Page 11 of Sportsball is for Lovers

I squint at him. “What would you do if your best friend virtually dumped you when you got drafted to different teams, and now ten years into the league you’re suddenly on the same team?”

“Well, I’d fuck him, clearly,” he says.

Sullivan is the most heterosexual male I know. He’s gone to gay clubs with his brother for years, playing wingman for Theo before he met his now husband. He’s also fully devoted to his girlfriend, who he pined over for years.

But I write queer romance, and he knows that, so I appreciate that he’s playing along.

“Actually…” He sips his beer. “That kind of happened with me and my buddy Miles. We were friendly growing up, went to different high schools, and then we played for the same college team. We didn’t hang out even then. It wasn’t until we graduated that we really became friends again.”

“Were you upset with him when you reconnected?”

He shrugs. “I had my head up my ass. I was thoroughly in my slutty phase, he was in his insecure hermit phase, and we both had to grow up a bit beyond that to see eye to eye. We’re good now, though. I stood up in his wedding last fall.”

My brain whirrs with buzzing thoughts. It’s a quirk of neurodivergence; sometimes it feels like my brain is a separate entity from myself. Even though my therapist is convinced I don’t have a personality disorder, every few months I fall down a spiral of self-doubt. Juggling the “real me” Sadie with my work persona of Sylvie is hard enough.

That’s the downfall of being a hypochondriac with absentminded tendencies. I forget we’ve already ruled something out and convince myself I have whatever new diagnosis I see.

Sullivan says something, and I shake my head, not ready to hear him. I’m too distracted by the shiny new story idea percolating in the background of my mind.

After a few moments of chewing on the thoughts, I pull out my notebook and start scribbling down ideas. This is one of the hazards of being a writer; inspiration can strike at any time, even if I’m not ready for it. It’s really fucking fun, though.

My phone buzzes on the table in front of me. Flipping it over, I read the display, and a fizzle of heat rushes through me.

“What’s up?” Sullivan asks.

It’s J. The guy from Tulsa. It’s been ages since our seriously hot hookup.

What’s the chance you’re in Boston tonight?His message burns through me.

I live in Boston, I reply back. The app is telling me he’s seven miles away.

Want to meet up?

“Oh, shit,” Sullivan says, interrupting my thoughts. “Some dude?”

Nodding, I bite my lip, processing.

“You going to see him?”

I had a perfectly nice time with J in our one night together. I wouldn’t be opposed to repeating…

Can’t host. I can come to you, I text back. I never invite one-night stands back to my place.

In response, he sends me a pin to a hotel in Fenway-Kenmore. Seeing my brother for dinner. Should be free by 9.

I send him a thumbs up in reply and pick up my beer again, taking a sip to calm down my seriously warm face.

I haven’t gotten laid in—was Tulsa the last time?? That is very much atypical for me. Work has been seriously full-on; I’ve barely had time for myself, much less my friends or a hookup.

Tonight? Oh yeah, I’m going to get mine.

“Get it, girl,” Sullivan says, seeing my smirk. He lifts his beer against mine. “May he give you all the screaming Os you deserve.”

“So like, twenty?” I grin.

He shudders.

“Okay, I’ll settle for three. Maybe four,” I concede. I already know J can deliver.

“We’ll get together next week for a debrief,” Sullivan promises.