04
RYAN
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Yeah, don’t panic. You just have your high school best friend and crush in your house, showering in your bathroom, and getting all wet and sudsy.
No reason to freak out.
Or spring spontaneous boners in your pants.
Shit, I’m still in my clothes from last night.
I’m literally staring at the coffeemaker and debating whether making toast and eggs would be excessive. What if he’s hungry? I’ve never really been hung over before, so I don’t know what the protocol is. Would food make him nauseated or grateful? Maybe it’s just loud sounds and bright lights that bother him.
Ten minutes later, I’ve made eggs, toast, pulled out croissants, poured two glasses of orange juice, set out a bowl of chopped-up honeydew melon and cantaloupe, three bananas of various levels of ripeness, and a plate of grapes. And I’m considering cooking up the sausage patties I have in the freezer, too.
Oh, and let’s not forget the two empty coffee mugs.
I bite my lip and stare at the ridiculously overdone breakfast table for two I’ve set.
For two what? Two glutinous kings? Am I kidding myself?
“Nice spread,” comes Stefan’s voice from the kitchen counter where he appears.
I spin to face him.
Dear God.
He’s standing there with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist—wrapped low around his waist.
And he’s tatted down half his shoulder and chest. He got inked. When did that happen?
He struts right up to the table and helps himself, popping a wet chunk of fruit past his luscious lips, then demonstratively chews with his eyes shut. “Fuck yeah,” he moans openmouthed where I can see all his chewed-up cantaloupe.
It’s grotesque and obscene, like the intro to a porno I haven’t seen yet: Stefan Baker in a low-hanging towel, sporting the V-shaped cut of muscle at either side of his hips, approximately three trillion abdominal muscles, and two round wet pecs that still gleam with droplets of shower water.
His hair is wet, spiky, and still dripping. And his face is flushed red from the shower steam as he sucks down bite after bite of the melon I set out. Stefan’s practically chewing in slow motion.
I could come right here just watching him.
I literally haven’t blinked since he came into the kitchen.
With a complete mouthful of melon, he says, “Fucking good. Best damned cantaloupe I ever tasted.”
I smile. “Grew them myself.”
He stops chewing, stares at me, then swallows. “Really? You got a garden out back or something?”
Apparently my humor didn’t come across. “Uh, no. I’m … I was just fucking with you. They’re store-bought.”
He stares at me for a second, unamused, then looks off. “Well, I better head off. I’ll call an Uber or something.”
My stomach falls through the floor. “Already?”
“Yeah. Better head out. Where’d you put my clothes?”
Why is he already wanting to go? We just now reconnected. “You … You don’t have to head out so fast, man. I made breakfast. Lots of it. Stay and eat, at least.”
He eyes the plate of eggs at the table. “That’s … a lot of eggs.”
“Spicy scramble,” I point out.
His gaze lifts to meet mine. There’s a sharp glint of surprise in them. “I used to eat that all the time, huh?”
“With a pinch of sriracha sauce mixed in, just the way you like it.” I give him a tiny smile. “Yeah, I remember.”
He appraises me for a brief moment. He doesn’t smile, but he gives me a short nod. “You do.”
I take a breath, then nod at the table. “How about we … kick back for a bit, eat some breakfast, and do a little catch-up?”
He glances at the chair, back at me, then gestures at himself. “I’ve apparently become a drunk piece of shit who gets into fights at bars. Consider us all caught up.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, and I’m a boring single dude in a house who finds himself—at twenty-five—still attending high school.”
Stefan chuckles dryly, even though he still refuses to smile. I can’t tell if that’s him being a hard-ass, or if the hang over is still doing a number to his brain. I feel a burst of relief at hearing his tiny chuckle anyway, like everything is going to be okay again.
“Would be a shame to let these eggs go to waste,” he grunts, then sits, grabs a fork, and goes to town on his plate like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
All I can do is stare. He shovels one big yellow forkful after another past his lips.
Seriously, he’s devouring the poor plate of eggs like a sea monster engulfing a fleet of pirates.
I never thought watching someone gratuitously consume food could be so erotic. I seriously feel blood pumping into my crotch while watching him shovel bite after bite past his lips and chew.
And it’s my food. I’m feeding him. I’m providing.
There’s something unspeakably sexy about that detail.
Like coming up for air after a deep dive, Stefan opens his eyes, lifts his bearded chin, and looks my way, wide-eyed. “Coffee?” he asks through a mouthful of egg.
I flinch. I nearly forgot where the hell I am. “Yep. Black. Got it right here.” I turn to address the coffeemaker.
“Nice. What about my clothes?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re going to need a good washing before you can wear them again.”
“Maybe an exorcism,” he suggests through another mouthful.
I let out my own dry chuckle at that. “I’ll be sure to call my local priest,” I put in, my voice flat. For some reason, I feel the need to match his stoic, emotionless demeanor—as if that’ll make him like me more. Weird logic, I know. I pull the steaming coffee pot out and bring it to the table. I fill his mug first, then my own.
He swallows his bite. “So can I borrow some clothes, then?”
My eyes drift down to his bare, beautifully chiseled chest. You in a hurry to get dressed that fast? What’s the rush? I give him a nod. “Yeah. Definitely. Not sure if I have anything in your size, though. Might fit you a bit tight.”
“Everything fits me a bit tight.” He reaches toward the plate of toast in the middle of the table—his next victim—and snatches one. It’s halfway in his mouth before I can even blink.
I forgot how much Stefan can put down. I’ve eaten many a meal with him before. I should probably set out two watermelons, yet another plate of three kinds of bread, and a whole pineapple before he clearly starves to death. “I wasn’t sure if you like wheat or white.”
“Nah. This is fine,” he tells me through his mouthful.
I take my seat and pick a croissant from the plate. Glancing across the table at him, I spot two crumbs of toast in his beard. Should I tell him?
“So you really went through with it, huh?” he prompts me.
I literally haven’t even had a bite of my croissant yet, nor dropped any sugar into my coffee. I feel like if I don’t drink it black like he does, my dick will shrivel up and take a ferry down the river of low fat cream to the land of yellow cardigans and long windswept hair, never to be heard of again.
I’d miss my dick.
I pick up my mug of totally black coffee, steeling myself for a sip of pure bitterness as I ask, “Went through with what?”
“Your whole psychology thing.”
“Oh. Yeah. I … I did.” I give my coffee a little blow across the top, then wonder if even that’s revealing any wimpiness. “I … went to the University of—”
“Yeah, I saw your diploma,” he cuts me off for some reason, his voice carrying an edge. “Great. You got your studies on for a few years, then went and got yourself mastered up, huh?”
“Yep.” I still hold the coffee with two hands, its tiny black pool hovering menacingly in front of my face and giving it a steam bath. His words don’t make me feel proud of my accomplishments. In fact, his tone almost sounds admonishing.
“Is it all you wanted it to be?” he asks next.
I frown. That sounds like a loaded question to me. Also, it’s a bit distracting to try having this conversation with him when he’s so damned … shirtless. “I like my job, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Then … good. Yes. I like my job. I like helping kids.”
“Good.” He stuffs his face some more.
I stare at the miserable black pool of coffee in front of my face and attempt to ignore the tension brewing between us suddenly. Maybe him staying for breakfast wasn’t the best idea. Is there actually more unfinished business between us than I thought?
“So tell me,” he starts again. “You ever play ball anymore?”
I part my lips to say something, then find no words coming for an answer. I lift an eyebrow. “I … I can’t really think of when I would find time to play ball. Just a month into the school year and I’m already up to my nose with kids, with paperwork, with … tons of panicked parents. I don’t have time to play games.”
“Games,” he echoes flatly.
My eyes flick up from my coffee to meet his heated blue ones.
Shit. That came out wrong.
“I just meant …” Sigh. Prepare backpedal sequence. Activate. “I meant I wish I had time to—”
“Play games,” he finishes for me, eyes half-lidded.
My shame is instantly traded for frustration. I’m hearing that haughty tone in his voice I can’t stand, except usually it’s directed at someone else. “Well, that’s literally what they are, Stefan. We even call them baseball games. It wasn’t meant insultingly.”
“Oh. I’m not insulted.” He lifts his chin superiorly. “Especially when games like mine come with seven-figure salaries.”
My eyes turn to stone. “Seven figures?”
The tiniest hint of a smirk teases his own lips. “Well, I didn’t say I was one of the ones scoring seven figures. I wasn’t. But the potential was there.” He takes a gulp of his coffee.
The potential was there. Did I hear him right? I grip my mug tighter and, with a hint of anxiety, ask, “So what happened?”
“I’m proud of you doing your whole counselor thing,” he says suddenly, leaning back a bit in his chair with a single bite of toast pinched between his fingers. “Only reason I asked if you still play ball is to see if you still got it … or if you’ve gone all soft on me.”
I straighten my posture and throw him a smirk. “Like hell.”
His eyes draw down me appraisingly before he pops the last bite of toast past his lips and gives me a little approving nod. Then his gaze drifts off, looking toward the living room, then the ceiling and the back windows.
And I just watch him … watching stuff.
His eyes are so gorgeous, like two bright blue pools of ice. I could watch him watching stuff for hours if it wasn’t so creepy. He always seems to be figuring things out all the time, the intense way in which he looks at everything around him, sizing it all up. Even as kids, I assumed he was super smart and always knew how to solve problems, or what to do to beat a video game we were playing, or how to turn around a ball game our team was losing.
He had the answers no matter what.
And I still feel that way, looking at him now. Every part of him emits confidence, right to his fingertips with tiny crumbs of toast still hanging on them.
The mood feels different suddenly. Better. Lighter. It inspires me to shift the spotlight with a little question. “What about you? I don’t know the first thing anymore about you, it feels like.”
His eyes meet mine right away. “You haven’t been watching?”
A lightning bolt of guilt cast its way down my body, killing the light mood in an instant.
Then he smirks. “No worries, bro. Isn’t a big deal.”
It is to me. “I … I do watch baseball now and then,” I defend myself, “but I can’t always catch the games, and I lost track of which team you play for, and … well, and …”
And I’m a shitty friend.
And when we parted ways as teenagers, I spent a year or more vehemently not giving two shits what team you were on because I more or less hated you.
All these feelings I thought I’d processed are bubbling up to the surface and making a mess of my stomach before I’ve even had a single bite of my own pile of eggs.
I shut my eyes and set down the mug of coffee, untouched.
Am I about to cry like a little bitch in front of Stefan now? Maybe I really have gone soft.
“Torn ACL.”
His words pull me out of the depths. My eyes pop open to find him half-leaned over his plate, elbows propped up on the table, and his eyebrows lifted, producing all those adorable wrinkles in his forehead and making his blue eyes sparkle.
“Torn ACL?” I prompt him.
“Year and a half ago.” His eyes narrow. “Then had a surgery. Then therapy. Didn’t make the cut into the major leagues. Stopped playing. Came back home. Gave up the condo in Frisco.”
“You stopped playing?” The news guts me. If I wasn’t already freaking out about how much I’ve missed out on in Stefan Baker’s life, now I am. “Tore your ACL? What’s … What’s the ACL again?”
“Anterior cruciate ligament. You know that.”
“Is that part of your ankle?”
“Knee.” He gives a nod downward. “One fateful fuckin’ little twist and … pop. End of my career.”
I cover my mouth with a hand, then bring it right back down to the table. No need to act like a gasping drama queen in front of Stefan.
But that’s exactly what my natural reaction would be. I want to apologize for some reason, but that feels stupid and wrong and utterly inadequate to do. What good is an “I’m sorry”, anyway?
“It isn’t … treatable?” I ask, squinting at him in disbelief. “Just like that? Pop? Done? Don’t people tear their ALCs all the time?”
“ACLs,” he corrects me, then shoots a look across the table. “Seriously, bro? You’re acting like you don’t know what an ACL is. It’s an athlete’s nightmare, to tear one completely. It’s the worst leg injury an athlete can have short of losing the damned thing.”
“I know. I’ve heard of it. I know it’s a … sports thing. I just could’ve sworn it was in the ankle …”
“Ankle. Knee. Same difference. My leg’s fucked. The end.”
I stare down at my plate and my cold eggs. His tone is getting harder and more annoyed by the second. I can barely look at him now. The more words we exchange, the more I feel like we’ve grown into two different people.
And I thought he went and made it into the major leagues. To hear that his dream was cut short on account of an injury makes me want to cry for him. Not that he’d want my tears.
“It … was a complete tear,” he adds, his voice a touch softer. The slight gentleness of his tone makes me feel safe enough to bring my gaze back up to his. He licks his lips—naturally reminding me that they are very much still there, and very much still plush and kissable as ever—and then says, “I underwent the therapy. Lots of it. When I made what they deemed to be a full recovery, I went back out onto the field. But my leg … it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t run like I used to. Something was wrong. Something was all fucked up and off. ‘Oh, no, nothing’s wrong,’ they said. ‘Keep trying. Keep going to therapy. Keep training.’ Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I knew there was something fucked about my leg, no matter what anyone else said. Then tryouts for the majors came, all perfectly fuckin’ set up for the scouts, and …” His voice trails off as he glares at his emptied plate, swallowing all his fury.
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to draw out the whole story from him right now. Or maybe it’s the perfect time to do so. It could be the reason he got so fucked up last night. He’s had enough of the demons of “what could have been” with his life.
Maybe he’s going through a nasty divorce right now. Maybe he had a wife and five babies since we last saw each other. I’d never know. I don’t know him anymore. Clearly.
Can’t deny the fact that it always made me jealous when I saw Stefan with a girl. Even I had my modest couple of girlfriends back in high school, but I never went past third base with any of them.
Apparently I feel it necessary to make a baseball pun with my half-existent high school sex life.
I take a breath before speaking. “I really didn’t mean to dig all of this up. I was just curious what you’re …” I shrug and let out a tiny sigh. “… what you’re up to. I guess.”
Stefan studies me for a moment, his eyes burning blue and fierce. “Bunch of messed-up fuckery is what I’ve been up to. The hell else did you expect from your good ol’ bro?”
I shrug. “I guess I expected plenty of baseballs, ten hot chicks, and a sports car.”
He studies me for a second, long and hard. “Replace the hot chicks with another pile of your eggs and you got it about right.”
I shove my plate across the table to him. “Go to town.”
“Seriously?”
“Please.”
Stefan doesn’t need to be told twice. He sets my plate on top of his empty one, then hoovers down my eggs like they’re trying to run away from him.
Despite the heavy dialogue we just shared, I catch myself smiling appreciatively at him across the table as I finally take my first bite of croissant. Not that he notices I’m smiling.
Surprisingly, the croissant’s still warm, but hard as a rock.
Much like my cock.
Which still determinedly chooses to be excited by the sight of Stefan putting down my eggs one giant mouthful at a time.
I want to put him down one mouthful at a time.