Between the Pipes (Offsides #3)

by J.J. Mulder

I lean over, trying to get a better view. Fuck it—grasping the bottom of my chair, I scoot the whole thing in toward him. He doesn’t take his eyes off what he’s doing, but the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile.

Instead, I close my eyes and rest for a moment, content to bask in the relative silence and Anthony’s presence.

It’s how I wish I actually looked. “That is how you look,” Anthony says, and I jolt. I hadn’t realized I’d said that last out loud. “This is incredible. I can’t believe you can do this.” I really can’t. I just watched him do it, and I can hardly believe it. Who the fuck can sit down and create something like this? Unbelievable.

The left eye has more brown than the right. Next time I draw him, I’m adding color only to his eyes.

His hands are wandering, and every place he touches makes my brain short-circuit a little bit more.

He smells like sex and Dove soap, and me.

Nico’s hands, tentative and featherlight, coast up my back. The touch is so delicate, compared to what we just did, it feels almost loving. And so begins the wishful thinking portion of tonight’s events.

We’re not touching, but I don’t feel secure enough to do so. Not when it would probably scare him off.

Nico gives a startled laugh, which feels better than holding his hand probably ever could.

It’s not until I’m merging onto the highway that I realize I don’t want to talk to just anyone; I want to talk to Nico.

The second my head hits the pillow in my empty bed, alone in my empty house, sleep is impossible. It’s not being alone that bothers me, per se, not when I’ve spent my entire adult life living alone.

If nothing else is accomplished this summer, please let me at least leave Carter Morgan with a fucking friend.

“Fine.” His eyes narrow. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are we going to keep playing this game?” “You love games, though, right? You and all your rules.” His eyebrows wing up, almost comically. “This isn’t the time or the place, Anthony.”

It burns me how much I like him. I like him so fucking much I hate him.

He’s beside me, so close his shoulder brushes mine. I want to lean into him so badly.

I hope he doesn’t have a headache, and the fact that the thought popped into my mind at all makes me grind my teeth.

I’d rather go sleepless for a week then miss a single night with Nico.

It’s born from a desire to be at home with Anthony, and that’s a desire I’m trying not to look too closely at.

I’ve noticed that he only advances on my left side when he approaches me now. I know he’s trying to give me the best chance at seeing him, and the knowledge makes me feel a little dizzy. It’s a remarkably thoughtful thing to do, and something that most people wouldn’t have considered.

I don’t tell him that I don’t need him to take care of me because, frankly, it feels nice. It feels like something a boyfriend might do for you, an inner voice whispers. I ignore it, and sit down.

“Can you explain to me why you’re so opposed to dating? Actual dating, not what we’re doing.” He inhales deep, black eyes holding mine. “Is it me?”

Anthony chews on his lower lip, and I have the unfortunately timed urge to lean over the table and do the same.

“So, he targeted you because you told him you’re gay? Your fucking friend?” His voice shakes. “He could have killed you, hitting you like that. That was a goddamn hate crime.” I have the very strong urge to reach across the table and lay comforting fingers on his arm.

My hand is still on his arm, and I have no inclination to move it. He puts his free hand over mine, fingers wrapping around my wrist and holding me in place.

Selfishly, I want to keep him without actually committing to anything.

I run my palm over the smattering of chest hair. I’ve always been partial to that.

I’m also partial to a happy trail. Indulgently, I trace my fingertips over his a few times, up and down.

He’s got broad shoulders, and I like that too. Nothing I don’t like about him, actually. And how dangerous is that? There are so many reasons not to get attached to this man; so many reasons not to get attached to any man, in fact.

It takes all of five minutes before a heavy arm falls across my flank. Smiling, I move in a smidge closer and fall asleep.

there are pillow imprints on his cheek, and his hair is flattened on one side. It’s infuriatingly cute.

Grinning, I pull out of the parking lot. This is abso-fucking-lutely a date.

Troy just got home. He had fun and also told me that he thinks you and Nico are fucking. I’ll go ahead and leave that conversation for you, shall I?

Looking up, I find Nico’s eyes on me and that same soft smile on his face.

I want someone to stick, and I want that someone to be Nico. God help me.

“Subtle,” he says, and reaches back over to my side of the car to rest his hand on my thigh. Surprise shoots through me, my hands jerking the steering wheel unnecessarily and almost veering across the center line. Heart pounding, I wait for him to remove it. He doesn’t, and I’m so absurdly grateful I could cry.

Tucking my face into his neck, I take a second just to breathe him in.

Wanting him has become both pleasure and pain. I want this but I also want more than he can give me, and both of those facts war for dominance in my head. Tonight, pleasure wins.

I want to see his face, this first time, with or without kissing. Leaning down, I kiss his jaw again in silent thank you.

I want to convince him to give us a shot, and every inch he gives me is as good as a mile.

It’s almost sweet, and my throat feels a little tight at the thought. I don’t want to evaluate my feelings about Nico too closely,

Sex with Nico feels like breathing. It feels like something I can’t and shouldn’t live without.

I like this Nico the best of all—the one that feels safe and comfortable, and isn’t worried about the parts of the world he can’t see.

“Don’t worry about it.” Squeezing his fingers, hard, because I can feel him worrying I add: “Seriously, Nico, don’t worry about it.”

Hazel really is the superior eye color.

“I can see that. But I’d like it if you relied on me, just a bit.” Please, please, rely on me. Rely on me so much that you never ask me to leave.

Sometimes, I get the impression that Nico doesn’t like himself much at all.

Anthony—selfless, kind, beautiful Anthony—would be exactly the kind of partner I always hoped I’d find one day. I wish I’d met him years ago, when I was young, reckless, and fun; worthy of someone like him.

The thought of not seeing Anthony again makes me feel physically ill; cold and hot, somehow simultaneously, unsteady and aching.

“Really?” he says, sounding so hopeful it makes me feel awful.

“Excellent. I’ll pick you up and we can go have breakfast, yeah?” “Yeah.” I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. Nor can I help being infected by it. Excitement zings through my extremities, making me feel a little nervous; like a teenager about to go on his first date. “See you soon.”