by Xavier Neal
“So, none of what I said.”
“Fine. We can watch RoboCop when we get home.”
The corner of his lip noticeably lifts.
Wonder if that’s because of RoboCop or calling his place home…Though it is. It always has been. Even back in his apartment days, I spent more time crashing on his and Mick’s couch than I ever did my dorm bed.
“¿Por favor?” I pair the word with an overexaggerated lip pout. “Side Street Oasis is playing at The Sack, and I really, really, really wanna go. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I heard them play?”
“Three weeks.”
Ugh. He really is like the long-lost lovechild of Father Time.
“We’ve actually seen them more recently than I’ve been to this restaurant.”
“I’ll pay.”
He seems unimpressed by my generous offer.
“Fine. I’ll pay and won’t force you to slow dance with me to their Savage Garden covers.”
“Or any other boyband,” Gideon reiterates with a sharp point of his finger.
I cringe at the declaration. “But what about-”
“No.”
“Or-”
“No-huh.”
“There’s-”
“Definitely not.”
“Fine.” My hands fly into the air as I spring to my feet. “But you should take the Lambo.”
“Why’s that?”
“It always puts you in a better mood.”
Gideon smirks at the comment, adjusts his tie, and nods to himself.
Probably best I leave out the part about how hot he looks behind the wheel of it.
That would definitely cross us from unawkward territory back to “we should never do that again” side of the map, which is the last place I really want to be.
The next two hours fly by. Gideon changes clothes, his car, and, even less willingly, his music. I pump a wide-range of ‘90s classics from Usher’s “Nice & Slow” to Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters” making sure to squeeze in our “Can’t Touch This” duet to insure we achieve maximum ass-kicking vibes. Whenever we play sports, regardless if it’s air hockey or shooting hoops on Gideon’s court, we both play to win. It’s why being on the same team is what’s best for us…and awful for everyone else. Initially, we bounce around the sports bar dabbling in darts and ping pong, trash talking only one another but are eventually challenged to a double’s foosball game that quickly escalates into an impromptu tournament.
“Bring it, OG!” I shout at the top of my lungs, hands frantically flying between the handles.
“Blitz! Blitz! Blitz!”
The shouted instruction is proceeded with a cross-over move where we swap handles and frenziedly spin them to trounce the other team. Our combination of yelling, slight position changing, and aggressive nature tend to distract our opponents long enough for us to score.
“Whooo!” Gideon grunts. “In the famous words of our boy Johnny Drama…”
My best friend makes momentary eye contact with me before we yell together. “Victory!”
The two men I would guess are in their later 20s grumble their grievances and toss a twenty on the table for beers.
I snatch up the bill and shimmy around with it while singing a foosball inspired parody of Britney Spears’s “Oops, I Did It Again”.
Gideon simply chuckles, shaking his head. “Those aren’t the moves.”
“Those are so the moves!”
“They’re not.”
“They are!”
“They’re not.”
“I’m sorry, were you Spears’s choreographer?”
“No, I was a horny as fuck teenage boy watching a hot blonde chick move her body around in a red leather catsuit.” His grin grows devilish. “Think I’d remember the way she moved around in it a bit better than you.”
Snatching my nearly empty beer glass from the table we claimed not far from where we’re kicking ass, I nod in agreement. “Good point.”
Gideon lightly laughs again. “You want me to go grab us another round?”
I wiggle the bill again. “I can get it.”
“Or I can.” He snatches it from my grip with minimal effort. “Oh…too slow Lenny M who never goes soft of them…Too. Slow.”
The old college rhyme he only breaks out during competitions causes me to smile wider than it should.
It’s a dumb phrase, but it’s our phrase.
And another sign that, despite what happened between us a few days ago, everything is back to normal.
Which is what I want.
Or…is the lie I keep telling myself to want.
I lean against the edge of our small square table and watch Gideon do his best to weave around the packed room.
The Sack used to just be filled with men who would come to eat wings, drink beer, watch sports, and yell obscenities at the flat screens, but about a year ago, it was bought by new owners who had higher aspirations than just a somewhat profitable man cave. Wardrobes changed. Wait staff stopped being just one gender. Weekly specials started. Themed nights that would encourage women to come hang out were pushed to the max, which included karaoke and cover bands. Surprisingly enough, the men didn’t revolt. They just started cringing through the shit they couldn’t stand to take advantage of their favorite watering hole doubling as a pick-up place for pussy.
My eyes stay pasted on the man I can’t seem to set free, drinking in his overly-perfected frame. Even Michelangelo would be scratching his beard wondering what’s left to fucking carve. His entire torso is still cut like he’s expected to rush onto the field for a playoff game. Large, broad shoulders. Smooth, muscular back. Plump ass you could break a tooth on just dreaming about biting. While his lower half carries his own personal hatred, it still measures up to the top. Gideon Lucas looks like one he should be arranging a meeting with himself for representation. Sometimes I think he pushes himself to stay that physically fit to compensate for the career change he was forced to make. Like most men, he hates to discuss anything too deep or too emotional for fear of looking weak, but every once in a blue moon I get a glimpse of the other side. The one that does pushups for the penance he feels he owes his teammates for letting them down over a decade ago. The one that buys extravagant bullshit to hide his resentment over having to deal with players who are the same age he was in the prime of his fallen football dreams. I know what fuels the ruthless agent the world loves to see because I was there when the seed to that monster was planted, yet sometimes, I can’t help but wonder does his flame actually still burn bright with an undying love for sports or is fear of unexpectedly changing courses again what keeps him dedicated to his job.
Gideon finally manages to get the bartender’s attention to order us our celebratory beers. Seconds after he’s finished talking to the man, a young, undeniably attractive brunette, gently touches his elbow to grab his attention.
He immediately offers her a warm smile that churns my stomach.
Ugh.
There’s his “she’s cute” grin.
The female says something at the same time she tucks her hair behind her ear.
Stupid.
A stupid, predictable girl move.
It’s used to draw attention to the face while projecting a false image of innocence. That whole “I don’t do this often, which makes you special” bullshit. Hard to blame her, considering most men still aren’t huge fans of forward women, but come on. Be more creative.
Gideon’s smile remains as their conversation continues.
She gives him a flirtatious, playful push that I’m fairly certain is followed by a comment regarding his muscles.
An uncomfortable knot begins to form at the pit of my stomach encouraging me to look away.
To stop torturing myself.
That this is what I want.
I want my best friend to fall in love and have more than just premium sports packages to come home to at night.
The truth is, I want it to be me he falls for…
Or, if I can’t have that, then to at least wait until I’m not leering at him on our date as he makes another.
Er…Not a date.
Friends don’t date.
We…hang.
Which is all we’re doing and why I’m not channeling my inner The Craft moment to perform some sort of spell out of jealousy.
What? No. I’m not jealous.
The brunette leans forward on a full tooth laugh, tits purposely bumping against him.
Maybe a little.
Gideon’s given our beers in exchange for the twenty. He denies the need for change and turns back to the woman. His head motions my way, which prompts the female to snap hers around. Her eyes briefly narrow at me, although she keeps a smile plastered on her face. He exits her presence, beers held high to reduce the chance of them spilling. By the time he arrives back at me, the brunette has rejoined her group of friends who all look like they were just being born when some of the cover songs were being released.
“Wanna go to the patio?” He extends the drink my direction. “Be closer to the music?”
I try to pull my eyes off of the women who are now scowling at me.
What the fuck are they glaring at me for?! I don’t even know what he said!
Gideon steps into my line of vision to make eye contact. “She was cute, Lenny, but not that cute.”
My eyebrows lift.
“Besides, I’m taken.”
Suddenly, my heart starts to thrum so loudly I’m afraid it’s going to burst my eardrums.
“At least for six more shitty dates.”
The poke at our deal receives a smirk at the same time I snatch my beer.
“And needless to say, even if I wasn’t, she’s not my type.”
I steal a sip of the beverage. “Too pretty?”
“Too young.” He casually has one as well. “I don’t need nor want a woman in my life who can’t remember life before Google.” His arm drapes around my shoulder. “Also, I could never date a woman who doesn’t know it was Destiny’s Child who sang ‘Say My Name’ and not just Beyoncé.” My laughter prompts him to add, “You may wanna write some of this shit down for reference.”
We walk side by side towards the patio. “Nah. I didn’t pack anything to write with.”
His overdramatic gasp grabs more chuckles. “No eyeliner or glue stick you stole from a third grader?”
“You know I hate eyeliner. I always end up looking like a racoon or like I’m headed to the first football game of the season.”
“True.”
He receives a short elbow to the ribs just as we cross onto the patio where people are dancing.
Side Street Oasis has been my favorite cover band for the last three years. They consist of six dudes and a female drummer who occasionally rocks the female jams, though their lead singer’s falsetto voice can definitely handle it on its own. Most of the music they play is pulled from the ‘90s. However, their main priority is to always make their listeners happy, which often leads to some ‘80s classics and popular early 2000s releases.
The opening notes to “I Want It That Way” originally performed by BSB begin to float through the air, and I hit Gideon with a familiar expression.
His head shaking is immediate.
My nodding of yes is just as instant.
Our nonverbal argument continues until I break down and grab his hand to drag him to dance. I sing along like the rest of the audience, swing my hips side to side and use my beer glass like a microphone, yet he maintains his refusal to join in by simply staring at me. Another male close to me shoots me an approving smirk and prepares to say something when I’m yanked closer to my best friend. He joins in singing the chorus, cheeks noticeably reddening with each passing word. Through my giggles, I return to crooning, though our eye contact remains.
The song transitions into Evanescence’s “Bring Me To Life” and Gideon loosens up a lot more. We headbang together. Jump around. Lean into one another strumming on our beer glasses like they’re guitars. He spins me around, wraps one arm around my waist, and sings the backup vocals over my shoulder while I sing my heart out to the main lyrics.
Our closeness isn’t unusual, but my reaction to it is.
It’s as if my senses have been cranked up to extremely heightened levels.
His aftershave is a clean smell that’s subtle but brazenly demanding my nose inhales every whiff it can. The groomed scruff on his face brushing against mine sends shivers down my spine. Hell, even the way his fingers lightly touch my hip cause my breath to hitch. Our bodies swaying together feels sensual.
Sexual.
Second-nature.
It feels like we’re exactly where we should always be.
Regardless of the song fading, Gideon remains close to me, my back pressed firmly to his front. The band plays a couple more prepared songs followed by a few requests. We’re given numerous chances to pull ourselves apart during the music changes, yet we stay merged, neither of us clearly wanting to be separated.
Bobby Brown’s “Every Little Step” has the crowd creating an impromptu group dance. I don’t hesitate to hop out of my best friend’s arms and show off my still sharp ‘80s choreography.
He shakes his head before removing the practically empty glass from my grip. “You can’t properly do those moves with a beer in your hand. Didn’t you learn that lesson the night we met?”
“That was a different dance.”
“Same amount of fucking movement,” he playfully chastises, passing them off to a dish boy. “And if you’re really gonna do this song justice, you gotta get more knees into it. Like this.”
Gideon joins the dance showcasing moves most people assume he’s incapable of.
Gotta admit. His resolve to never let the results of his injury hinder him from enjoying life have always been admirable. No, he can’t run like he used to or tackle men his own size, but there isn’t much else he stops himself from doing. His limp isn’t something that usually even registers to him unless someone else brings it up or his lower back pain reaches excruciatingly painful levels. Damn sure barely commands attention in my mind…I mean, at least it doesn’t until he’s on the cusp of outperforming me.
Laughter bounces between us as we jump around the grassy area with the other listeners. We exchange silly faces. A bit more trash talk. Concentrate much harder than necessary at times.
A shift away from the upbeat music to a slower melody has me abiding to the earlier decree. “Sounds like that’s our cue.”
Gideon’s face flashes confusion.
“I swore no dances to Savage Garden.”
He lets the corner of his lip kick upward and cuts the coupling crowd a small glance. “We can dance if you want.”
“But you don’t want.”
“No man should ever want to dance to a song that could be featured on the soundtrack to every chick flick movie, past and present.” Our mutual laughter is immediate, although mine stops when he takes my hand. “You know I’ll dance to this shit with you, Lenny. I’d dance to anything as long as I’m dancing with you.”
Oh…My…God…Who says shit like that to someone that’s just their best friend?!
That has to mean something.
It’s cloaked with so much underlying subtext that the inner therapist in me wants to sit down, flip through old text books, and in-depth decipher the shit like a coded Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego message found on the back of a cereal box.
I try to steady my voice at the same time I tug him towards the side exit. “Come on, OG. I agreed to RoboCop. You kept up your end. Let me keep up mine.”
His reluctance to leave remains.
Our hands stay lightly linked during our stroll across the large parking lot, but I do my best not to overanalyze it.
Maybe that’s what the holdup is between us.
Maybe I’m always overthinking rather than just letting us naturally go where it is we both seem to wanna go.
Maybe I’m what a
lways truly hinders us from becoming something more.
Huh.
Don’t overthink much on a daily basis outside of my relationship with Gideon.
Guess I love what we have too much to constantly be so careless with it.
The self-deliberation is abruptly ceased by Gideon’s proposal. “You can drive home.”