“Bro.” Micah’s voice through the phone interrupts my rant. It’s the most I have said to anyone in a while, and my throat is becoming sore from talking. I haven’t seen Micah since we parted ways after graduation, but hearing my old college roommate’s voice, even over the phone, after these last few months is oddly comforting. “I know absolute shit about football, but I do know it’s called football, not Hendrix-ball.”
“You’re telling me that you spent four years cheering me on from the bleachers while we were in college, but you don’t know a single thing about football?” I ask skeptically.
“I know football players have excellent asses, and those pants leave little to the imagination.”
I let out a half-annoyed sigh. “Can’t we have one conversation without you objectifying my teammates?”
“Get Ezekiel Aleks to kiss me on the Jumbotron, and I will be forever satiated. Gawd, those dark eyes of his . . . just thinking about him makes me h—”
“Micah!”
“I’m just saying—”
“You’re not missing much,” I mutter to myself under my breath, but Micah hears anyway.
“What does that mean?” he demands, voice high and damagingly loud in my ear. I can practically see him climbing the walls with a sudden burst of energy.
He always does that whenever something gets him excited. I once witnessed him climb on the kitchen countertop when the cute boy in his English Lit class called to ask him on a date. Micah spent the rest of the conversation barefoot on the counter, hearts in his eyes and beaming wide as his fingers doodled nothings in the layer of dust on top of the refrigerator. One time, he fell over the back of the couch after climbing to balance atop it during the results of his favorite reality drama dating show. It’s like the anticipation overwhelms his entire being, and his instinctive mode isn’t fight or flight—it’s climb.
“Hendrix Rosetta Avery!”
I frown. “That is not my middle name.”
“What. Do. You. Mean?” he demands. “How do you know what I am or am not missing when it comes to the King of Kisses? Do not leave me hanging, Rix! Tell meeee! Spill the tea!”
“You are insufferable,” I deadpan over his dramatic wailing. “I suddenly remember now why we aren’t friends.”
Micah pauses his breakdown to inform me, “Because we’re soul brothers.” Then, he resumes the theatrics.
Releasing a loud groan, not at all impressed by his ability to annoy me, I relent just to get him to be quiet. “I kissed him.”
The line falls completely silent, and if it wasn’t for his rapid breathing, I’d think the call dropped.
Is he . . . broken?
“Rix,” he breathes.
“Mike,” I say in return, knowing he hates the nickname.
“How did this happen?” A calmness has swept over his voice, and I’m genuinely concerned at the sudden drastic change from earlier to now.
“I grabbed his shirt, pulled him close, and planted one on his mouth.”
He breathes in and out. “Why?”
“Because my roommate wouldn’t stop talking. Does it matter? I’m telling you, Aleks is a lousy kisser.” The oven dings, and I hurdle my lonely lawn chair to reach the kitchen—only two long strides away in my tiny apartment. It isn’t much, and the furnishings are even less, but it’s mine, paid for by me and for me. Since I’ve made the team, I have a little more cash to spend than I’m used to, so I splurged on groceries this week. Usually, I’m struggling to reach my calories for the day, much less keep my nutrition on point. It was easier in college since my scholarship covered a meal plan, and the athletic department did what it could to help. The past few months have been trying—even with access to the cafeteria in the Rubies’ training facility.
Today, though, I’m eating like a king. The colorful bell peppers, chickpeas, squash, and zucchini are perfectly roasted, and I neatly stack them on my sandwich before taking a bite. Flavor explodes on my tongue, making me wolf down even more despite how the freshly cooked veggies burn the inside of my mouth. I’m so hungry I can’t stand to wait.
Mmm. Rye bread, tomatoes, and spinach. Hummus and Greek yogurt. My favorite is the dried apricot. I’m a sucker for anything sweet, but I rarely treat myself. The fruit is an amazing addition to the savory sandwich.
“Are you having sex right now?”
I freeze, mouth full and sandwich raised for another bite. “Huh?”
Micah—I’d forgotten we are on the phone, him connected to my Bluetooth headphones—lets out an unattractive snort in my ear. “You’re eating, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, those moans are either for sex or food, and we both know you only hook up in the back of sketchy-ass bars.”
“Hmph.”
“Okay, Rix, this is serious. I need all the juicy details! How did you, a straight man, end up kissing my gay idol? And not immediately tell me about it!”
I enjoy a few more bites of my sandwich to let him stew a little longer before finally giving in. If I don’t tell him, he will most likely fall off whatever structure I know he is climbing. “Where are you right now?” I ask as I return to my lawn chair.
All movement on his side of the line halts. “What?”
“What are you standing on?”
“I’m sitting. Kinda.”
“On what?”
“On . . . something. I-It’s fine. Probably.”
“Mike.”
