02
RYAN
With just that brief glimpse of his face, I’m fourteen years old again and hearing him shout at me across the field by my house.
“Bro!” I recall Stefan’s fourteen-year-old voice vividly. “I knew you were going to need a lot of work if the pair of us are planning to make the high school team together!”
“Shut your ass up,” I shouted back at him, lifting up my bat, “and pitch!”
He did. I swung. Strike. “Dang it, Ryan! You swing too high!”
“You pitch too low!” I shouted back, annoyed.
He was by my side the next instant. I watched as he took the bat from my hands and assumed the pose. “Like this.” He swung it, showing me. “See my feet?”
I looked down and saw his feet for sure. I also saw the way his socks bunched up at his cleats, and the way his legs were sinewy and strong—especially his thick thighs. He filled out his jeans so well. I wished I filled out mine the same way. I admired Stefan so much, I almost forgot what I was supposed to be looking for.
“You’re not gonna hit anything swinging like you do,” he said.
Just then, a pair of kids burst into laughter on the sidewalk by the street where the field ended. Stefan and I turned. We knew the kids from a rival Little League team. Their insults came in waves—most of them directed my way. “The girl needs batting lessons from her boyfriend!” was my particular favorite that day.
Stefan shook his head. “They’re gonna be sorry,” he muttered.
“Please don’t do anything,” I begged.
But there was no stopping Stefan when the red filled his eyes. He gave me one quick, cocky smirk, slapped the bat against my chest, then took off after the kids, who quickly tried to bike away. No one was a match for Stefan and his lightning legs. He caught up with them halfway down the street, yanked them off their bikes, then tore into them with fists and feet. I stood in that field and watched, slack-jawed, the bat hugged to my chest like a blankie.
“RYAN.”
I flinch, yanked from the memory at once and returned to the noisy bar. I peer over my shoulder to find Dana staring at me with her eyebrows lifted. I’m standing by our table, the recent action at the bar apparently having drawn me to my feet.
“You alright?” she asks, wide-eyed.
“I …” I glance back at the door where the hot guy was thrown out.
The hot guy. My childhood friend. Stefan Baker.
I haven’t seen him in almost eight years. Why is he here? Is he visiting family? What’s he doing in town? Our ten year high school reunion isn’t for another few years, so that can’t be the reason. Did he quit whatever team he was signed to? Did the contract end?
It depresses me instantly that I don’t immediately know the answers to any of those questions. I don’t know the answers because Stefan and I aren’t friends anymore.
Dana is at my side. “Ryan. What’s with you? Did you know that guy or something?”
Her voice startles me. Again. Ryan, you’re too jumpy. I turn to her. “What? H-Him?” I point halfheartedly toward the door.
Dana glances toward the bar, then back at me. “Do you … need to go check on him or something? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I did. I saw the ghost of my childhood. I saw the ghost of every crushing emotion I felt my whole teenhood—all those emotions that were tethered to one specific individual: Stefan Baker. He was my crush, my best friend, my everything.
“He looked pretty battered,” I admit.
Dana bites her lip, then takes a rueful glance at the food on the table. “Well, I guess we can cut this short if you need to go and check—”
“I’ll pay the bill,” I blurt. “It’s on me. I’ll … I’ll be right back.”
She says something else, but I’m already cutting through the crowd of men and women who’ve gathered excitedly around the hairy giant. He’s bleeding from his bulbous nose and glaring at everyone who looks his way.
My heart is racing right now. I wonder if maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe it wasn’t even him. You just want it to be your Stefan so badly. That’s totally a possibility, right?
I push out of the door and spill into the parking lot. No one’s there. I look left, look right, then squint into the semidarkness. Every direction I look is met with silent vehicles, streetlamps, and buzzing bugs at the lights.
He’s gone. Just admit it, Ryan. You fucked up when you guys parted ways. You fucked everything up, and you’ll never get your friend back. Stop hallucinating him everywhere you go.
Then I hear a cough.
It’s his cough. I know it as intimately as his voice, his grunts when he swings a bat, and his chuckles of derisive laughter.
I follow the sound along the side of the building, desperate to hear it again. For some reason, I’m too afraid to call out his name. Maybe—even after hearing the unmistakably Stefan-like cough—I still harbor doubts that I could be totally hearing things. I want it to be him so badly, and I also want it not to be. What would I say to him if I saw him again? I’m not ready for this moment, no matter how many times I’ve caught myself dreaming of it.
The next time I hear the cough, it’s more of a wheeze, and I hear it just around the corner of the building. I see his foot poking out from around the wall. He’s on the ground.
I stop just before turning the corner to steel myself. Am I really ready to see him again?
Yes. No. Yes. No.
Fuck it.
With my pulse in my ears, I finally—and very slowly—round the corner. I barely take a step before realizing he’s right there, seated on the ground and propped up against the brick of the building. It’s dark back here by the dumpster, but the buzzing light from a sconce next to the back door gives his face a pale coloring that highlights just one cheek. The other is darkened by blood and shadow.
I can hardly recognize him. He’s buffed up a lot since the last time I saw him in the flesh. He fills out his shirt so much, the sleeves are busting and the fabric has to pull tightly across his pecs. But his face … his face is just as I remember it.
He doesn’t look up. I realize after a second that his eyes are closed.
He’s so beautiful, it hurts to look at him.
I imagine it also hurts to be him right now.
I swallow once, fold my arms tightly against my chest, then part my lips to speak. “S-Stefan?”
His attempt at opening his eyes is lackluster. He barely turns his head, as if my voice is nine dimensions away. His tongue comes out to wet his lips, which I realize are more bloodied than his face. “Hnnh …” he groans.
“Fuck,” I breathe, then crouch down by his side. “Stefan. Can you hear me?”
He coughs again—the same cough that led me to him—and he tries to open his eyes again.
His beautiful, striking blue eyes cut through the violent red mess of his face and wet, matted hair. His eyes seem to search for my voice through a haze of pain and longing.
Okay, maybe not longing. Maybe he’s just drunk as fuck.
“Stefan. It’s me,” I try again. “It’s Ryan. Can you hear me?”
He grunts something unintelligible, then coughs, this time ejecting flecks of blood into his rugged beard.
Oh. Beard. He has a beard now.
Now’s not the time to get all horny on him. He needs your help, Ryan.
“Ryan?”
The unexpected voice of Dana, who appears out of nowhere, makes me jump to my feet. I issue a sigh of relief when I see her, then wince apologetically. “Sorry. You scared me.”
“That’s what my ex said every time I got horny. I can get a bit aggressive. So you know the guy?” she asks, nodding at Stefan.
“Y-Yeah. High school buddy of mine.” I look down at him. Stefan is so out of it, I wonder if he needs to go to the hospital, or if that’s overdoing it. Believe it or not, I’ve never been in this kind of situation before.
“He looks pretty bad,” murmurs Dana worriedly.
I wring my hands. I’m officially wringing my hands. “Should we call an ambulance?” I ask her.
“No,” grunts Stefan.
The totally clear and intelligible word startles me. I crouch back down to bring my face level with his. “Hey. It’s me. It’s Ryan.”
“F-Fuck ambulances,” he gets out, nearly growling. “I’m … I … I-I’m fine …” He coughs again. It sounds decidedly not fine.
“Bro, I think we should get you to a—”
With sudden energy, Stefan pushes himself off the ground. I back away warily to give him space. Stefan might be so drunk that he doesn’t recognize me and could come after me the same way he went after that guy in the bar. I know the power that lived behind Stefan’s biceps when we were teenagers; I don’t want to learn what lives behind them now.
Stefan takes one step, staggers slightly, then takes another.
And then he starts to fall.
I catch him at once, grunting under his weight. Damn, he’s heavy. He must have a foot holding him up because I’m somehow able to keep him upright. Well, kind of upright.
“Put your arm over my shoulder,” I tell him.
“F-F-Fuck off,” he grunts.
“Theeere’s the buddy I know,” I tease. “Move your feet, one at a time, and put an arm over my shoulder. I got you.”
Whether my words reach him or not, he seems to rely on me anyway as we half-walk, half-stagger together toward the parking lot. Dana comes to his other side, though Stefan seems to be holding most of his weight.
Dana speaks across him to me. “Are you planning to—?”
“I don’t know,” I confess.
When we reach my car, I pop open the back door, then Dana and I guide Stefan inside. He slumps across my backseat with a low groan, then lies there like a sack of meat.
“He’s bleeding on your leather,” Dana whispers.
I shut the door behind Stefan and turn to her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no, no, it’s fine. I grabbed the bill. Drinks can be on you next time,” she adds with a little nervous chuckle. She eyes my car, her face turning serious again. “You better take care of that one. He’s a hot mess.”
I stare through the window of the backseat myself. Stefan’s eyes are closed, he’s on his side, and he’s hugging himself. My heart is breaking here, and I don’t know what to do.
I shrug at Dana. “Should I take him to the hospital anyway?”
She considers him through the window. “I don’t know. I’m not a nurse. I want to say better safe than sorry, but on the other hand, he totally looks like a guy who’s been in a fight or two.”
I’m tapping my foot nervously on the pavement. I can’t seem to make it stop. It’s all I hear, even louder than the bugs tapping and flitting in the tall parking lot lights. “Maybe Stefan just needs to sober up. I can take him back to my place.”
“Stefan? That’s his name?” She smiles. “Sweet name.”
I snort at that, then give Dana’s arm a squeeze. “I’ll see you in the office Monday, alright?”
“Sure thing, socks. Good luck with him.” She gives me a wink, then strolls off to her own car.
I take a deep breath, then round my vehicle to slip into the driver’s side.
When I shut the door, all I hear is Stefan breathing deeply.
“Stefan?” I try.
His breathing is disrupted. He grunts, snorts, shifts slightly, then begins breathing deeply again.
“You need to sit up. Buckle in.” I glance at him through the rearview mirror. “Stefan.”
His deep breathing is the only response I get.
I sigh. Pulling the car into drive, I take off slowly. I’ll have to take the back way home to avoid the Friday night traffic and general craziness. Just to be safe, I tell myself.
The normally thirty minute ride home takes an hour and ten. After pulling into the driveway of my modest two-bedroom, one-bathroom suburban house, I cut the engine and step out to get my buddy from the back seat. It isn’t an easy or graceful endeavor. He is difficult at first, fighting me off with a series of groans and curses and one elbow to my ribs. Finally, I get him out of the car, kick the door shut, then guide him staggering through my front door, down a hall, and toward the spare bedroom.
Instead, he pushes into my bedroom. “Stefan,” I coax him. “The spare bed—”
He drops diagonally onto my bed with a grunt, his face not even meeting the pillow. On his stomach, Stefan’s deep breathing ensues once again.
I stare at him, unable to close my mouth. I never in a hundred years thought I would be staring again at Stefan Baker’s backside while he slept.
No, this isn’t the first time.
Far, far from the first time.
So many team sleepovers. So many times when we splayed out on our bellies across his bed to play video games. So many times when I’d come into a room and catch him on the floor watching a movie, playing a game, or sleeping.
I’ve lived alone in this house for over a year and have never had someone else in my bed. I can’t help but forget why he’s even here and, instead, focus completely on the way my heart just fills with the presence of someone else near me.
Specifically: Stefan Baker.
His butt, a work of art in and of itself, gently rises and falls with his every breath. I can’t help but find my eyes drawn to it, big and beefy as it is. I used to swat that ass when he came into the dugout after scoring home. Obviously a plethora of squats—or something—has done him a heck of a lot of justice during his time in the major leagues.
Is he still on a team? Shouldn’t I know? Why the hell is he here?
Ten solid minutes must go by while I stand here by the door watching him. For some reason, I pictured myself bringing him back here, him gaining some consciousness, and then us having an honest exchange of words. I expected to help clean him up a bit. Wipe away the blood. Tend to any open wounds, if there are any at all. Knowing how steel-forged his skin and muscles are, I doubt he barely broke a sweat battling that giant in the bar. Except for that gash on his forehead where a sharp knuckle or ring scored a hit.
With a groan, Stefan slowly turns over. I suck in a breath of air, prepared to greet him all over again and remind him where he is, but then he settles into a new position on his back and resumes slowly drawing in and letting out air.
And then I’m mesmerized by him all over again. I can’t get enough.
Okay. I’m being creepy. Let’s stop staring at him.
I shake myself, then go to the bathroom for a washcloth, which I run hot water over. Bringing it to my bedroom, I flick on a dim lamp in the corner of the room, then glance back at the bed.
Stefan doesn’t budge. The lamp gives light to his whole body. The heather gray shirt—whether from sweat, spilled beer, or the pure muscular form of his body—looks painted to his skin. It is very distracting, seeing as his skintight shirt reveals every ripple of muscle from his big pecs to his rolling abs. His head is cocked slightly, one of his arms is pressed against his side, and the other has a hand propped up on his stomach.
Help me. I can barely breathe at the sight of him.
Stop it, Ryan.
After one more long, hesitant look at Stefan sleeping, I force my feet to move, bringing myself to his side, and then I sit on the edge of the bed. He still doesn’t stir. I lift the warm washcloth to his forehead and, tenderly as ever, wipe away the dried blood.
Yes, I get a good, long look at his face this up-close. Yes, I see the Stefan I knew. It’s like he hasn’t aged a day. Is it possible to have become even more strikingly handsome and cocky over the years? Even sleeping, his face has this curious confidence about it, like he knows he’s safe, self-assured and unworried.
I keep wiping his face even long after the blood’s gone, unable to help myself. I wonder if, somewhere in his drunken dreams, he feels me cleaning him.
That very thought makes my heart flutter desperately.
My eyes drift to his lips, where I bring the washcloth next. Even more gently than I did his forehead, I dab the dried blood from his lips and out of the hairs of his chin and jaw. I do it with the precision of an artist—careful, tender, and with adoration.
Still, Stefan doesn’t move a muscle. His breathing continues, entirely uninterrupted.
His lips are so full, so plush, so perfect.
I’m seeing him now in a light that I never let myself see him when we were young. Not truly. Not really. Now, I look at him and know in my heart exactly the reason why I got weak in the knees around Stefan Baker, why my resolve would crumble when he spoke to me, why I always craved his approval.
Yeah, I realize he’s stone-drunk, asleep, and totally missing this revelation I’m having here, but I don’t care one bit. It’s my own private revelation anyway, and it all has to do with the man in my bed and what I feel for him … and what I’ve always felt for him, but couldn’t quite put into words when we were teenagers.
This gorgeous man with the rippling, muscular body.
And the full, inviting lips.
Now would be a bad time for a boner, Ryan.
I cross my legs tightly, annoyed with myself, then retract the washcloth to my lap, deciding I’ve obsessively caressed his face quite enough for a night. Still seated, I reach over to take one of my pillows—a big blue plush one—then carefully lift Stefan’s head to place the pillow. His head sinks right into it like a cloud. After one last look at his face, I rise from the bed, discard the washcloth on the nightstand, then come around to Stefan’s feet. Gently, I untie and ease off each of his shoes, setting them at the foot of the bed one at a time. I swipe a blue and white fleece blanket from a nearby chair, inwardly smiling at the fact that it’s our team colors from back in the day. After one last look at Stefan’s sexy, shirt-clinging body—and allowing myself one rueful sigh—I drape the blanket over him, pulling the top of it up to his chest.
Just before flicking off the lamp, I catch myself staring down at Stefan Baker, and an ill-timed darkness casts its burden over my otherwise stimulated, crowded mind full of memories and feels. I can care for him now, sure, and I can be sweet to him by cleaning up his face and tucking him into my bed … but when he wakes up, the reality will hit us both.
The reality of what I did to our friendship eight years ago.
I can’t just wipe that eight-year-old dried blood away with a washcloth.
With a sigh, I click off the lamp, then leave Stefan to rest. I sit in the chair across from the bed and curl up, lost in my own thoughts for what seems like hours. The chair is at the side of the bed where his feet face, so the only view I get are his two big socked feet as I listen to him slowly inhale, slowly exhale, slowly inhale, slowly exhale.
It’s like a baseball sleepover all over again, except without all the fun. Or the video games. Or Mom’s brownies and popcorn.
And it’s just us.
Just us …
Soon enough, my own eyelids grow heavy, and it isn’t long after I shut them that my own deep breathing joins his.