Page 20 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

Beau grumbles and buries his face in the pillow.

“Get up or I’m going to tea bag the back of your neck,” I say. He mumbles something into the pillow but doesn’t move. A wicked grin stretches over my face and I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my workout pants. “Three seconds. Three… two…”

“I’m up.” He rolls towards the other side of the bed in a hurry and I cackle loudly.

At least my motivation tactics worked. I could probably be a coach once I’m too old to play. Ugh, I hate thinking about that, even if it is inevitable. Luckily, I’ve got plenty of good years ahead of me still. Maybe I’ll refuse to retire until they drag my dusty, aging body off of the ice at the decrepit age of, like, forty-five or something.

We don’t have a game today, which means we’ve got time for our own workout this morning before team practice this afternoon. Beau shuffles out of my bedroom, leaving his pillow abandoned on my bed. I pack a gym bag and fill a couple of water bottles while he goes across the hall to get dressed, and when we meet in the hall, he looks a lot more alert and slightly less grumpy.

“Ready to get those muscles moving?” I bounce back and forth on my toes, throwing fake jabs that don’t actually connect with any part of his body.

He grunts at me. “How the fuck do you have so much energy this early in the morning?”

I shrug. “Just wake up this way.”

Beau mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “sociopath.” I laugh and throw an arm around his shoulders.

“Come on, Bozy, you’ll feel better once we get one of those strawberry-kiwi protein shakes in your belly. That always perks you up.”

The smell of rain lingers in the air from the storm last night as we step outside and make our way down the street towards the smoothie place. I drag in a deep breath and enjoy the feeling of being home, surrounded by familiar buildings and the particular energy that’s unique to Boston. Maybe it’s the embedded history on every corner or the fierce loyalty of the residents that caresses my skin like a favorite sweater. It’s not chaotic like New York or LA, it moves at its own pace and has a personality all its own.

“Is there any better place to live in the entire fucking world?”

“It’s pretty great,” Beau agrees, and I smile.

The line at the smoothie shop is short this morning, and the girl working behind the counter looks new, but she seems to know her way around a blender and the cash register, moving through each order quickly. I definitely would have remembered her if she’d been working here when we’d been in before though. Her long, auburn hair and the full sleeve tattoos on both arms would have been hard to forget. When it’s our turn to order, she smiles at Beau, looking him up and down and batting her eyelashes in a way that goes way beyond angling for a good tip.

I glance over at him, and in true Beau fashion, he doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s squinting up at the menu board even though he orders the same thing every time. Normally I would go into wingman mode, start talking him up, maybe nudge him with my elbow so he can get his head in the game. A sick feeling churns in my stomach this morning at the thought of it though. Am I jealous? The girl is pretty damn cute, but that feels off. I’ve never begrudged Beau any gorgeous woman before.

“I’ll have a strawberry-kiwi protein smoothie,” Beau says.

“Strawberry-kiwi is my favorite,” she gushes. “You have good taste.” She grins at him and bites her bottom lip.

Alright, sister, maybe take it down a few notches. He still doesn’t seem to notice though. He gives her a polite smile, then glances over at me to see what I want. For some reason, that makes a warm feeling swell inside my chest like a helium balloon. I order a peanut butter and banana smoothie, and we step to the side to wait for our drinks.

Beau stuffs his hands into his pockets and quietly people-watches while we wait, and I spend the time studying him, trying to figure out why I’m feeling so strange lately. It’s not bad, exactly, just something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like all the best friend things I’ve always felt for him are turned up to eleven.

He’s my favorite person in the whole damn world; of course I feel protective of him sometimes, and I want what’s best for him, and I love to see him smile… If I can’t stop picturing his cum face, well, that’s only because I care about him and I like it when he feels good.

That’s just what best friends are for, isn’t it?

ELEVEN

BEAU

“You know that girl was flirting with you, right?”

I glance at Trav as we finish our walk to the gym. “What girl?”

“The smoothie girl.” He chuckles. “You didn’t notice at all, did you?”

Shaking my head, I sip my drink through the straw. “Not at all. Why do you say that?”

“She was being pretty obvious.”

“Was she cute?”

“Yeah. We can go back if you want to close the deal.”