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“You play soccer?”
Chris squeezed his foot. “God, no. I used to row. Now I run, gym, nothing crazy. But why would I want to watch other people exercising?”
Joq’s laughter was low as his eyes moved back to the screen. “A lot of people do.”
“You interested in any of those people?” Chris knew Joq would know the kind of people who enjoyed watching sport better than anyone.
“God, no,” Joq replied.
“Exactly.”
Chris rubbed Joq’s feet—up the arch with a deep press of his thumbs, in between each toe, a firm caress around the ankles.
“Hmm, that feels good,” Joq murmured.
Chris looked away from the TV and saw Joq watching him intently even though his eyes were sleepy.
“What?” Chris asked.
“Nothing,” Joq’s face flashed with a weird sadness for a moment before he erased it and smiled for real.
“No, tell me,” Chris pressed.
Joq roused himself. Chris held the look and waited.
“You don’t look at me like a hook-up,” Joq said.
Chris squeezed his foot.
“How do I look at you?”
“I don’t know,” Joq replied seriously, “but it’s not like that.”
He swallowed. Joq watched him do it.
“But you are,” Joq said finally.
“What?”
“A hook-up.”
Chris tugged Joq’s feet into his middle and held them, his fingers pressing down and releasing in a possessive hold. He had to look away. The moment felt charged, and he felt like shit all of the sudden.
“I am,” he replied, voice hollow.
“You could do better,” Joq said after a while and Chris startled a laugh.
“What?”
Joq was smiling when Chris looked at him.
“That’s what I said to you, when we met,” Chris smiled at the memory. “You were scrolling through guys on your phone and I looked and said, ‘you could do better.’”
Joq frowned. But then he shook his head and looked back at the TV.
“I don’t remember,” he murmured.
Chris shrugged like it didn’t matter, ignored his disappointment. He shook Joq’s feet and tried to make light of the moment. He leaned forward and grabbed his beer, took a drink, and sat back.
