Page 75 of Stroked Long
He gives me a sideways look. “It’s not about standing. It’s about distracting from the game. No one watches when a wave is going on.”
“Of course not. You don’t want to be the lame-o who misses the chance to stand on time, taking part in the perfect float of a crowd.”
“And the wooing.” He rolls his eyes, ignoring my argument. “Throwing your arms up and wooing, fuck it’s annoying.”
I stop in my tracks. “How can you even say something like that? The wooing is what makes the wave so enticing. Have you ever wooed?”
“Can’t say I have.” He smirks.
“You are missing out, Bodi.” He pulls on my hand, forcing me to continue our walk to the car. “Wooing is all about letting your inhibitions go, puffing your chest out, and letting out pure joy.”
“By a woo?”
“Yes, by a woo.” I mock him with a deep, annoyed voice. “You should really try it sometime. I bet it would take that monotone-colored life of yours and add a little rainbow to it.”
“It would add a rainbow for sure,” he jokes.
“Ugh, you’re such a fuddy-duddy.”
“If I’m a fuddy-duddy, then why do you continue to hang out with me?” The lilt in his voice is teasing, but I see the uncertainty in his eyes.
Normally I would joke back and say something like, “I have no clue.” But I’m reading the sensitivity of his question, and it feels like my response needs to answer more than his simple question. I feel as if he is asking me if I like him. If I accept him for who he is: all six-foot-whatever, fuddy-duddy, slightly neurotic, uncertain self.And I do. Very much.So, I answer him a mini declaration. “Because, Bodi Banks, you’re fun to hang out with,” then pull on his arm, lining my body against his.
His shoulders relax and a slight smile grows on his chiseled face. That was the correct answer.
It’s so strange that the strong and confident man in the pool can be so self-conscious out of the water. Athletes, especially elite athletes, are usually confident, self-absorbed, cocky bastards who know they can get pretty much anything they want.
Not Bodi.
He’s very unsure of his appeal to the outside world, his mind always racing, his awkward tendencies on full display. But that’s what makes him so real, so enchanting.
“Did you enjoy the game?” he asks, breaking my thoughts. “Even though your precious wing flappers didn’t win.”
“No one likes a gloater, Bodi,” I tease. “But yes, it’s the best game I’ve been to. Especially since I won our little bet.”
Bodi takes me to the passenger side of his truck and opens the door for me.
“It was a lucky call on your end.”
“It was blatantly obvious he was out. You should be happy you didn’t bet any money because I would have taken you to the cleaners.” I poke his stomach, our hands disengage as we face each other.
“Yeah, instead I have to give you whatever you want. Seems scarier than losing money.”
“How so?”
He steps closer, pushing a strand of hair that’s fallen out of my hat behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek longer than expected, making my breath hitch.
“You’re a wild card. Not quite sure what you could ask for. Knowing you, you could ask for a picture of me wearing nothing but a sombrero over my crotch and holding a lizard with a mustache.”
A laugh bubbles out of me from the picture in my head that conjured up. Oh, I can see it plain as day. Too bad, that’s not what I want.
“Tempting,” I say, “but that’s not what I was thinking.”
“No?” His eyebrows rise, as if he was one hundred percent positive that sombrero crotch was what I really wanted. That’s not what I would want from his crotch if I had the option.
“No, but I’m actually ready to cash in on what I want.”
“Right here?” He looks around the lot full of expensive cars. A lonely street light shines above us, with the stars being our other source of light.
