He Says He's Just A Friend

Chapter 71 - Tolerate It

- Emmett -

Clay and I sat with his friends on the top rows of the stadium. They were all so animated, heavily invested in the game. It devastated them every time the other team got the advantage, and they became equally excited every time their team succeeded. They jumped around and screamed instructions and curses at the players, as if the team could actually hear them. Their behavior utterly baffled me.

But I supposed they would look at me funny if they saw me at a concert. When Carrie and I saw Taylor Swift two years ago, I screamed myself hoarse. I lost my voice for two days.

I leaned in to speak into Clay's ear to be heard over the crowd's cheering. "I'm going to get something to eat."

Clay turned his head toward me, keeping his eyes fixed on the field. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"That's okay." I patted his thigh. "Do you want anything?"

"Just make your drink a large, please. I'll share it." Clay said, still distracted. He winced as a player got tackled.

"As if you even had to ask."

Clay finally tore his eyes away from the game to look at me. He smiled, his lips parting to show his teeth.

I stood up, letting my hand slowly slip from his until it was out of reach.

Halfway down the steps, someone clapped a hand on my shoulder. I got excited, thinking Clay had come after me. But it was only Brandon. He smiled at me.

When we reached the bottom, Brandon walked side-by-side with me in silence. I finally asked, "Are you getting food, too?"

"Fuck no!" Brandon looked horrified at the idea. "I don't eat trash like that. I work too goddamn hard for these." He lifted his shirt and flexed his stomach to show off his sculpted abs.

"Impressive."

Brandon winked and flashed a cocky grin. "I know." He tilted his head, scrutinizing me. "You know, I could help you tone up. You've got a decent base to work with. With some intensive training, you could get some excellent definition."

"I think I'm good."

"Okay. But all the girls love the abs. I bet Clay would like 'em, too."

I tried not to be offended. I suspected he was trying to be nice. "He hasn't complained yet, so I'll pass."

"Let me know if you change your mind." Brandon said. He broke away from me, turning to go into the men's bathroom.

In the concession stand line, I studied the menu. My eye caught on the nachos. Clay once said he loved the nachos at sporting events—the bastardized version with the round chips and the yellow cheese sauce that probably had no actual cheese in it. He and his father used to share them every time they went to games at the local college, before he got sick. They weren't something I would choose, but I got them anyway, because I knew he'd appreciate it.

"Hey," Brandon said, walking up to stand beside me at the pickup window. "It occurred to me that what I said might have offended you. I'm not trying to say that you have to work out or anything. I mean, Clay likes you the way you are. Obviously. He fell for you. I've been told I can be too blunt."

"It's fine." I said. "Really."

A woman appeared at the pickup window with the nachos and a large drink. I thanked her and took it, tucking the drink between my chest and my cast. I'd be so glad when I could get rid of that damn thing.

As we headed back to the stairs, I overheard a guy off to the side say, "Isn't that the guy from Clay's video?"

Another guy chimed in: "That thing made me sick. Did you see the way they were kissing? I can't believe Clay gave up Summer Reynolds to be some fag's butt boy."