I've Got It Bad (And You'll Never Know) (BXB)

i.

 Max shivered in his front row seat, clutching his arms around him. "You didn't tell me it was gonna be cold, asshole."

Julian laughed. "It's on ice, dumbass, you thought it was gonna be fuckin' summery in here?"

Max sunk deeper into the plastic seat. "Whatever. I shouldn't have come. I don't even fuckin' like sports."

"I don't know why the fuck you didn't have a sweater on you in the first place, shit for brains, it's Boston-- it'll probably be fuckin' freezin' by the time the game is over and the sun's down, you were gonna freeze your tuckus off either way."

"Well, fuck you. Shoulda told me it was gonna be cold."

"Real clever. You don't even have shit to complain about, I'm worse off than you! You see this shit?" Julian gestured to his plastic left leg, pulling up his pant leg to knock on it. "It doesn't exactly produce a lotta body heat!"

Max rubbed his arms quickly, trying to generate a little warmth. "Well, you're used to livin' with half a leg in the freezin' cold. I'm not adapted to this sub zero bullshit with no jacket."

"I'm not givin' you my jacket, just so that's crystal."

An indignant scoff. "You call yourself a fuckin' gentleman? Ask me to go to this stupid hockey game 'cause Lenny is sick, don't buy me dinner or nothin', and I don't even get your jacket? This is a load of bullshit."

Jules smiled. Though the dialogue was hostile, it was all said in friendly fun. If Max was really peeved, he'd get up and leave-- he was always pretty severe about what he wanted. He was cold, sure, but he wasn't going anywhere.

At seven o' clock, much to the crowd's delight, the players skated onto the ice. Julian was with them, whooping and hollering, while Max sat, cold and pissed off, giving a quiet "woohoo."

Julian punched him in the arm. "At least pretend you're havin' fun. These seats were an arm and a leg."

"Well, if this game goes too late, I'll reimburse ya with the arm and leg I'm about to lose to frostbite."

"Careful about amputee jokes, Max. Someday, I just might snap." Julian smirked.

The players trickled across the field, sometimes scattered, most of the time in small mobs. It took an impressive ten minutes into the first quarter for a fight to break out on the ice. Julian recognized the last name on one of the jerseys: Thatchlin.

He had calculus with Joey Thatchlin, and the kid was piss poor at it. He had once offered Jules fifty bucks to write his semester paper for him. Jules refused, not because he had any delusions about the importance of academic honesty, but because the guy was a real ass. Always talking up the girls he screwed with his hockey buddies in the back of the lecture hall instead of taking a second to write a note. It was a bother, honestly, because unlike the sports scholarship dipshit squad, Jules had to work his ass off to pay for his college education.

And these seats. Which were suddenly worth whatever Lenny was gonna ask him for the tickets as Jules watched Joey Thatchlin double over in pain, punched in the gut.

Max laughed, his dimple surfacing to the right side of his mouth. "Now I'm startin' to see the appeal of this shit."

The ref tried to cut in, but the two continued to exchange blows until the respective coaches yelled. That got Thatchlin to behave real quick. Hockey was kinda like that. Shitheads to the ref, puppies to the coach. Joey skated out of the ring, not before generously flipping the bird to his opponent, who returned the favor in full. On the sidelines, Joey dropped the helmet, ready to patiently explain to the coach what'd happened out there.

Max's laugh cut off as quickly as if he'd been shot.

"What's your problem?" Jules probed, elbowing Max in the side.

"Are they all that wicked pretty?"

Jules balked. "'Scuse me?!"

"That guy's a real fuckin' looker. All I'm sayin'."

"Max, buddy, you don't want to get involved. Believe me. Straight as an arrow. Mean. Not worth your time."

Max put his elbow on his knee, then his chin in his hand. He wore a goofy smile. His dimple looked deeper than before. "Well, an arrow can bend if it hits the right target."

"You're not listening good." Julian explained. "Let me spell it out for you. This guy gets mad pussy. Constantly. And enjoys the hell out of it. And then shouts about it in my calculus lectures, completely fuckin' ruinin' my enjoyment of integrals. And the bitch tries to pay people off to do his work, too, so he can keep his grades up to snuff to keep beating the shit out of people on the ice."

Max's face snapped towards Julian. "Well, Jules, I'm sorry not everybody can be as fuckin' smart as you are and figure out calculus with zero assistance."

"Big difference between getting a little help and paying people to write your semester paper."

But Julian had already lost. Max's mind was locked onto his target. "I'm sure you just haven't taken the time to get to know him, Jules. You get so freaked out about school shit that you never consider what other people are goin' through. I bet he's a real sweetheart..."

Well, Julian had definitely gotten Max to enjoy hockey. He spent the rest of the game in laser focus. But Julian left feeling a little heavy and a little nauseous.