Once we finished and were getting up, Gemma gripped her brother’s arm. “Nickie, you promised me a game of air hockey.”
“I gotta help with some boxes first,” he said, motioning toward the exit.
“It’s okay, I got them, Nickie,” I teased, and he mock-scowled. I wasn’t sure which nickname I liked better for him—Dom or Nickie. But now I could harass him relentlessly if I wanted.
“They need to be stored in the apartment.” He began walking toward the exit. “Let me show you.”
“I like air hockey,” I heard Jasmine tell Gemma. Kellan said he’d play the winner, and off they went toward the area with the pool tables, foosball and air-hockey games, and dartboards.
I followed Girard, and we opened the trunk and noted the four boxes. We each took one, then headed to a separate entrance in the back lot, up some stairs, and into what looked like a large industrial space. It had plenty of windows, exposed brick, and air ducts, which might’ve given it a modern flair, like on one of those design shows but not quite. “This is where you live?”
“It was my brother’s place before he got stationed in Germany.” Girard set his box down in an empty corner, and I followed suit. “I know it’s not much, but it feels like home.”
“I actually think it’s pretty cool.” I glanced across the long, open space. There was a kitchen area with a square wooden table and four worse-for-wear chairs, and beyond that a tall dresser and a queen-size bed. Closer to us was a living room section with a widescreen television, an older-style couch, and two comfy-looking chairs to match. It was better than the setup at our house, with mishmash furniture and crates for bookshelves.
“Thanks, man,” he said in this humble way, and I could tell how nerve-racking my assessment was to him. That alone did something to me, that he would care so much about my opinion. It didn’t make much sense, but none of this between us really did.
“See? I can give compliments,” I teased.
He snickered. “I’m so proud of you. For next week’s lesson, we’ll help you admit you’re a grumpy fucker.”
“Only if you admit you’re a jackass,” I countered, and Girard laughed.
“You just proved my point.”
I was looking out the window at the street below, wondering if it was quiet at night, when he nudged me along.
“Should we go get the other two boxes?”
“Okay,” I said, and followed him back down.
When we returned to stack the boxes, I got one more look at his place. I imagined us getting comfortable on the couch and watching a movie, which…would never happen. But I was so lost in my fantasyland that I inhaled sharply when he brushed past me to hold open the door to the stairwell.
He froze, and then we did that staring thing again like that night at the hotel.
“Maclain,” he said in this throaty voice that made gooseflesh line my skin. Almost like in my dream. I looked at his eyes, then down to his lips, wondering if kissing a guy was any different than—No. Delete that thought immediately.
I shook my head to warn him off, even though I wanted the exact opposite, but he took the hint and squared his shoulders. “Let’s go play some air hockey.”
And that was precisely the right thing to say to cut the tension.
“You’re not afraid of losing to me?” I said in challenge as we went down the steps.
Girard chuckled. “Not a chance.”
We joined Gemma, Kellan, and Jasmine, and played a few rounds. And yeah, Girard beat me fair and square. Several times.
“No fair,” I griped, shoving the puck toward the center of the table. “You probably play all the time.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Guess you’ll just have to come around more often.”
My stomach did this swoop thing—traitor—and when I turned, Kellan was watching us. “What?”
“You two are as competitive at air hockey as you are on the field.”
“All him,” Girard replied, just as his mom motioned us over from the snack area.
“How about some soft pretzels?” she asked, stacking the doughy creations in paper sleeves and urging us to sit on the stools in front of the counter.
On cue, Kellan’s stomach growled, and we all laughed.
“He could use some meat on those bones,” Jasmine said.
“I’ll have you know my meat is just fine,” he hissed in her direction.
Okay, maybe I could admit I was actually having a fun time.
“So good,” Kellan said as he bit into his pretzel, and Jasmine concurred. Even Girard’s dad was drawn to the counter, maybe from the buttery smell alone.
“Are you the boy who gave Nickie a bloody nose?” Girard’s mom asked as she handed me a pretzel sprinkled liberally with salt.
I groaned inwardly. “Can I pretend I’m not? I’m sorry about that.”
His mom smiled. “I know it was only an accident.”
“Mom, this is Maclain—I mean, Mason. Damn, that feels weird to say.”
I confess I liked hearing it. Thankfully, he kept his word about not using my childhood nickname against me. Another thing that had thrown me that night.
His dad kissed his mom on the cheek, then reached for his own pretzel, and I found myself watching their interaction like it was a foreign thing.
I looked away, but not before his dad caught me and patted me on the shoulder. “Maclain, I was impressed with your pitching last season.”
“Thank you, sir.” I dipped my head. “I did okay.”
I could feel the flush stealing over my skin. It was stupid really. I got plenty of attention from fans—mostly girls on campus—but somehow hearing it from parents felt extra meaningful, and I didn’t always know how to respond.
“What?” I asked, noticing Girard gawking at me.
“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you so humble before.”
“Shut it.” I dug into my pretzel, effectively ending the conversation.
“You ready to hit the road?” Jasmine asked a couple of minutes later, jingling her keys.
No, I really wasn’t, because I was finally feeling pretty comfortable. But I threw away my wadded-up paper wrapper and followed her and Kellan out the door anyway. “Catch you later.”
10
Girard
Kellan, Donovan, and I were sitting in the student center, the voices around us growing louder as more arrived to grab lunch and find tables where they could spread out with their food. The noise didn’t lend to studying for my afternoon test, so I closed my notebook and doubled down on finishing my turkey sandwich. I would need to head to a quiet bench outside after my next class to review my notes. Glancing up to the glass ceiling, which also gave this space it’s nickname—the Greenhouse—I noticed the gray clouds moving in. The library might be a better idea.
“Gotta go.” Kellan leaned forward to kiss Donovan’s cheek, then took off toward the exit. “Catch you later.”
“Hey, you okay?” Donovan asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I’d been intent on watching their interaction—their PDA right in the middle of the student center—and thinking too hard about all the implications.