, as if he might shatter if he moves, and I hate it. I’d seen the rage and the fear cloud his eyes when his brother taunted him. I’d seen the hurt and shame. Gray is in pain, and that is unacceptable.

  Slowly, my hand slides across the truck’s leather bench seat. His fingers are curled into a fist, but the moment I touch him, he opens his hand, turning his palm upward to clasp my own. Until I feel the warmth of his touch, I don’t realize how much I’d needed it.

  We don’t speak. Gray’s hand engulfs mine. For a moment, I simply sit and soak in the small connection between us. It’s strange how good it feels just to do this. Almost absently, he traces the back of my hand, down the sensitive edges of my fingers and over my knuckles. Pleasure hums along my skin.

  I explore as well, sliding a finger along the length of his as the tip of my thumb strokes his palm. I love Gray’s hands. Warm, rough skin. Long fingers and broad palms, and the strength. He could crush my hand without effort yet he holds onto me as though I’m made of spun sugar. Tenderness batters my heart.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “What kind of shoes do spies wear?”

  At first I don’t think he’s heard me, then Gray’s lips twitch. “Don’t know.”

  “Sneakers.”

  “Har.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as his smile grows. Still he stares out the window.

  I give his hand a small squeeze. “What do you get when you cross a vampire with a snowman?”

  “What?”

  “Frostbite.”

  Gray snorts. And then his eyes find mine. They glint with humor in the dim interior. “What’s green and smells like pork?”

  Relieved that he’s engaging, I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. “What?”

  “Kermit’s finger.”

  “Eew.” I laugh as I bat his arm. “That is vile.”

  His broad shoulders shake as his laugh rolls out. He has a gorgeous laugh, booming and infectious. And right now, it’s the best sound in the world.

  I’m still laughing when I give him another one. “What did the duck say to the hunter?”

  Gray chokes down a laugh before asking, “What?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I wasn’t there for that conversation.”

  And he laughs again, his expression open and happy. “That is the lamest one ever, Mac.”

  “I know. Hey.” When he looks at me expectantly, I give his hand a tug. “What’s up with you and your brother?”

  Gray’s expression falls as abruptly as a lid being slammed shut, and a twinge of guilt hits me. It’s a sneak attack and shitty of me. But there’s a difference between slapping a bandage over a wound and trying to help heal it. I can’t heal all of Gray’s hurts, but I want to try.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I say when he doesn’t say anything.

  Gray leans back against the seat and runs a hand over his face before looking off. “I don’t want to.”

  It shouldn’t hurt. He has a right to his privacy. But a lump rises in my throat anyway. And it takes effort to nod. Not that he’s looking my way to see it.

  A gust of wind hits the truck and it shudders. I should take him inside, comfort him with my body and forget trying to make him talk.

  He sighs and turns to me. His eyes are haunted, and it hurts my heart.

  “Gray…”

  “It’s okay, Ivy.” He seeks out my hand and holds it again. His fingers have gone cold. With his free hand, he rubs his eyes as if his head hurts. As if in a fog, Gray stares at his hand, his fingers spread wide. Red abrasions mar his knuckles. As if it pains him to look, he makes a fist and lowers it. “I hate violence. Believe me, I get the irony of being a football player. It isn’t the same. On the field, it’s controlled. Well, mostly. And we’re fairly matched up. But off the field?” He shakes his head. “Only a coward uses his fists when he can easily walk away.”

  I take a breath, completely sober now. “I’m sorry I egged your brother on and made you fight.”

  Gray’s brows lift in surprise before snapping together in a frown. “Don’t ever be sorry for being yourself. I will always defend you, Ivy, and I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it.” He looks down at his hand again. “I wanted to beat the shit out of him for even talking to you like that. It…unsettles me. I don’t want to be like them.”

  “Like them?” I ask.

  “I have three brothers. Jonas is the oldest. Twelve years older than myself. Then there’s Leif who is ten years older, Axel is three years older, and I’m the youngest. Axel is all right but we’re not close. Jonas and Leif are total assholes.”

  He glances at me, his brows pulling together in a bemused frown. “You really didn’t Google me at all, did you?” There’s no accusation in his voice, only a soft wonder.

  “No,” I confess quietly. “Truth? I wanted our friendship to be about Ivy and Gray. Not what the rest of the world thought about you.”

  For a long moment he just looks at me, his expression giving nothing away. Then, with his free hand, he reaches out, and the tips of his finge
rs graze along my cheek. “Same here, Ivy Mac.” His hand touch away, and his voice grows harder. “So I’m assuming you didn’t recognize Jonas, did you?”

  “Was I supposed to?”

  He laughs without humor. “I guess not. Though it’d probably piss him off to hear that.” Gray rolls his shoulders. “Jonas Grayson, superstar offensive lineman, two-time Super Bowl winner—”

  “Holy shit,” I interrupt as understanding dawns. “Jonas and Lief Grayson. Leif is a fullback. And Jonas…” I try to think of what I know and horror dawns. “Four years ago his wife pressed charges, saying he beat her. There was a big trial.”

  “Yep.” Disgust rides Gray’s expression. “Apparently he beat the shit out her for years, and she finally had enough. He found himself a slick lawyer and got off with probation.”

  My stomach turns. Jonas abused a woman. And I’d taunted him. If Gray hadn’t stepped between us… A shiver passes over me.

  “Unfortunately for him,” Gray says, “his contract was up for renegotiation at the time, and his team didn’t renew. No one wanted him. Didn’t help that he’d been playing like shit for two seasons prior.”

  “That’ll do it,” I muttered.

  “And Leif,” Gray adds, his disgust clearly mounting, “just got off a two-game suspension for a DUI. Though I can tell you from personal experience that he does more than drink and drive.”

  “And your father is Jim Grayson.” One of the best and most beloved coaches in the whole damn NFL. “I’m an idiot. You’re part of a football dynasty. How did I never make this connection?”

  Gray shrugs. “You didn’t look me up. I don’t talk about it to anyone. My guys know I don’t like to discuss it. Though sports commentators love to mention it every game I play.” He runs a fist along his thigh, digging in. “My dad… He believes in physical strength. For as long as I can remember, he’d take me out to the yard for practice and have my brothers ‘toughen me up.’ No holds barred.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. At all. “But your bothers are over ten years older than you. They could have killed you.”

  Gray’s voice slows like he’s forcing the words out. “Endless drills. Hard tackles. All acceptable. They got off on it. Axel didn’t really, but he was small too. What could he do?”

  I stay silent and let him talk.

  “I don’t think Dad really knew though. That Jonas and Leif liked to pummel me off the field too. Or maybe he did.” He shakes his head. “Who the fuck knows? When I complained, I was lectured. ‘Football isn’t for whiners or quitters. Buckle up, buttercup. Back to work.’ And so on.”

  “How can you love the game?” I whisper.

  His hand clenches mine. “I don’t know. But I do. Because when I’m out there doing my thing, I forget all about them. It’s my game, and I own it. I don’t know… It’s the control amidst the chaos. Same with math. There are rules, boundaries, numbers. Patterns run. Victories won by inches. It gives me joy. That’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

  He looks at me then, his eyes haunted.

  “No. I get it. I ought to resent sports like Fi does. It took our dad from us. Ruined my parents’ marriage. But I love it.”

  He nods but lets my hand go to grip the steering wheel. “I hate my brothers. Always have. Hate my father too for letting them do that to me, either by direction or ignoring it.”

  “And your mom?” I shouldn’t ask but can’t help it. “Did she know?”

  His face goes utterly blank, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “I never told her.” A ragged breath leaves him. “Because what if I did, and she…” He glares out the window.

  “What if she didn’t stop them?”

  A bare nod is his answer.

  God, I want to hug him. But I don’t move, not knowing if he can handle it right now.

  “I feel like shit for thinking that. Because my mom was awesome to me. Kind, caring, patient.” He snorts. “I have no fucking clue what she saw in my dad. They met at some college staff mixer. He was a visiting head coach, and she was a Norwegian exchange student finishing up her post-graduate degree. Mom always claimed that Dad charmed her into following him anywhere.”

  Gray shakes his head as if disgusted. “When she got sick, though, it was my job to look after her. Dad couldn’t handle it. My brothers didn’t want to. My brothers hated me for Mom too,” he whispers. “I was her favorite. Her baby.”

  I think of a teenage Gray forced to watch his mom slowly die and not have any help from the rest of his family. “I bet you were an awesome caregiver,” I tell him softly.

  He snorts again and leans back against the seat, blinking up at the ceiling. “I left her alone to die.”

  The rain patters against the hood of the truck, and the radio softly plays on.

  “What do you mean?” I finally ask.

  “She died alone.” He closes his eyes. “I left her.”

  “You mean she died when you weren’t there? Gray, that happens sometimes—”

  “No, I did it on purpose.” His eyes squeeze tight. “My mom… We both knew it was coming. That she was near the end. The state championship game was that Saturday. I wasn’t going, no way. But she took my hand and said I had to go. For her. The thing is…” He swallows hard, his throat visibly convulsing. “I knew what she was saying. I knew she didn’t want me to see her die. That it would be too hard for her if I was watching. And I…”

  He presses a hand over his eyes. “I couldn’t do it, Mac. I ran from that room like a coward. Went to that game like a coward. Because I couldn’t watch her go.”

  I can’t hold back anymore. I slide over and put my arms around him, drawing his big body close. Woodenly, he leans into me, trembling. His face burrows against my hair, and he takes shaking breaths. “My dad fucking hated me for that. I was supposed to watch over her.”

  “He should have been there,” I say, barely containing my anger. “She was his wife.”

  Gray shakes his head. “I was supposed to be stronger than them.”

  “You are the strongest man I know.” I kiss the top of his head, his cheeks, anywhere I can reach without letting him go. “And you did what she wanted. Don’t you ever think less of yourself for that.”

  But Gray just trembles like he can’t get past it. I move back to my side of the truck, pulling him down, so that he’s lying across the bench.

  He’s too large to be doing this. But he settles his head in my lap with a sigh as if it’s the most comfortable thing in the world. Smiling slightly, I run my fingers through his hair. It’s surprisingly thick, the strands like silk.

  “God, that feels good.” Gray settles down with a sigh. On the next breath, his arm steals beneath my knees, wrapping around my legs and hugging tight. “Ivy, I’m sorry to dump on you like this.”

  “Stop.” I cup his cheek, letting my palm warm him. “I asked you to tell me. I’m your girl, right?”

  “Fuck yeah, you are.” His hold grows more secure, as if I might pull away. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Never. This is what girlfriends do, you know.”

  Beneath my hand, his cheek rises as he smiles softly, and little crinkles form at the corners of his denim blue eyes. His lashes are unfairly long and lush, coming in gold then darkening toward the tips. “I’m not letting you go, Ivy Mac. In case I wasn’t clear before.”

  Warmth blooms inside my chest.

  When he closes his eyes with a contented-yet-still-sad sigh, I reach up and turn off the overhead light. The interior of his truck turns shady, and Gray relaxes a bit more.

  I go back to stroking his hair. He grows heavier, warmer. “My mom used to do that. Run her fingers through my hair when I was upset.” He shudders, takes an unsteady breath. “I miss her, Mac.” His voice is broken, and it breaks a little of me, as well.

  Lightly, I run my thumb along his temple. “I know, Cupcake. I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes closed and holds on to me. And I stroke his hair as my
free hand rests on the hard swell of his biceps.

  “Mac?”

  “Yeah?” The sound of the rain and the press of Gray’s body has lulled me into a state of warm relaxation, and my head rests heavily against the window. My fingers don’t stop running through his hair.

  “I’m so fucking glad I borrowed your car,” he chokes out, his hand gripping my calf, rubbing it as if I’m precious. “The thought of you not being in my life tears me up. I… You are the happiness I never realized I needed.”

  His words wrap around my chest and squeeze it tight. I know exactly what he means, because it is the same for me. I’ve made plenty of friends throughout my life, but no relationship has happened so swiftly or meant as much to me as what I have with Gray. My attachment to him almost frightens me, the emotion threatening to overwhelm.

  I find myself blinking rapidly, my vision as blurry as the windshield before me. Feeling far too tender, I curl over him and place a kiss at the crest of his cheek. He smells so good, like citrus and baking bread and pure Gray, and I pepper his face with soft kisses. He turns slightly, slings his heavy arm over my neck to hold me close as his mouth finds mine.

  That emotion inside me bubbles over and rushes through my veins with absolute surety. I love him. I love Gray Grayson more than I ever thought possible. I’m through being afraid of this. I’m all in now. I’m his girl for as long as I can be.

  * * *

  Gray

  Some people grow up gradually, the foundations of their childhood steadily sinking into the earth so slowly they barely notice the change. Until one day they’re simply standing on their own two feet with little idea how they got there.

  Then there are people whose childhoods are smashed to bits in one blow. They topple into adulthood, flailing about for something to hold onto, and the terror of falling leaves a permanent scar on their psyche. Do those people ever end up feeling safe? I wonder about that, because I fell hard. For so long there were days when it seemed as though I was still falling, when I couldn’t find a single good thing to hold onto, when nothing felt safe or secure.