We’d just finished a killer workout, one of the best I’d had in months. It was crazy how impactful having a good spotter was, allowing me to push harder without fear of being hung out to dry alone.
I didn’t want to be a bragging asshole and say it, but I was actually trying to break my own personal record squatting tonight, and had actually gotten there. I didn’t know Connor enough yet to decide if I could’ve said something, though. He probably would’ve thought I was just being an alpha, cocky prick, so better to keep my accomplishment to myself.
I’d been working out alone for so long, just putting my headphones in and grinding, that I’d forgotten what it felt like to have that extra support, that shared energy. He still seemed a little strange at times, as if he was a little bit fixated on me during our workout, but I chalked it up to me being rusty at being around other people, generally. Plus, I usually compared myself to others in the gym around me too, so it wasn’t that strange.
After the workout, we headed to the locker room. I was tired and my legs were on fire. I unlaced my shoes and pulled off my shirt, feeling it stick to my sweaty body; the sign of a great workout.
That’s when I noticed it. Or thought I did. Was this dude looking at me? I shot a quick glance ten feet away to him at a nearby locker. Nothing overt, nothing I could really call him out on. I kept undressing further; something I’d done a million times in front of guys for years, not something I enjoyed, but such was the price of wanting to get clean before leaving the gym. As I bent down to grab my towel, in nothing but my briefs, I thought I caught him glancing over at me.
I told myself I was overthinking it. Law school does that to you. It makes you analyze every single detail, every possible motive. Maybe he was just looking at the clock, or at something on the wall behind me. Maybe I was just exhausted and my mind was playing tricks on me.
I’ve had gay friends since college, so it’s not like it would have been a big deal. But there’s a difference between knowing someone is gay and thinking they’re interested in me.
I wasn’t trying to lead anyone on, and the last thing I wanted was to make a new friendship weird before it had even really started. Just in case, I turned more intentionally away from him and moved as quickly as possible to pull my underwear down and wrap a towel around my waist, making sure all he could see was a brief flash of my butt. Shaking my head free of what was likely over-analysis, I made my way down to a shower stall at the far end of the hall.
Thankfully, I finished my shower while he was still in a stall a few rows down, so I was able to dress in private. I felt a little guilty judging him so much. I knew I was probably just imagining things and, even if I wasn’t, it was fucked up to not just address it, to make sure he knew I wasn’t interested.
I stuck around after getting dressed, hanging out nearby in a little waiting area outside the locker room, to avoid awkwardly ghosting him.
He came out ten minutes later with his stuff in a duffel bag. His dark brown hair looked soaked, as if he’d barely dried it off in a rush to get out here.
“You heading out?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yeah, man. I got nothing going on, just sleep,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Cool.” He seemed to be eyeing me up. “Would you want to grab a beer?”
The invite caught me completely off guard. “I was thinking of grabbing something from a bar nearby. I’m pretty wiped, but the idea of going home to an empty apartment again kinda fucking sucks.” He shrugged.
It was so weird that he was such a loner. Was he secretly weird as shit and I just hadn’t realized it yet?
Then again, wasn’t I just as lonely, lately? If I had the balls to talk about my feelings, wouldn’t I say the same same fucking thing? The way he’d put it resonated so much with the shit I’d been dealing with.
My life was so full, so packed with classes, homework, and coaching, that I suddenly couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone out for a drink with a buddy. The thought of going home, reheating leftovers, and staring at a textbook for another few hours made me want to cry.
“Yeah, man. I’m in,” I said, a genuine smile spreading across my face. “Let’s do it.”
He grinned back, with an easy, handsome smile. “Cool. I know a place.”
We ended up at a bar not far from the gym, one that was just a short walk from my apartment, luckily enough (not that I’d ever had the time to actually visit it). It was full of college guys drinking beers, TVs blasting various games, and half-dressed women pouring rounds. We found a table in a corner to the back room, the quietest place in the bar, and ordered a couple of drafts with some wings, and just…talked.
“So what’s your deal?” He asked, repeating my line from earlier in the night.
“My deal?” I smiled back. Finally, it didn’t feel like we were walking on eggshells. “Honestly, you know everything. Law school, coaching, gym grind, sleep, man. That is it.”
“No girlfriend?” He asked. Oh boy.
“Nah, no girlfriend…” I considered how best to word my next question. I hoped to get an actual straight answer (no pun intended).
“You dating anyone?” I kept it broad, trying to give him an opening; that was what my gay friends in college said I should do whenever I wasn’t sure about someone and didn’t want to make them uncomfortable.
“Nah, no girlfriend since college.” Connor said, shaking his head. Shit. I knew I’d been overthinking things in the locker room. Now I really felt like an asshole.
I smiled back at him. “Yeah man, no time. I’d be a really shitty boyfriend these days.” We both laughed.
It was easy. Effortless. We rehashed the workout, replaying our sets and laughing about how we both had pushed a little harder with someone else nearby. I still didn’t work up the courage to celebrate my own new squatting record, but was proud of myself nevertheless.
“What does ‘finance’ mean for your job?” I asked, putting the general buzzword in quotes. Half my friends had gone off to do ‘finance’ and I still had no clue what it actually meant day to day.
“It means I put shit in Excel spreadsheets, run some analyses, throw it in a presentation, and repeat endlessly.” He followed up the sad statement with a long chugging of light beer, before he flagged our waiter down for another.
“Yeah but what is it about? Like what purpose is it serving?” I was still confused.
“There is no purpose. I move numbers around to make sure everything stays in line, but honestly if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I bet you my boss would barely notice. And I’m not even special enough that that just goes for me. Half my coworkers are in the same boat. We get trained to run the same reports on the same business day of each month and life goes on.”
“And that takes twelve hours a day…?” I still didn’t understand.
“Pretty much. Someone along the chain is always late to get me something, or taking too fucking long to make a decision. So instead of working at my own pace, I spend my time playing with my fucking dick and waiting for handoffs.” His eyes went wide at the mention of ‘playing with his dick’.
Fuck. It immediately brought me back to how he’d first met me in the locker room and I just knew from the look on his face now that he’d definitely heard me. There was still no fucking way I was ever going to address it, but I wished I could wipe it from both our memories. It was my turn to finish off my beer and order a third.
His eyes looked down at the table. “Sorry…I just meant like…killing time, networking, all that stuff…”
“I knew what you meant.” I ripped a chicken wing in half with my teeth and figuratively rolled my eyes at myself. I had been wondering all night if he’d been checking me out when, in reality, it was him that’d walked in on me blowing my load in the shower and moaning like an idiot last weekend. And yet he still wanted to hang. I was so stupid and judgmental.
“You played volleyball?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Yup. I miss it a lot. I’m getting so fat without it, man.”
I didn’t want to be weird, but the idea that he was overweight was laughable. Sure, he had a little softness in his stomach, but who didn’t as they hit their mid-20s? I wasn’t gay, but it was impossible not to notice in the locker room how handsome he was and how girls must’ve loved his body.
“Nah man, you’re in great shape.” I had to keep my response as non-descriptive as possible.
“Thanks.” He almost seemed to blush?
“And you? Receiver? Did you get on the field at all?” He asked.
I smiled. This was my wheelhouse now. “Yeah, man. Not as much as I would’ve hoped as a kid but I got out there my fair share, mostly junior and senior year.”
“Stats?” He asked, succinctly.
Well, I guess it wasn’t boasting if he’d asked? “Junior year, I had 23 catches for like 300 yards and two touchdowns. Senior year was awesome, though. Our second string receiver, some freshman phenom, got hurt, unfortunately, in camp, so they had to go to me more often. Finished with 58 catches, 990 yards, and six touchdowns. So close to 1000, it haunts me every day.” I smiled.
His eyes went wide, “woah! Dude that’s a crazy stat line! In the SEC!? How did I not know about you! I’m around a celebrity right now!”
I blushed this time and smiled. He was being way too kind, almost too kind, but I appreciated it. I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated how nice he was, but didn’t want to freak him out.
“Thanks, man. Now it’s all about the law…” I rolled my eyes and chuckled.
Dinner and drinks was a ton of fun from there, the most relaxing time I’d had with someone else in months. I wasn’t sure if I could call him a ‘friend’ at this point, but it seemed closer to that than ‘random gym guy’. We both talked more about our college sports careers, the glory days of pushing our bodies, how much we missed being part of a team. We both missed that feeling of shared struggle, of working toward a common goal with other people and feeling that competitive fire from a close loss or invigorating win.
“It’s funny,” he said, taking a long drink from his sixth beer. “I thought I’d be happy with a ‘real’ job. The money, the security. But…it just feels soul-sucking. All. The. Time.”
“I hear that,” I said, thinking of my law school classmates, a bunch of Type-A personalities all vying for the next big internship or promotion at their jobs.
Connor shook his head, “sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve just explored what I’m really passionate about. Not that I know what that is, but don’t they say if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. But I know a guy from college who loved sports and writing. He landed a dream gig at a huge network as a journalist. Football writer. His first year, all we ever heard about in our group chats was how it was ‘the fucking life’. He flew around the world, met his favorite athletes, interviewed them left and right…”
Connor looked glued to my every word, anticipating that what I was about to say would be the divine intervention he needed to quit his job and pursue his passions.
“But…” I continued. “He still ended up with a boss he hated, deadlines that were impossible to hit, and felt like shit from constantly being on the road. Sleep-deprived, no time for the gym, eating unhealthy. By year two, he was fucking miserable and said it felt no more fulfilling than when he worked a high school job at his local bakery.”
“So what’s the point?” he asked a little sarcastically, a hint of genuine sadness in his eyes.
I shrugged, hoping I hadn’t pissed him off. “I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t one. But I always think about that when I wonder if the grass would be greener if I went and did something I thought I ‘loved’. Maybe a job’s a job at the end of the day…”
We talked for at least another hour, turning to pitchers of draft beer, instead of glasses; our words and thoughts getting a little looser. We found a shared, cynical humor about our current places in the world, about the absurdity of our jobs, and the ridiculous hours we put in. Neither of us dared say anything too direct that would make us seem like weak or whiney guys, but I was pretty sure we both could read through the other’s veiled complaining.
I felt a real connection, the kind I hadn’t had with anyone since undergrad. Most of the guys I knew from my college football team were just…well, they were assholes. Loud, obnoxious, self-absorbed. Connor was different. He was calm and seemed to be willing to listen to me. He didn’t even seem to judge me when a few of my words got a little more…emotional? I felt like I was talking to a decent dude who understood me.
Around 12:30AM, it was obvious that we’d both had quite a few beers, my eyes going a little hazy, but not in a bad way.
“I should probably get an Uber,” he said, checking his phone, “you can just walk home from here you mentioned right?”
“Yeah, dude, I’m 5 minutes away. Why don’t you just crash on my couch?” The words came out before I could even really think about them. It was the decent thing to do and I knew getting an Uber at this time would run him at least $50. “It’s no big deal.” I tried to play down my sudden offer.
He looked at me with a kind of quiet surprise, maybe some joy that felt almost…innocent? “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice softer than before.
“Yeah, totally. Come on,” I said, as we paid our bill and headed out into the night.
When we got up to my small one bedroom apartment, it was past 1AM and we were both even more tired than before, especially after at least a dozen beers that had made our eyes heavy. I threw the keys on the counter and pointed toward the living room. “Make yourself at home.”
My place was pretty simple. A big living room with a huge sectional couch, a TV mounted on the wall, and a view of the Dallas skyline. Luckily, I had a pretty good scholarship for law school, so I was able to use some of the NIL money I’d gotten my senior year to cover the three year law program in this small, but nice, spot.
I opened my pantry and pulled out a half eaten bag of tortilla chips, praying they weren’t stale. I crunched down on one and decided they’d have to do.
“What’re you doing?” Connor asked me, as I moved around the kitchen and pre-heated my oven.
“Thomas’ dive bar nachos!” I boasted, trying to keep my focus and stay upright. I threw down a layer of half-stale chips on a tin foiled covered sheet pan and went to my fridge.
“Oh yeah? Can I help?” He took a seat at one of my three black barstools that I’d gotten bought from Marketplace.
“Nope! I’m a master chef!” I playfully shook a half-gallon of milk from the fridge like it was a cocktail shaker. I was relieved that I got a laugh out of him.
“Are you cool with meat? Steak, I mean steak!” I wanted to crawl into a hole. It wasn’t even an awkward thing to say, until I made it one.
“Ha yeah Thomas, steak is fine…” he shook his head and chuckled.
I sprinkled some shredded cheese and diced up some leftover strip loin, adding them both to the chips on the pan.
“You just throw stuff like this together every night?” He was watching me as if I were making a Michelin star dinner.
I smiled and flashed my chef’s knife, “you’re gonna laugh, but I don’t think I’ve cooked for someone in two years…so this is my shot to impress you!”
“Are we sure this count as cooking?” He quickly retorted with a sarcastic, smug grin.
“Fuck off. Next time, you’re on the hook for the drunk food and we’ll see who’s better…” I hoped he wasn’t freaked out that I was insinuating that there would be a ‘next time’.
While the makeshift nachos baked in the oven, I showed him around my place.
He lingered longer when I showed him my room. I kept it pretty organized, perfectly in alignment just like the rest of my life. If anything was out of line, the whole pyramid that was my life might come crumbling down.
We munched on the nachos in relative silence but it didn’t feel awkward. I could also tell he was impressed with how I’d throw together a quick homemade salsa from onions, peppers, and a tomato I had lying around.
“Satisfied?” I asked, as we finished off our giant, unhealthy ‘meal’.
“It should do to soak up the beer.” He made a silly look like a king pleased with his service.
I grabbed a new blanket from the closet and a pillow from my bed, and threw them over to him on the couch. He had already plopped down on one end of my large, plush, L-shaped sectional. He stretched out, kicking off his shoes. He caught them from me and smiled, “thanks, man.”
I hit the bathroom to relieve myself, changed into a tee and shorts, and made my way back out to the living room to find him looking half-asleep and clearly buzzed. I collapsed on the opposite end of the couch, about seven feet and a mountain of pillows and blankets separating us as if we were in different universes. I grabbed the remote and put on some random HBO comedy to wind down.
The city lights twinkled in the background, and the TV droned on with its white noise. I would never admit it to him, but it felt…nice. To have someone here. To not be alone for once. I hadn’t had a sleepover with a guy friend since high school. It was a weird little high, the kind I used to get back then when my imagination was a little bit bigger and life was a whole lot simpler. I wondered if he thought it was strange, two grown men having a sleepover on a Saturday night. But he seemed perfectly comfortable, almost…excited when I’d invited him over.
After a while, the show ended and a new one came on. I checked the time on my phone. 2AM. We were both pretty drunk still and I knew I should probably get up and go to bed.
“I’m gonna hit the head,” Connor said, pushing himself up off the couch.
“Cool,” I said, grabbing my phone and scrolling through social media. I heard the bathroom door close, and then a few minutes later, it opened again. I heard the sound of a zipper, and then a soft rustle of clothes.
I glanced up. He was standing in the doorway of the living room, a silhouette against the hallway light. He had taken off his shirt and shorts, and now wore just these tight, tiny black briefs. I had to do a double take.
He was hot. The light from the hallway caught the lines of his abs, still defined, and the swell of his biceps. His legs were smooth and muscular, probably having propelled him high into the sky for spikes his entire volleyball career. They led up to a swirl of dark hair along his mid-thigh just below the material of his underwear. I could barely make out wisps of a happy trail just above his waistline, probably one that he usually shaved but hadn’t in a few days.
He turned around to stretch and I could see his defined butt straining against his briefs. It looked well-toned and maybe even a little bubbly, albeit smaller than mine.
Wait, did I just think he was hot? I felt a weird jolt go through me. Okay, not sexual, definitely not sexual. I think I was just admiring him, like I might at a museum with a sculpture of a guy in good shape; someone I’d want to look like. I told myself it was the beer, that my senses were a little messed up. I was comfortable with my sexuality and I’d always been able to appreciate a good physique. That’s all this was.
He padded across the room and plopped back down on his end of the couch in his underwear. I stirred a bit on my end, his body mostly now covered by the mess of pillows and blankets between us. “You heading to bed?” he asked.
I looked down at the time again, but shook off my responsible inner thoughts. “Nah. Not yet,” I didn’t want to go to bed. I didn’t want the night to end. I was enjoying the feeling of not being alone.
We sat in silence for another few minutes, the TV still on. I could feel the heat radiating off of him, the energy he was giving off. I felt like I could even smell him from the other side of the ouch? The show that was on cut to a sex scene…great. It was an abrupt change, the kind that makes you suddenly aware of the awkwardness next to someone you didn’t expect to be seeing something like this in front of. The sound of a woman moaning, a man grunting. I tried not to react, to just keep my eyes fixed on the screen. This was normal, it’s just a TV show.
I heard a small, ruffling noise from the other side of the couch. I glanced over, really only able to see about halfway up his body because of what was blocking us.
What the fuck. I saw his briefs slide down to his feet and come off his body. Was he…naked?
I wanted to be freaked out, to kick him out, but instead I found myself desperately wondering if I was imagining things. I heard what was clearly the sound of continuous movement and heavy breathing coming from a few feet away now, but I couldn’t bring myself to look in his direction. My eyes were glued to the TV screen, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt a cold dread wash over me.
Had I misread the entire night? Was he looking at me earlier? Was I overthinking things? Is he just drunk and watching what’s clearly a hot scene on the screen?
The rustling continued and I felt a wave of confusion, embarrassment, and an undeniable curiosity. I strained my head forward ever so slightly, just enough to try to get a glimpse of his groin; his upper body and face still behind a bunch of pillows.
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