7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Ian’s words echoed through his mind through his two afternoon classes, and even though his attention span was usually great, Dean found himself unable to focus.

The thoughts followed him through the quick dinner he grabbed before practice.

Then to the gym, after.

And then, because fate was pointedly laughing at him, it dumped the very subject of his unruly thoughts right in front of him.

In the gym.

Shirtless.

Muscles straining as Brody worked his lats on one of the machines.

The sports teams at Portland U rotated use of the gym, each having their own scheduled time, but Tuesday night was always open, for anyone who wanted to use it.

Usually Dean avoided open gym because he hated having to share with a bunch of egotistical jocks who were sure that they knew best.

But he’d gone tonight, because Coach had taken it easy on them, this first practice after the bye week, and he’d felt too much crawling under his skin.

Too much something.

So he’d stopped by the gym, hoping that exhaustion might silence that feeling and also that he might continue to avoid Brody until he’d dealt with the former.

Until he’d managed to stop craving him, in this weird, painfully obsessive way that was totally unlike him.

Dean stared at Brody’s figure. Remembering, in way too complete detail, exactly how his back had felt when Dean had slipped his fingers under his T-shirt.

How his breath had shuddered as he’d come apart.

The way his lips searched for Dean’s. Had wanted to keep kissing him, even as he came.

According to everyone else, you’re probably not being all that weird or obsessive.

Normal people probably wanted each other all the time and did something about it and then moved on, but Dean had long acknowledged that his singular drive had ruined normal for him, maybe even forever.

Of course that didn’t explain Brody, but then anyone who was playing NCAA hockey and also getting a degree in biology probably wasn’t normal either.

Maybe that was why he’d actually connected to the guy. Dean’s weirdness had called out to Brody’s weirdness.

Not for the first time, he wanted to call up Ramsey and tell him to fuck off. Interfering piece of shit.

Brody finished his set and looked up, sweat making the ripples of his back muscles shine under the fluorescent gym lights, and their gazes met in the mirror.

You’re caught.

“Hey,” Brody said, turning around to face Dean. His voice was normal, expression the same.

Probably nothing like how Dean looked, deer in the headlights at the vision of Brody’s bare chest. The trail of golden brown hair that led down to the waistband of his shorts, hanging low on his hips.

One tug, and he’d get an eyeful of what he hadn’t been lucky enough to see on Friday night.

Fucking snap out of it, man .

“Uh, hey,” Dean said awkwardly.

“Don’t usually see you here on a Tuesday,” Brody said.

It was totally normal, totally friendly small talk.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He did not say, And you won’t ever again, now that I know you come here on Tuesday nights.

Brody ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Not that you . . .uh . . .don’t look like you spend plenty of time here.”

At least he’d said look instead of feel . Because during their hookup, Brody’s hands had been all over his body, like he’d been glorying in the firmness of it.

Like he couldn’t get enough.

But he’d definitely gotten enough. That much had been clear right after it had ended.

Dean reminded himself of that particular fact. How anxious the aftermath had made him. How much he did not need this fucking drama in his life.

Relaxation, Ian had said.

Well, maybe he and Brody could at least be friendly. Surely he could conquer this craving to revisit their experiment, and if he could, then they could go back to the way they’d started to be before the whole damn experiment.

That Brody had relaxed him just fine.

“Yeah, I do,” Dean said. He set his water bottle by the big mat on the other side of the gym. Originally he’d planned to do some ab work and then put in a hard run, because nothing wore him out like strengthening his core.

But he usually stripped off his shirt first.

Brody’s shirtless. Are you gonna make this even weirder than it already is?

Forcing himself to stop overthinking, he lifted it up and off, tossing it down next to his water.

As he went down to the mat, he could feel Brody’s eyes hot on his shoulders. Skimming down his chest.

His body was a tool, sure, a surefire way he was going to change his life, but he was proud of the way it looked too. How hard he worked to maintain it. To improve it. To make it the very best it could be.

And if Brody wanted to look and enjoy it too . . .well, Dean wasn’t going to go out of his way to stop him.

On the other side of the room, he heard Brody moving around, changing machines. Then the inevitable sound of metal clunking together as he started another set.

But he didn’t look. Didn’t let himself. It was only his history of intense focus to the exclusion of everything else that kept his gaze locked onto the mat.

After a few warmup stretches, Dean picked up the medicine ball, took a deep breath and began.

Fifteen minutes later, sweat was dripping down his face, his core was burning and that was of course, the moment Brody reappeared in his line of vision.

“Hey,” Brody said.

Dean swallowed hard, his abs aching, as he swiped a hand across his forehead.

“You’re sure working hard over here,” Brody said, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a teasing smile. Dean felt his abs twitch, and that was a good and a bad thing.

“Well, you . . .uh . . .know what they say,” Dean said.

“What do they say?”

Dean wanted to kiss the tilt off that mouth.

But he didn’t, because that would’ve been crazy, and he was trying very hard not to fall into crazy right now.

“Uh, yeah, that there’s no point in working if you’re not working hard,” Dean said. Felt like apologizing. Stupid. So fucking stupid . “Or at least that’s what Coach Stevens says to us.”

“You must like him,” Brody said, and when Dean nodded, he added, “‘You know, since you’re hard work’s biggest fan.”

Dean laughed, the sound startled right out of him, and he regretted that, because his abs were beginning to burn.

“I didn’t know hockey players could make jokes,” Dean said. If Brody was going to tease, to try to return them to the relatively easy acquaintanceship they’d occupied before the other night, then he wasn’t going to let that opportunity pass him by.

“Oh, we’re full of them,” Brody claimed. “Haven’t you ever met Ramsey?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. He couldn’t help it.

“Yeah, a few times, and he’s sure something.”

“Oh, so it’s just me you didn’t think was very funny,” Brody teased. Dean opened his mouth to argue that no, he hadn’t thought that at all, actually, but before he could, Brody continued. “I was going to do the bench press, but I didn’t want to do it alone. You okay to spot me for a few?”

“Sure, if you’ll do the same.” Dean hadn’t intended to work on his chest or shoulders, but if Brody was going to do it and he was going to be forced to watch, then at least he could return the favor.

Because that was what roommates slash friendly acquaintances did, right?

“’Course,” Brody said, and he reached out a hand to help Dean up.

Dean took it before he could think better of it. Before he realized that this was the first time they’d touched since the couch.

Brody’s hand was big and calloused. Strong. Sensation raced up his arm, and Dean ignored it, coming to his feet, trying to tell himself it was just remnants of his workout, even though he’d been focusing on his abs, not on his arms.

He squeezed his fingers into a fist and then released them, once then twice then a third time as he and Brody walked over to the bench press station.

Unsurprisingly, the weight was set to two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

“Ugh,” Brody said as he gestured towards the weights, beginning to slide them off, “why is it always set to this whenever I come in?”

He pulled off fifty pounds, leaving the bar at a very respectable one-seventy-five.

Dean barked out another laugh as he moved behind it. “You don’t know?”

“No?” Brody sat down on the bench and then leaned back, settling his back against it.

“Two-twenty-five is the weight we have to bench press at the NFL combine.”

“So if you just bench two-twenty-five you’re good?”

“No, no. You do as many reps as you can at that weight.”

“Oh. Huh. Well. Our strength and conditioning guy is always telling us we’ve got to be strong, but agile. So less weight, more reps.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not judging your one-seventy-five,” Dean joked.

Maybe at a different time and with a different person he might’ve. But he already knew Brody more than pulled his weight. That he was strong. It was impossible to look at his beautifully cut chest and arms and down lower, to his flat stomach, his abs rippling as he positioned himself underneath the bar, and think he didn’t put a lot of work in here at the gym.

“Oh, thanks,” Brody teased right back. “I’m flattered.”

Brody had to know how gorgeous he was. Nothing too big or bulky, just fluid muscle, emphasizing the lines of his body, not hiding them.

“You should be,” Dean said. Maybe they were trying to be only friendly now—an unspoken agreement between them to return to how they’d been before that time on the couch— but friends didn’t hide the truth.

“Aw, you’re such a softy underneath all that hard work, hard body mantra, Scott.”

Dean’s heart quickened at Brody’s words, but instead of letting himself feel it, he chided himself to focus .

Even one-seventy-five wasn’t chump weight, and Brody wasn’t going to hurt himself, not on Dean’s watch.

“You ready?” Dean asked. Not sure how to deal with Brody’s admission that he had a hard body. Maybe it was just another truth. Or maybe it was something more. So he ignored it.

“Yeah,” Brody said, getting set. He had great form, and even though it was second nature for Dean to always check for it when he was spotting in the gym, he didn’t have a single comment to make about Brody’s.

He lifted the bar, arms flexing in a way that Dean didn’t want to admit was distracting—but was— and began his reps, breathing out and in steadily as he thrust the bar upward.

Five reps, and he set the bar back on the rack.

“Good,” Dean said, even though it was probably useless, ’cause surely Brody knew how good he was.

So fucking good you can’t get enough.

“Thanks,” Brody said shortly. He wiped his face with a towel and tossed it back on the floor.

Some guys waited a freaking eternity between reps, but Brody wasn’t one of those, and respect for his hard work bloomed in Dean’s chest.

Brody settled back and began the next rep set.

On the fifth and final set, Dean could see he was struggling a little, muscles trembling with the effort, face glowing red, but he finished it with the same graceful, intentional movements he’d started with.

“Great job,” Dean said, nodding with his approval.

“Thanks.” Brody was breathless now, chest flushed, sweat trickling down to the waistband of his shorts, and Dean clenched his fists again.

He didn’t want to be thinking like this. He didn’t want to be so hyper-aware of Brody, not this way. He hadn’t ever wanted to live a lie, but he also hadn’t expected that this guy was gonna be the one to make him face these hard truths.

“You ready now?” Brody asked, after he stood and then wiped down the machine.

Ugh. He even wipes down the machines.

“Yeah.”

Dean added the weight back.

“How many of these can you do?” Brody wondered as Dean settled onto the bench.

“A few,” Dean said. “We’ll start with thirty, six reps of five and go from there.”

Dean couldn’t see Brody easily, with him standing behind the bench, but he could practically hear his eyebrows rise.

“Alright,” Brody said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Dean sank into his place—a spot in his mind with laser-sharp focus, where he always went when faced with a physical challenge—and let the rest of the world fall away. Even Brody.

There was only the bar and its weight and his own body, and how he could not only move it, but control it.

His knuckles creaked with the strength of his grip, and he lifted the bar and began his first rep.

Breathe. In and out.

One down. Four to go.

Then there were three.

Two.

One.

Dean set the bar down on its rest and let out another big gust of air, clearing out his lungs and filling them with fresh.

His arms felt strong, invincible, but he knew this was the easy part.

After he hit twenty, that was when things were going to get hard. Or harder .

“You’re really good at this.” Brody’s voice drifted over him.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

He hadn’t been, at first.

But once he’d learned the intricacies of the combine tests, he’d started working hard on getting as many reps as he could.

He did the second set.

And then the third. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth.

He was sweating in earnest now, his arms burning, but he still had some more in him. He wanted to push himself. For the combine , he lied to himself, not because of who’s watching.

“Fuck,” Brody exhaled sharply behind him as Dean set the bar down for the fourth time.

“I’m good to do some more,” Dean said.

Last year, there’d been two linebackers at the combine who’d hit thirty-one.

He intended to be able to do thirty-five by the time it was his turn.

“Are you sure?”

Dean kind of hated the skepticism in his voice.

“Yeah.” He needed to be sure.

“I wasn’t wrong; you’re crazy strong,” Brody said. “Or maybe just crazy.”

“I got shit to prove,” Dean said stubbornly and then after centering himself again, picked up the bar and ground out three more reps, his muscles shaking with the effort on the final one.

“Shit,” he said, when he finally managed to set the bar back on its rack. “I don’t think I can feel my arms anymore.”

“That was insane and impressive, and I’m real glad I didn’t have to actually take it from you,” Brody admitted. “I’m not sure I could’ve.”

“Sure you could have,” Dean disagreed. He wiped his face with the towel. Then wiped down the bench and the bar. “You’re strong, too, Brody.”

But Brody was side-eyeing him. “Not like you,” he said.

And even though he should be totally fucking worn out with the exercise he’d done tonight, the image flashed in his mind.

His arms, strong and sure, pinning Brody to the wall, mouth devouring his. Then because that wasn’t enough—it was never enough—him lifting him up, Brody’s muscular thighs wrapping around his waist.

Dean trembled. And not because of the effort he’d just put in.

“Ah, well, we need to be,” Dean stammered. He looked away, suddenly far too aware that at this late hour, they were the only ones here.

And with all the utilitarian decor and floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting the equipment back onto themselves, the gym shouldn’t have felt private or intimate, but Dean realized suddenly that it felt like both .

“Right,” Brody agreed. “Hey, you wanna grab a shower and then a smoothie? Sammy’s is open late. We can hang out for a bit, too, if you have any homework left.”

Normally, Dean would’ve had no issues deflecting the invite. He did it often enough. But he found himself wanting to accept, even though it was probably a bad idea.

He didn’t need to spend more time with Brody Faulkner to realize that the other night probably hadn’t been a fluke as much as an inevitability. But they were trying to be friends, right?

As Dean was internally debating, Brody added, with one of those irrepressibly charming lopsided smiles that he had to know were fucking lethal, “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends hang out, Dean.”

Dean hadn’t been able to say before this moment that they were friends. They hadn’t hung out that many times before the couch had happened, and then there was the couch. That had been very much not a friendly kind of occurrence. Then after, Dean had gone out of his way to avoid Brody.

So no, he wouldn’t have counted them as friends. Even after tonight.

Of course, it had taken Wes at least a whole year to convince Dean that they were friends.

Maybe he was just too particular about the term.

“Yeah, they do,” Dean agreed. He almost said, but we’re not friends, necessarily , but he could at least see how Brody might find that offensive.

Especially since he’d so casually assumed it was true.

“So, you coming or not?”

“Sure,” Dean said. He picked up his shirt. Then his water bottle, guzzling half of it.

The gym showers were fancy and had nice separators, unlike the locker room at the football field, so at least he was saved the undeniably arousing sight of hot water running down Brody’s naked body. The body he hadn’t even seen when they’d hooked up before.

But you wanna see it. That voice was insidious and didn’t want to be denied, but still, Dean made an effort and squashed it like a bug, forcing it down and muting it. By the time he met up with Brody, he was clean and in control again.

Ready to just hang out.

Nothing like the “hanging out” they’d done on Friday night.

Sammy’s was a sub and smoothie shop kitty corner from the athletic complex and the gym. Dean didn’t go there as often as a lot of the guys from his team, because he could make smoothies and sandwiches so much more cheaply at home, and money was always a consideration.

Clearly, it wasn’t for Brody, but it was hard for Dean to hold that against him these days. His resentment had melted away, like it had never existed at all.

How could he be resentful when the guy was so downright nice and friendly and charming, with no stuffy ego whatsoever?

Dean forgot more than he remembered that Brody’s parents were rich and he’d probably never worried about where his next meal was coming from a single day in his whole life.

Even when he so adeptly maneuvered them so after they ordered, Brody just slipped the cashier a card, paying for both their smoothies and the sandwich they’d agreed to split.

Dean got mad at Wes whenever he tried to do the exact same goddamn thing, so he wasn’t sure why his temper wasn’t spiking now. Still, he didn’t want it to continue. If he and Brody really were going to be friends, then Dean needed to pull his own weight.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he said as they took their seats in the corner booth.

“I know,” Brody said. “But I wanted to. Call it a friendly gesture.”

It was on a tip of Dean’s tongue to ask if making out on their couch was also a friendly gesture, but Brody was being so pointed about not bringing it up that he decided he’d be dumb as rocks if he didn’t follow suit. After all, he was the one who was sure it wouldn’t be happening again.

“So you’ve decided that for me, then?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a feeling you don’t have many people you call friends, even if they’d feel differently. And I’m not patient enough to wait around for you to make up your mind.” Brody shot him a teasing grin as he pulled out a massive textbook from his backpack.

“That’s unfair,” Dean grumbled.

“But true.” Brody’s very white, very even teeth flashed again.

“But true,” Dean finally had to agree.

“I’ll say this, you’re a far better roommate than Ramsey would’ve been.”

Dean chuckled. “No shit.”

“He said I wasn’t . . .um . . .practical. Good at school, bad at life.” Brody made a face.

It was close, but Dean nearly nodded, agreeing with Ramsey. But then he remembered that he was trying to be friends and even though it was probably a bad idea, Ian’s admonitions were still ringing in his ears, and he didn’t have so many friendships he could just burn the ones he did have.

Dean had been educated the hard way, with a tough life that he was still trying to escape, clawing his way up with just his fingernails. Brody had never had to do that. But that also wasn’t his fault. “You’re one of the smartest guys I know,” Dean finally said as diplomatically as he could.

Brody sighed. “That’s a nice way of saying that yeah, Ramsey was right. I wasn’t coddled, but I suppose I am lucky in that I didn’t have to worry about a lot of the shit you did. That Ramsey did.”

“Ramsey?”

Brody straight up laughed. “You really don’t know him, do you? He was a foster kid.”

“I think I’ve met him twice, so no, not really,” Dean admitted with a wince.

“Seriously?” Brody’s eyes widened. “You’re serious. Oh my God, he met you twice and decided you were a better roommate for me than he was.”

“From what you’ve told me about him, it doesn’t sound like he was wrong, though,” Dean pointed out.

There was a part of him that wanted to ask, and what if we hadn’t moved in together? Would you have conducted your experiment with some other lucky guy? Would you have kissed him the way you kissed me, like you couldn’t get enough?

But he kept his mouth shut, because they were trying to be friends, and Dean had always believed there was no room in friendship for jealousy or resentment.

“And that’s the worst of it,” Brody said wryly. “He wasn’t wrong, not even a little. I hate it when Ramsey’s right.”

“He right that much?” They’d come here supposedly to study, and Dean did have pages to read, but neither of them had made any move to actually open their books.

“All the fucking time.”

It was weird that while Dean hadn’t grown up in foster care—though maybe he’d actually have had a better childhood if he had—he’d turned out like this: insanely dedicated to one goal and one goal only. To make sure he never worried about money or security ever again.

But unlike him, Ramsey seemed unconcerned about almost everything.

Hockey seemed to be the one exception. Brody had mentioned he’d been drafted a few years back, in the mid-rounds, and after he graduated, he’d likely move into pro hockey. But other than that, he seemed to not care about much. Relationships or school or his future position in life.

Dean couldn’t really understand it, but then he supposed to even try, he’d have had to be a psychology major.

“He seems like an interesting guy,” Dean said.

Brody just shrugged though. “I guess you could say that. He’s like a duck, you know how they have those slick feathers on their back, and water just slides right off? That’s Ramsey. Everything just slides off him. He’s one of my best friends and sometimes I don’t think I know him at all.”

“Huh.” Dean didn’t know what to say. Even the few friends he had he wouldn’t have said for sure he knew . There was Wes, of course, but he always felt like more the exception than the rule—and even then, Dean didn’t know if he’d say that he and Wes knew each other, the way Brody seemed to take for granted.

“Just saying, he’s like. . .opaque and all that shit.”

“ Opaque. Fucking hell. Maybe I shouldn’t be calling you rich boy or pretty boy, but smart boy.” Dean said it without thinking and then regretted it because of the flush blooming across Brody’s cheeks.

“Brody!” a voice called out. “Your order’s ready!”

“I . . .uh . . .I’ll go grab it,” Brody said as he slid out of the booth. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough from the sudden awkwardness between them.

Dean hadn’t meant to say pretty boy. Not when Brody had made it so clear they were going to be friends—and nothing else.

Shit. He was gonna need to get his head on straight.

With that in mind, he pulled out his own textbook and opened it up to the place he’d marked with a scrap of paper earlier.

When Brody returned with their sandwich, wrapped in its brown paper, and their two smoothies, Dean was attempting to read the first paragraph.

Of course, just because his eyes were reading, didn’t mean his brain was comprehending. No, it was stuck on the way Brody leaned over, depositing his half of the sandwich next to Dean’s textbook.

“Biology?” Brody asked, raising an eyebrow as he took in the page Dean was attempting to read.

“Well, yeah, physical education isn’t all pushups and the rules of tag,” Dean retorted.

“I guess maybe we should start calling you smart boy,” Brody teased, and suddenly they were both grinning at each other and it felt, at least to Dean, like maybe he’d imagined the heat suddenly blooming between them when he’d called Brody pretty boy .

Yep, it was all in your own head, so get out of it, and be cool with what you’ve got now. It’s better than what you might’ve imagined.

But the problem was that it wasn’t all Dean had imagined.