Still nothing.
I take the opportunity to walk past him and toward the small table near the mirrors where his phone rests, plugged into the speakers. His phone lights up and I jab my finger against the screen, pausing his music.
My ears ring for a moment at the newfound silence.
“Unless you want a barbell thrown at you, I suggest you turn that back on,” Preston grunts, arms still moving in an up and down motion.
Feeling satisfied with myself, I take a seat on a nearby bench, resting my arms behind me and palms flat against the leather of the weight bench. “That kind of attitude is exactly what landed you in the box most of the game.”
He remains silent and honestly it tugs at a certain part of me that I try to shove down when it comes to Preston.
He’s my best friend, no questions asked. I tell him everything even when he probably wishes I didn’t. He’s always been the one to dish back out whatever I give.
He’s always been a little moody. Always getting in trouble for his temper more often than not but this is different. This isn’t Preston. One call from his alcoholic mother after wanting nothing to do with him for seven years and now he’s just a shell of who he used to be.
I mean I get it. His mom only wants him around because his inheritance from his great grandfather just landed in the bank a few months ago. I’d be pissed too. And I try not to get all sappy on the guy but I want my friend back goddamn it.
“You wanna talk or just continue ignoring me?”
I’m about to stand up and punch him in the gut for brushing me off yet again, but he saves himself by finally lifting and resting the barbell back in its place. He finally sits up, resting his elbows on his knees and I really have to fight the urge to tell himto stop stress weight training. He doesn’t need to be any fucking bigger.
He already scares off half the guys on whatever team we end up playing against. But I guess I can’t complain too much because I know the alternative. It’s either this or chugging down vodka like water.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Preston pulls the towel tucked into the waistband of his sweats and uses it to wipe the moisture from his face and neck.
“Really?” I ask. “’Cause number forty-three would probably beg to differ. I think you knocked a few of his teeth out.”
Preston’s jaw clenches like he’s hoping I either didn’t remember that or that I at least wouldn’t bring it up. He cracks his knuckles before reaching for his water bottle, and I know he only starts chugging to buy himself more time.
But I wait.
That’s all I think I can do anymore.
He finally pulls the water bottle away from his lips, clearing his throat and wiping away strands of his hair that stick to his forehead.
“I’m good, Lu.”
No you’re fucking not, man.
I want to argue with him that avoiding what’s going on with his mom is only causing him to act more like a dick.
Preston Nole isn’t really known for his filter but then again neither am I, apparently.
“Fine.” I throw my hands up in surrender. “We’ll save the therapy talk for tomorrow. I booked you a slot for noon but you have to call me Dr. Callahan.”
He chuckles. “Yeah fucking right.”
I watch as he stands up from the bench to walk over and snatch his phone off the table but he doesn’t turn the music backon—instead, he begins walking toward the door. He gestures for me to follow.
“How’s Melody doing in school?” he asks.
We begin to walk side by side, back toward the locker rooms but neither of us are in a rush. Although we probably should be, considering I have yet to shower and sweat sticks to the neckline of Preston’s white shirt.
“She’s doing really good.” I nod. “Passing all of her classes with flying colors.”
The mention of my little sister’s school makes the urge to thank Preston yet again bubble up. “Thanks again, man. I’ll pay you back. I mean it might take me all of eternity if this whole hockey thing doesn’t work out, but I’ll do it.”
“Never asked you to.”