Page 29 of Wedge

Not yet. Not like this. Not when he’s already spiraling about owing people. And definitely not the night to tell him I’m not taking a dime for this either.

“You’re not paying Ben back in dollars,” I say instead, keeping my voice even. “That was never the deal. You pay him back by doing exactly this. Get good enough that in five years some other broke kid gets a scholarship spot because you proved it was worth funding.”

“That’s not the same as actually paying money for something.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s better. Money’s easy for Ben. He writes a check and moves on. You’re paying in sweat, blisters, and nights like Steamboat. That costs more than any check.”

He stares at me for a long moment, jaw working, and I watch him try to find a hole in that logic and fail to.

“You really believe that.”

“I do.” I reach for him then, can’t help it, just his shoulder, brief, steady, the safest touch I can manage without it turning into something he’s not ready for yet. “Ben doesn’t need your money, Adrian. He needs to know his money matters. That’s a different currency.”

He leans into the touch, just slightly, just enough that I feel the pressure. Long enough that something in me screams to close the last foot of space between us, pull him in, let him fall apart against my chest, in my arms, calling me Daddy, instead of alone on a motel bedspread with a phone full of numbers he can’t make work.

I don’t. Ignoring the scream, I pull my hand back instead, slower than I want to, and stand up before I lose the thread of my own restraint entirely.

“Come on. Chow,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to sound, looking away from him before he can read my want all over my face. “Round two tomorrow. Nobody makes a cut on an empty stomach.”

He huffs something that’s almost a laugh, wiping quickly at his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

I grab my phone to order food, and give myself one long moment, back turned to him, to remember why I’m doing this the slow way. Because he’s worth doing right. Because rushing this would cost him something he can’t afford to lose either.

Even if it’s costing me something too, every single moment I don’t reach for him the way I want to. I need him to come to me, need to wait for that moment I can open my arms and he lets me wrap around him.

I pass my phone to him to pick something from the Chinese delivery menu and close the bathroom door behind me.

I need to take care of this hard-on so I can think straight. I grit my teeth as I cum into the shower drain, clenching hard so I don’t let out the bellow boiling in my throat. I may whimper. I stand under the spray for a long time afterwards, head bent, panting.

I finally shut the water off when the mirror fogs over completely and my fingertips are pruned. I’m not sure this helped much. I’m still quivering with the need to have him against me.

I slip on my sweatpants and pull on a clean t-shirt and leave the tiny bathroom, steam rolling out behind me into the room. He’s already picked something, his thumb still hovering over the screen. The Scotch I put in the mini-fridge is thick amber, and I pour a finger for myself, raising the bottle at him with a raised eyebrow. He shakes his head, so I put it back and lie back on my bed. Flicking on the TV, I find a basketball game. I don’t care about basketball. Perfect.

14

ADRIAN

Stephen comes out of the bathroom after a shower that lasts longer than normal, steam rolling out behind him. He flicks on the TV, landing on some basketball game. It’s replay coverage probably, since the Finals wrapped up already, Knicks celebrating a title I vaguely remember hearing about between range sessions and motel Wi-Fi.

I’ve already put in the food order, the app promising forty minutes. The room is dim except for the blue flicker of the screen, and the faded elk on the wall watches us both like it has opinions. He doesn’t seem to care what’s on, so much as needing something to look at that isn’t me. Or maybe he doesn’t want me staring at him.

I get that. I don’t really want him staring at me, either. Not with the way my chest still feels tight from everything we just talked about.

“You a basketball guy?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.

“Not really.” He doesn’t look away from the screen. “You?”

“Grew up watching whatever was on at whatever home I was in. Didn’t get to pick.” I say it easy, offhand, the way I’ve learned to say things about my childhood so they don’t land too heavy.

“Same,” Stephen says, quiet. “Home number two had a guy who never let go of the remote.”

“Yeah. I had one of those,” I reply.

“Man didn’t ask what anybody else wanted,” he says, and there’s an edge underneath it, old and worn smooth from handling it a long time, but still there if you know to listen for it. “Ever. About anything.”

I knew he didn’t like the guy. He’s said as much before, in pieces, over the weeks, but something about tonight makes it feel like there’s more underneath it than he’s said yet.