“Let me guess: you fucked him.”

Zeph’s brows drew together as he looked back at Tristan over the newly-opened bottles of beer. “Actually, we dated.”

Tristan’s surprise was easy to read. His friend was expressive, which was why he’d done so damn well in show biz, but so poorly dating. “Oh. You never said,” Tristan murmured, looking after River, but River was gone.

Zeph didn’t bother trying to find him. For all River could catch and hold a room’s attention, when he didn’t want to be seen, he could move his ass. And he knew River just well enough to know that he’d been giving Zeph a taste of him.

He’d sent a quick text while he ordered at the bar, but he didn’t expect to hear back tonight. Actually, Zeph kind of hoped he wouldn’t. Normally he’d be up for an easy fling, but tonight was about Tristan.

It was true, he hadn’t told Tristan, or anyone, about River. But he didn’t have a lot of friends apart from Tristan. Some at the gym, some in the sport or in the ring, but not close friends.

When a guy like Tristan went through a rough breakup, Zeph was willing to drop anything to be with him for a night and make sure he was okay—really okay, not just fake-okay.

“Hey, don’t make this about me,” Zeph teased. “Tonight is cheer-you-up night. And besides, we weren’t serious. Not like you and—”

Tristan raised a finger and Zeph trailed off. His lips were pinched, his fingers curled tightly around the bottle. “Tell me about him.”

Zeph paused. “Oh, man.” This wasn’t his strong suit. “You need the distraction that bad, huh?”

“It’s this or about a dozen more of these,” Tristan raised his bottle, “and I don’t wanna be pissing all night. Oh, God. If I get caught in the men’s bathroom here…”

Zeph rolled his eyes. “They don’t blog about every man who takes a leak in a gay bar in the Gay Times, you know.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes and pointed the neck of his bottle at Zeph. “You’re deflecting.”

“So are you.”

Tristan shrugged and stubbornly stared Zeph down. Even though Zeph faced worse in the cage every fucking fight, he didn’t want that kind of tension, so he scoffed and threw up his hands. “Fine, you win.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“Here.”

“This exact bar?” Tristan exclaimed. “Dude, coincidence.”

“Don’t get on me with your Hollywood hippie, granola-crunching, law of attraction stuff,” Zeph warned instantly, grinning at him. “But yeah, here. When I lived here, right before I moved out to the Midwest for training. We dated for a week. It was literally the week before I got the offer from my first gym.”

“Ohhh. Shit,” Tristan breathed out. “You never said you left someone behind.”

“No, because we weren’t yet… you know.”

Tristan nodded. “Gotcha. A week in. Pretty new.”

“Yep.”

“You’re still into him.” Tristan’s eyes sparkled with mischief now.

“Oh, God. Here we go.”

Tristan laughed. “I’m not saying pick rings now. But he’s your type, isn’t he? All… out there, and stuff. And you’ve been single, focusing on your career, for how many years now?”

“Ugh.” Zeph waved him off. Tristan was right, sadly.

“Think of your dick.”

“I do. A lot. We have a rapport. It’s only boyfriends I don’t do,” Zeph assured him. “Think I’m letting these guns go to waste?” He flexed for Tristan’s benefit.

“Jesus, you got an ego while you were gone,” Tristan laughed. “Speaking of which, when’s your next fight? How’s that going?”

Zeph grimaced. There was a mood-killer. He folded his arms against the table again. “Couple months away. But it’s getting tougher. I’m not getting younger.”

“I feel you there, man.” Tristan tapped his bottle against Zeph’s and drank.

Zeph rolled his eyes. “I know you’re barely thirty, because I am, too.”

“Exactly,” Tristan said. “Too old to play high school or college… too young to play the serious parts…”

“Isn’t that prime love-interest range?” Zeph asked.

Tristan leaned in. “Yep. Which is exactly why I need to be further in the closet than… I don’t know… Marlon Brando. James Dean. You know?”

Zeph let it go for now, but eyed Tristan to make it clear the subject wasn’t closed. “So we’re both in that not-middle-aged, not-young-adult stage.”

“That’s gotta be harder in the MMA scene, though.” Tristan frowned. “Don’t fighters start retiring?”

“The bad ones do. The good ones have a name, or they’ve been training for long enough that they can last longer.”

“You’re pretty good, though, aren’t you?”

Zeph chuckled. “Oh, you flatter me. I started at twenty-five. Dude, that’s old.”

“Oh.” Tristan frowned. “So what’s next? Is it time for a change?”

“I don’t know. I’m not prestigious enough to be a trainer. I win fights, but not enough, and not fast enough. It’s only a few per year. That’s why you get such a head start if you start young.”

Zeph tried to quell the frustration deep in his gut with another swig of beer, then rolled his head back.

If he had anyone else to fall back on, things would be easier. Family, close friends, just anyone with a need for a gnarly-looking guy without any real talents.

Tristan kicked him. “Hey, man. At least you didn’t just get dumped—again—because you’re not willing to look at every casting agent’s couch from now on and wonder whose dick you’re gonna have to suck.”

“It’s not like that, I’m sure,” Zeph scoffed. “Come on.”

Tristan shrugged. “Safer not to find out.”

“Look at us,” Zeph laughed, rubbing a hand down his arm and over the rosary tattoo there. It was an instinctive gesture by now, engrained in him. “Doing a great job being the sad assholes in the corner.”

“Well, your asshole might be a lot happier if you’d followed that River guy—”

Zeph snorted with laughter and almost sprayed his beer over Tristan’s face.

“Ew.”

“Serves you right,” Zeph told him. “You saw me drinking there and went for it anyway.”

But they were both grinning as they settled back. Even if their minds weren’t at ease, they at least had this bond of friendship. A couple of beers and a good conversation were always something to fall back on.

And that wasn’t nothing. Far from it. Friends were hard to find, and harder to keep.