Page 64 of End Game

With soccer and now a double major, I don’t have a lot of free time for hobbies. Add my dad’s terminal illness on top of that… Most of my limited time without responsibilities is spent vegging on the couch or laying in my bed, recovering from the stress that has taken over my life. Sometimes Barrett joins me, and we can sit in silence for a few hours and just… be. Sometimes I’m by myself. It’s exhausting being around people and being “on” all the time. Sometimes I just need a break from it all.

As much as I want to go home for a quick visit, the timing hasn’t worked out. I’ve had games every weekend since school started, including Parents’ Weekend, when my parents are coming down for a visit anyway. My first chance to go home will be for Thanksgiving. For the first time in the last four years, we don’t have to spend the holiday in a hotel room eating dry room-service turkey and stuffing. I haven’t been able to come home for the holiday since I went away to school—my soccer schedule didn’t allow for it. Now, it’s only an hour drive instead of a full day of air travel each way. I can take the train or my parents can drive down and pick me up. I’m close by.

I don’t know how many more Thanksgivings I’ll have with my dad; how many more holidays he’ll be around for. Nobody knows, not even him. The not knowing is the worst part of all this.

Spinning on my heel, I blink back the tears welling in my eyes and walk off in search of the perfect bowling ball. If I take a few moments to regroup, that’s okay, too.

Trey has already found his ball by the time I make it back. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his flannel, showing off his forearms. I am a sucker for strong forearms. Biceps, too. I’m crazy about arms. Thick legs, strong legs. That ridge of muscle above the glutes and below the hips that gets shown off in tight football pants. The only thing that doesn’t really get me going is abs. They’re just… whatever.

I’ve never gone out with a non-athlete before. Most of the guys I hung around with at USC were on the men’s soccer team or the lacrosse team, and the football guys were always down to party. Once I had a very, very short dalliance with a baseball player, until it turned out he was only playing me.

Even now, outside of Dvora—who I am determined to befriend, whether she knows it or not—I don’t spend time with anyone who isn’t an athlete. My day is occupied by practice and team activities in between our games. We eat almost all of our meals in the student athlete dining hall or manage a quick snack from the grab and go stations around campus.

It’s never been an issue before. I like sports, even the more obscure ones like badminton and table tennis, and I like to cheer on other athletes as they compete. I’m a huge football fan—Barrett wouldn’t have it any other way—and because of his brother I follow both college and professional hockey. After a girl from my hometown made it to the Olympic Trials, I’ve started becoming a fan of elite gymnastics, and now that I’m at a school with a top-rated gymnastics program, I know I’m going to be going to their meets once the season starts. My roommate freshman year was on the tennis team, and I used to live next door to two wrestlers, so I’ve always made sure to dedicate time to seeing them compete, too.

For Trey to not only disregard athletics but to call it sports ball… well, I’m hoping that doesn’t cast a shadow on the remainder of our time together. Just a fling, after all.

He’s entered both of our names into the computer at the center of the lane. He’s spelled my name wrong—he’s written it down as Delia, which is so wrong, my stomach twists. Does he have me confused with some other woman?

I turn around to tell Barrett and come face to face with the realization that he’s not here. He has a football game tonight. I’m on a date with a guy who isn’t him. It feels like a betrayal of our friendship to be out with another guy.

Never have I wanted him to be here more. I want him beside me as we take in Trey’s antics and laugh. I want to curl up beside him and rest my head on his shoulder while his heavy arm wraps around me and holds me close. I want…

This is getting dangerously close to the line I will never cross. Barrett is my best friend. He’s the other half of my soul. But he’s not my boyfriend. We’re friends, and that’s the end of the story.

When I was sixteen, I came close to blurting out how I felt about him at least a dozen times. I wanted to be with him. Neither of us had ever really dated anyone. He’d told me about this cheerleader at school who once gave him a handjob over his pants under the bleachers, and I’d admitted to playing spin the bottle a few times at birthday parties and, once, Seven Minutes In Heaven with a guy who tried to shove his tongue down my throat. We don’t talk about sex or relationships. We don’t talk about dating.

As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t gone out or hooked up with anyone since school started. Then again, neither have I, so maybe it’s not that weird.

Tonight might be the night. I glance over at Trey, who’s taking his turn at the head of the lane. His leg is angled backwards, his toe pointed, his arm outstretched as he releases. The ball tilts off center and he shakes his head.

There has been a distinct lack of flirting going on tonight. It almost doesn’t even feel like we’re on a date. We aren’t talking or touching or generally looking at one another. I go up, I bowl my turn, and I come back, and Trey is focused on taking his turn. I expected there to be witty banter. When I’m with Barrett, neither of us ever shuts up.

I cannot keep comparing this dude to my best friend. No. That’s not an option. Barrett and I are friends and nothing more, and that’s how it’s going to be. It’s not like I want to date him. I just want him here with me all the time and want to talk to him and occasionally I want to kiss him and—

Fuck.

Blowing out a breath, I tuck my hair behind my ears and straighten my shoulders. I’m out on a date with a cute guy. He might not be an athlete, but he’s a psychology major like me, so theoretically we’re going to have a few things in common. He was at the grad school mixer. I can bring that up!

He’s taking his turn now. No, I can’t bring it up—he’s busy bowling and paying virtually no attention to me.

“I could use a beer,” I announce. “Do you want a drink?”

He glances at me over his shoulder. “But we’re bowling.”

“We’re allowed to drink while we’re bowling,” I point out.

He frowns.

“Never mind. Forget it.”

Trey sets the ball down in the return carousel. “No, we can—let’s get you a drink.”

That sits uncomfortably on my shoulders, like it’s my fault we’re putting the game on pause.

“You take your turn,” I tell him instead. “I’ll go grab a pitcher. I’ll be right back.”

Truth be told, I could use some space. This is all just… a lot. I haven’t been on a date in a long time. I’ve almost forgotten how to do this.