What He Left Behind(32)

“I don’t see how football doesn’t make sense to you.” Michael shrugs. “I mean, even if you don’t understand the rules and the plays, it’s a bunch of guys in tight, shiny pants throwing each other around. What’s not to love?”

“The fact that the refs keep interrupting right when the throwing-each-other-around part starts getting good?”

They both pause, glance at each other and shrug.

“He does have a point,” Ian says.

Michael nods. “Can’t argue.”

I arch an eyebrow. “But this isn’t going to put an end to all your conversations about scrimmage and passing games and—”

“Not a chance,” they say in unison.

I sigh dramatically. “Damn it.”

Ian nods past me. “Need a hand with groceries?”

“Yes, please.”

Michael comes too, and between the three of us, the trunk is empty in one trip, even with the giant bag of dog food and two boxes of cat litter. Of course, the minute we start unpacking everything and putting it all away, Michael and Ian are back to analyzing the bullpen and the…the…whatever the hell baseball fanatics analyze. The minute they’re on that topic, my eyes glaze over and I tune them out, because oh my God yawn.

As much as sports bore me to tears, though, it’s good to see the two of them talking like nothing’s changed. They’re bantering and debating—holy shit, I will never understand how there is so much to discuss about sports—as if we’re back to the days before Ian suggested I sleep with Michael.

Maybe nothing has changed.

Ian puts a few plates of munchies out on the table beside the tub, along with a couple of bottles of wine. Then he and I run up to the bedroom to put on our swim trunks while Michael changes clothes in the downstairs bathroom.

And finally, it’s time to relax for the evening as our weekend winds to a close.

“You boys know the rules.” I lower myself into the water. “Sports are banned from the tub.”

“Fine.” Michael slides in across from me. “No sports.”

Ian settles beside me. “Eh, that’s okay. It was getting depressing anyway.”

Michael grunts in agreement. “Fucking team.”

“Right?”

I clear my throat.

“Sorry,” they both mutter.

I chuckle. “What can I say? There isn’t enough wine in the world to make that topic interesting.”

Michael grins. “Well, there’s always the new season of The Walk—”

“No.” Ian glares at him. “Absolutely not.”

Snickering, I pat his arm. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Besides the fact that it’s a stupid show that needs to be erased from human history?”

I shrug. “Well, yeah.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Wine?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

“Definitely,” Michael replies. “I need a drink after listening to such heresy.”

Ian mutters something and starts pouring the wine. After he’s distributed the glasses, he says, “To Friday getting here as soon as f*cking possible.”

“Cheers.”

We clink glasses and then settle back against our respective sides of the tub.

Ian starts to take a drink but winces and lowers his glass. “Dammit,” he mutters, reaching under the water and grimacing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Feet.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. It was a long week, and they will not let me forget it.”

“Huh?” Michael cocks his head. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

Ian scowls. “They’ve apparently decided that standing in front of my classes a few hours a day is bullshit.” He brings one foot up and rests it on his other knee so he can rub it gingerly. “The last few months, they’re sore as f*ck by Friday, and lately, they’re still aching by Sunday.”

“Why don’t you sit while you lecture?” I ask. “I know it’s not your favorite way to do things, but it might be easier on your feet.”

“Yeah, maybe. I might have to for a little while, just until this stops.”

Michael clears his throat. “I could, um…” His eyes dart toward me. “If it’s not too weird, I give decent foot massages.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up. I damn near drop my glass in the water.

Michael recoils a little. “Or not. Like I said, if it’s too weird, I—”

“No, no. Not at all.” Ian sets his glass on the edge. “I was just surprised. You haven’t been big on touching people for a while.”

I hold my breath.

Michael chews his lip, and some color blooms in his cheeks. “Well, maybe this can help both of us, then.”

Ian glances at me. I shrug. To Michael, he says, “If you’re sure, yeah, that’d be great.”

They both put their glasses aside. Ian leans back, spreading his arms across the edge. Michael scoots to—I assume—the edge of the bench. With the jets running, it’s hard to see much below the surface.

He reaches down but hesitates. “Are you ticklish?”

“Not really.”