Page 6

Chapter 6

Strangers Again

Parker

“Earth to Parker!”

Tiffany’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. It’s barely 10pm, but Rosebud is completely slammed. I finish pouring shots of tequila for the girls in the VIP section, check nobody’s watching, and knock one back myself.

“Don’t let the boss catch you drinking on the clock”, Tiffany shimmies by, her hips grazing my ass. “What’s with you tonight? One of the customers giving you a hard time?”

That’s one way of putting it.

I’ve been on edge ever since Brandon’s teammates walked in. They quickly took over three booths on the terrace. Drinking. Laughing. I had no idea they’d booked this place tonight, but I should have guessed. Rosebud is where you come to celebrate.

I’ve gotta get it together. Brandon’s not even here. He’s probably still in the hospital or on the first flight home. Still, his teammates showing up feels like some kind of sign. Before my dad died, he told me he’d leave little signs for me.

Maybe this is one of them.

I should have gone inside when I went to the hospital. I could have said hi. How badly could it have gone? We’d have shaken hands. Shot the breeze. He’d have gone his way, I’d go mine, and that’d be the end of it.

Now it’s all messy and unfinished. Messier. Unfinished-er.

I shouldn’t even be working tonight. I should be focusing on my appeal, finding a new gym, and looking for a room to rent off-campus. Not working a late shift, partying with people who don’t have my back, and obsessing over Brandon’s silhouette at the window.

I finish wiping down the side. “Rough day”.

“I’m not riding you”, Tiffany says, deftly slicing a lemon into neat wedges. Her eyes linger suggestively across my chest. “Unfortunately”.

Tiffany is hot. Dirty hot. Definitely my type. Nice little tattoo that starts on her hip and reappears at her ankle.

She’s offered to show me on more than one occasion. “Help me take this beer tower to the guests of honour, then the boss says you can punch out”.

“Really?” I glance upwards to where Vanessa’s office overlooks the bar.

“Something about expecting some buddies of yours in tonight”, Tiffany slides me the tray. “Don’t knock it. She’s got me on doubles all week”.

Vanessa has reserved two tables for my fraternity brothers, although they haven’t shown up yet. Hopefully they don’t. Even though Darwin won’t be coming, the thought of socialising with them makes my chest tighten.

Tiffany starts loading me up with the beer tower. It’s a Rosebud speciality. Ten beers on a tray, with another tray of ten on top, then another ten on top of that. I set off with my careful setting dialled up to the max. Spilling thirty beers would be bad. Expensive bad. I’m the only staff member with a clean sheet.

Tiffany clears a path, holding the terrace door open for me. I nod to the single drink she’s carrying. “Don’t strain yourself”.

She rolls her eyes. “It took me ten minutes to mix it all together. I never even heard of it before. It’s got some stupid name. An F-Boy something”.

A distant bell rings in my mind. “A F-Boy Sidewinder ?”

There’s only one person on the planet who knows how to make that drink. The guy who invented it. Just then, the crowd opens up and there he is. Brandon Carter.

It’s really him. He’s here.

Making out with the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.

As they break apart, he casually glances in my direction. I startle. I move forward to greet him but instead collide directly with Tiffany, who screams as the beer tower wobbles out of control. Everything moves in slow motion as the drinks go flying out of my hand…

…and land with a smash all over Brandon’s table, sending beer, chips and God knows what else flying everywhere.

Everyone stops dead. Even the DJ cuts the music with a record scratch that rips through the entire room.

Oh, my God.

Brandon looks up in shock. Well, everyone does. His gaze slices right through the carnage and lands firmly on me. “What the—” His eyes narrow, then widen like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Di Rossi? Is that you ?”

“Carter”, I meet him where he is, which is apparently on a last name basis. Miraculously, one drink has survived. I gingerly pick my way through the wreckage and pluck the F-Boy Sidewinder from Tiffany’s tray. “I got you a drink”.

There’s deadly silence. Then, slowly, a smile tugs at the corner of Brandon’s mouth, followed by a huge explosion of laughter from his teammates. Even Tiffany joins in.

“And made quite a fucking entrance while doing it”, Brandon grins, taking the drink from me.

The DJ shrugs and the music starts up again. Brandon stands, his shirt clinging tightly to his chest, demonstrating just how badly I’ve managed to drench him. His left arm is sheathed in a sleek black sling. “Fellas, this is Parker Di Rossi. Don’t let the dramatic arrival and fancy surname fool you. We grew up in the same town”.

I wave, hoping I don’t look as much of a dumbass as I feel. “Sorry about…everything. Next round is on me. As are your dry-cleaning bills”. His friends wave me off good naturedly, returning to their own conversations.

“See you later”, Brandon’s girl murmurs, slipping a small piece of paper into his hand. She slinks away, looking pleased with herself. The eyes of his teammates follow her to the door. Brandon’s eyes remain on me.

“You remembered my drink”, Brandon takes a sip, as Tiffany dabs at him with a napkin. “Hmm. Feels like something’s missing”.

“It’s one shot of tequila, a dash of lime, a splash of dark rum”, Tiffany counts off on her fingers. “A spritz of lemonade and, damn, there was something else”.

“A teaspoon of Chilean infused scorpion honey”, I finish for her. Tiffany stares at me incredulously. Brandon seems to be trying hard not to smile.

I remember the night we invented it. Home alone for the weekend, we’d raided his father’s drinks cabinet, tossing around spirits and mixers without a clue what we were doing. Brandon christened it after his skateboard. We were fifteen at the time.

“No offence”, Tiffany looks between us, “But that sounds disgusting”.

“It is”, I fish a crumpled twenty out of my pocket. “I’ll have the same”.

She disappears, leaving Brandon and I alone with his teammates. The back of my neck grows warmer, as a bunch of hands grab paper towels and upturned glasses. Brandon stays standing exactly where he is. “So”, my eyes land on the trophy, propped up on the table. “Congratulations. Hell of a game”.

“That’s the only kind we play”. He’s talking to me. That’s a good sign. A better one than him introducing me to his friends as someone from his town rather than his best friend. The last time we were together, we were barely eighteen.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but it’s dashed amongst the music. One of his friends starts snapping pictures. Before I know it we’ve been organised into a huddle, me included, for a group photo.

I steal a glance. He’s still got short blonde hair, but now it’s cut into a crisp fade on the side, tousled on top. The only thing sharper than his cheekbones is his jawline.

In-fact, aside from the sling, the only glimmer of imperfection is the wetness of his shirt that clings uncomfortably to his well-defined chest. Which is new.

“I’ve got a spare shirt”, I blurt out. “If you wanna get changed”. He opens his mouth to protest. “Carter, you’re literally dripping. It’s no trouble, really”.

He nods. Relieved to be doing something useful, I lead him through the bar towards the staff room. The music’s too loud to make small talk. Just as well because I’d never be able to hear him over the beating in my chest.

Here's the thing. I don’t get nervous. Ever.

I’ve travelled to other cities to compete in judo and boxing tournaments. The walk out to the ring, and every second in from the first bell to the last? Crushed it. I’ve been the welfare kid smashing through college admission interviews. I delivered the eulogy at my dad’s funeral when I was fourteen, and two years later, I gave the toast at my mom’s second wedding.

During all of those things—big f’ing deal things—I never got nervous.

But seeing my best friend for the first time in three years, after everything that happened? Yeah. I’m nervous.

I swipe my pass to get into the staffroom, and head to my locker. Brandon closes the door behind us, instantly reducing the pounding music to a dull thud. The room’s got a square window overlooking the bar, out of which I can see people chatting and dancing.

Is he going to bring it up? That night? No. No way. Not with his team right outside.

You were young , I remind myself. But somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better. But now’s my chance to repair things. My mouth is suddenly very dry. “Here”, I pass him a plain white t-shirt, “This should fit”.

There’s a stillness to him, now that he’s alone and not surrounded by his boys. Our fingers graze gently as he takes the shirt from me.

He pulls his sling clumsily over his head, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. I catch a flash of tanned, tight muscle before his eyes catch mine. I turn my back to give him some privacy. “Don’t leave”.

“I wasn’t going to”.

“I can’t have you abandoning me twice in one day”.

There’s a tingling in my legs that wasn’t there a minute ago. “I wasn’t sure if you’d seen me”.

“I saw you. We saw each other”. He excuses the obvious lie. “It feels redundant to ask how things are going after such a long time”.

The last disastrous 24 hours jolt through my mind. “Things are awesome”.

“You came to my game”. The accusation hangs invitingly in the air.

“I heard a rumour that the star striker was planning on a man vs goalpost showdown”, I spot Marshall and some of the other guys arriving. I force down the wave of apprehension that accompanies them. “Couldn’t miss that”.

“I hope my performance didn’t disappoint”. He messes up his hair into an imperfect quiff. “It’s weird that it’s been so long. We shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have let so much time pass without us talking”. He fumbles with his sling, a wince of pain flashing across his face.

“Here, let me”, I cross over to him quickly.

“I got it”.

“It’s just twisted”, I gently untangle him. He stands flawlessly still as I carefully slide his arm back into the sling and tighten it behind his neck. “You scared me, you know”. I say, to the back of his neck.

“I scare myself sometimes. One hell of a goal”.

“I’m serious, Carter”.

“So am I”. He tosses out a lopsided shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me. To talk to me”. A beat. “I didn’t think anything ever scared you, Di Rossi”.

“I think about talking to you all the time”, I say, surprising myself.

His lips part slightly. He takes one careful step forwards. Not even my shadow can fit between us. “I go back to that night all the time and imagine doing things differently”.

There’s a quick knock on the door. Brandon pulls away as Tiffany pokes her head in. “Parker, your friends are here”. She flashes me a warm smile, before turning to Brandon, “And yours look like they’re leaving”.

She disappears as quickly as she arrived, taking the moment with her.

“She seems nice”. Brandon’s expression is fixed at neutral. “Girlfriend?”

“What? No, just a friend. Work-friend”.

There’s a roar of laughter from outside. I glance through the glass panel on the door, and my blood runs cold. Darwin and Barlow stand side by side with Marshall. Dawin’s meant to be in Vermont. What the hell are they doing here?

“Listen, would you maybe want to get a drink some time?” Brandon says, something unfamiliar in his tone. “When I’m less wet and you’re less at work?”

I spot Darwin giving his drink order to Tiffany.

“Parker?”

Even from here, I can see his eyes linger over her body. He whispers something to Barlow, and they both smirk. My hands curl to fists.

“This was a bad idea. What the hell am I doing?” I’m suddenly aware that Brandon has taken a step towards the door. “I should go. It was good to see you”.

“No, wait”, I spin between the window and the door, just in time to hear him.

I missed you, Di Rossi.

But by the time I turn around to say it back, he’s gone.