Weekend Friend

06.

I STAND FROZEN in the doorway, my thoughts coming to a screeching stop as mental fire alarms blare.

My vision narrows in on Tatum leaning against the kitchen counter, his angular side profile on full display as he speaks with his team's other captain, Kile Zhang. Maybe it's just me, but Tatum seems to have a resting-stoic-face. It's captivating but in an understated way like a statue in a lesser-travelled gallery of the Louvre. And maybe it's also just me, but Tatum pulls off the whole classic dark wash jeans and white t-shirt look in a way that would still turn heads on the red carpet.

As I remain frozen, my brain runs a quick cost-benefit analysis. I could go strike up a conversation with Tatum while I have liquid courage coursing through my veins. Or I could vanish into the crowd and eventually circle back to retrieve my hard-earned shot of tequila. In that scenario, I'd avoid making any awkward verbal slip-ups. My mind lingers on this option, and I quickly decide that now is not the time for an encounter with Tatum.

Just as I'm about to reroute to literally anywhere else, Tatum's gaze haphazardly collides with mine, and I immediately feel like a raccoon caught rummaging through the bin all over again. Truth is, I really shouldn't feel this way because some logical part of my brain knew that Tatum Wolff would be at this party—he's the striker for Christ's sake—but I hadn't gone out of my way to look for him. And there's no reason for me to look for him. Because whether Tatum intends to or not, he's a transitory presence. He wasn't a regular at the Sunday night dinners that Sydney hosted last year. He didn't consistently study on CCB3 the way I did. He couldn't seem to make up his mind as to whether I was someone who he liked talking to.

It's why I find his presence somewhat startling, despite the fact that he wields the kind of magnetic clout that has anointed him a campus celebrity and shows up in all the bright and shiny places that Claremont has to offer. I didn't bat an eye when I saw that his picture now appears alongside Levi and Kile on the electronic billboards set up around the athletic complex.

But looking at Billboard Tatum is very different from looking at In-Person Tatum, whose complicated blue eyes could cut a diamond, and are now fixed on me. There's a few seconds of searing panic when I think he'll ignore me, and I brace for the sharp sting of rejection. My ego won't be obliterated, but I'll need to nurse my pride and accept the fact that we now operate in the awkward emotional no man's land between sometimes friends and sometimes something more...intimate.

But then Tatum proves me wrong, shooting me that clever smize of his. "I take it you and Sydney won?"

So he was watching.

I don't know how to feel about this subtle revelation.

Question: Why didn't he make his presence known?

Answer: Because he's Tatum fucking Wolff and probably gets off by moving like a ghost.

Bristling at my blunt line of internal questioning, I roll back my shoulders and say, "Well obviously."

I note the drink on the island next to Tatum, but the clearness in his eyes suggests that he's on track to wake up tomorrow without a headache. The same probably can't be said for me. I won't be setting a PR on my run with Parker tomorrow.

Kile chuckles, swiping a stray lock of midnight hair out of his dark eyes. "So you guys remain undefeated. That's impressive."

"We're three-for-three." I'm not above gloating.

Kile lets out a low whistle. "Don't be surprised when Levi tries to recruit you next time. He'll want to stick it to Atwood."

Tatum's jaw ticks.