From: Luke Whitford
To: James Grayson
Dec 12
Okaaay. Let’s pretend this isn’t awkward at all and I’m not turned on. What happened after that? You couldn’t have passed out again. You weren’t drunk this time.
From: James Grayson
To: Luke Whitford
Dec 12
We didn’t pass out. After he came, he just…he said nothing. He tucked himself back into his jeans and averted his eyes. Then he asked me whether I wanted to go to the Manchester United-Arsenal match next month.
From: Luke Whitford
To: James Grayson
Dec 12
You’re pulling my leg.
From: James Grayson
To: Luke Whitford
Dec 12
Nope. He acted completely normal, as if he hadn’t just come down my throat and we were just best mates.
From: Luke Whitford
To: James Grayson
Dec 12
For real?
From: James Grayson
To: Luke Whitford
Dec 12
I know. I don’t know what to think. What to do.
From: Luke Whitford
To: James Grayson
Dec 12
Talk to him, genius.
From: James Grayson
To: Luke Whitford
Dec 12
I can’t. What if it fucks us up?
From: Luke Whitford
To: James Grayson
Dec 12
Don’t be ridiculous. We’re talking about the guy who dumped his girlfriend to make you stop moping. He’s your friend of fifteen years!
From: James Grayson
To: Luke Whitford
Dec 12
It’s not that simple. Lately, I don’t get him. He’s been different with me sometimes. Harsher. It’s like he still blames me for losing Hannah but tries to suppress it. When we did it…when he fucked my mouth, I felt it. Maybe that’s why he was so rough both times. His eyes were so hard while he watched me take it. Maybe it was a punishment.
From: Luke Whitford
To: James Grayson
Dec 12
Or maybe he just gets his rocks off on fucking your throat. Which is far more plausible and less ridiculous than your explanation. It’s your guilt talking and it’s stupid. No one forced him to choose you over his girlfriend. Get over it. It’s not your fault.
Talk to him.
From: James Grayson
To: Luke Whitford
Dec 12
I know Ryan. He’ll talk only when he’s ready.
Chapter 15
Sprawled on Ryan’s couch in front of the TV, James had never been so distracted in his life while he watched his favorite team play. He just couldn’t focus. It probably didn’t help that the Blues were losing, but still. Being around his best friend was never easy these days. He never knew what to expect. In his peripheral vision, he could see Ryan making finishing touches to the project he was working on.
Ryan closed Photoshop, rubbing his tired eyes. He looked at James. “The game any good?” he said. He glanced at the score and smiled. “Are they losing again?”
“Piss off,” James grumbled, which only made Ryan smile wider. Yeah, okay—James knew he was ridiculously touchy when his favorite team lost, and since his favorite team was Ryan’s least favorite team, they’d had some spectacular rows when Chelsea played.
“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” Ryan said, standing up and walking over. He moved James’s legs and flopped down on the couch, stretching like a big, graceful cat.
James dragged his eyes away and put his feet on Ryan’s lap. He marveled how normal it all seemed when there was nothing normal about their friendship anymore. “Gloating isn’t nice, you know.”
Ryan shrugged and put his arm on the back of the couch. “That’s what they get for being a one-man team. A team shouldn’t depend on one player so much. It’s pathetic how they are losing every match since Gabriel DuVal got injured. He’ll be out for two more months, and at this rate, Chelsea will be at the bottom of the table by the time he recovers.”
James pursed his lips. “If Tristan still played, they wouldn’t have had this problem. He’s almost as brilliant as Gabriel and could have easily replaced him.”
Ryan chuckled. “Almost? If Tristan hears that, he’ll kick you in the balls.”
That made James smile. “Maybe I can convince Zach to work his magic on Tristan and get him back on the pitch.”
“It’s too early for Tristan to return to football,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “Zach told me it’d take about a year and it’s been only eight months. Tristan’s leg still isn’t good for playing professionally. Zach is optimistic, but who knows? It may never be good enough.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jamie said, shifting his gaze to the TV. “And Tristan doesn’t seem all that eager to return to the spotlight, anyway. Being in a steady gay relationship for football stars isn’t easy.” Besides, Tristan didn’t even need to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to: his short but incredibly successful football career had made him a millionaire.
“He’s still young and can choose any other career path,” Ryan said, giving him a pointed look.
James sighed. “Don’t start, Ryan. I don’t hate working with Dad. I don’t love it, but it’s fine.”
“You could go to an art school,” Ryan said. “You love drawing.”
Thinking of the derisive sneer on his dad’s face when he had told him of that ambition years ago, James said, “I’m not that good.”