Page 7 of Stud

His barking laugh bit through the line. “Fuck, man. Sorry. Thought you were Travis.”

“Travis? What happened to Chris?”

“It ran its course.”

Which meant he hit his one-month limit. Normally, I’d make a crack about him chasing a new guy for the shared-clothing benefits, or give him hell for sleeping around, but my patience wore past thin hours ago. I needed to drink beers or go for a run or take a cold shower. “I was thinking of kicking a ball around. You game?”

The sound of a can cracking open answered me. Then, “Sure. Travis plays, too. I can probably hustle up a couple more. Jimmy around?”

I ground my toe into the dirt. “Doubt it, but I’ll check. Three on three would be good.”

“You have no idea,” he said.

Ladies and gentleman, my brother the manwhore.

“Meet you at the field in an hour,” I said. Exactly what I needed. To run the soccer field. Chase out the messiness of the day. Shake the lingering heat left in Ainsley’s wake.

We hung up, and I was greeted by a missed text from Jimmy.

In town for some meetings. Free for a beer?

Another lucky break. How about kicking it at the park?

Even better.

Reconnecting with Jimmy was one of the bonuses of moving back to San Francisco. As a teen, I’d been a recluse before him and our days playing soccer for the California Regional League. I still wasn’t sure how Nana had paid for my spot on the team. Whenever I’d ask, she’d wave a dismissive hand, and say, “Not your concern.”

Come middle school, mine and Emmett’s clothes all came from Goodwill. Our lunches and dinners had been a study in stretching the dime—peanut butter measured, bread thinly sliced. Still, we’d crowd around the TV at night and watch Fred Astaire glide across the screen. Nana and Emmett would swoon, and I’d let my mind spin with the actor’s effortless grace, imagining myself the fleet-footed Casanova, sweeping women off their feet. But I was a second-hand kid in second-hand clothes.

Instead of picking up girls, I’d read books and study and dance with Nana to Irving Berlin and Cole Porter. She schooled me in the ways of women.

You’re always wrong.

You’re always sorry.

You always sleep in the wet spot.

I split my gut laughing when she laid that last one on me. We did that a lot, at least—danced and laughed and forgot how far on the edge we lived. Made me feel fortunate, not shafted. Then came soccer and Jimmy and teammates slapping my back. I’d busted my ass for my scholarship, landed a beautiful wife, a great job, and thought I’d made it big.

Turns out big looks a lot like lonely nights lit by the pallid glow of a computer screen. Empty bottles of Scotch. Fights. Silent treatments.

Man, did I need that run.

Two hours later, my T-shirt was suctioned to my chest. Our group of six had morphed into ten. Some eager teens were working the field when we’d arrived and opted into our pick-up game, dribbling like pint-sized Pelés, fast as fuck. The action put a grin on my face. Especially when Travis executed a decoy run, and I sent a killer pass to Emmett, who smoked their goalkeeper.

The little shits still won, but Emmett gave Travis’s ass a victory slap for the goal.

Followed by a cup and squeeze.

He’d often pull that move on me, grabbing my ass when we had an audience. With different fathers, we didn’t look related, and Emmett loved exploiting the differences, hoping to embarrass me. Earned him a few blows to the ribs from me when we were younger. These days, I barely noticed it—an ass grab from my obnoxious brother was as normal as a hug.

“Hope you guys didn’t get hernias!” one of the punks we’d played called. He nearly killed himself laughing as he kicked onto his bike.

“Ice those arthritic knees,” razzed another.

Emmett saluted them. “Remember to change your diapers before bed.”

We made our way to our pile of sweatshirts and bags, mopping our foreheads as we walked. Emmett stretched his torso, then cuffed the back of Jimmy’s head. “Your feet were cement blocks out there.”