Page 101 of Checking Out the Librarian

Fucker. “I’ve heard of it.”

Hank’s XXL chest cavity made a snort sound more like the noise Connor assumed a rhino about to charge made. Connor watched him, but all he did was let the steering wheel re-center and proceed down the street.

Man of few words, his friend Hank.

“All Star’s not going to be anything, seriously, I’m not even thinking about it, and things are going great with Jonathan. Really, really great.”

As usual, his bestie had lots to say with his face, but Connor wasn’t fluent in frown interpretation.

They were at the courts, so the thrill of competition would have to talk for them, because it was Friday morning shenanigans time. To make up for last week, he vowed to be game on, no rest.

They played half a game. Oddly, instead of bringing his usual bulldozer fervor, his buddy had more of a come-to-my-barbecue-after-the game vibe, which meant the score was tied.

Hank hit a nice arc serve, and the other team returned it with a drop shot two feet past the net. Hank, the dawdler, was back at the base line when the ball bounced a second time. They lost the serve.

“Thanks, Hank.” Mr. Math Genius gave a fluttery finger wave. “Appreciate it.”

Hank lifted his hand, but not with an extended middle finger. With a return wave. A legit acknowledgment.

What. The. Fuck.

Playing at the limits of his speed and occasionally past them slowed his logical thinking, but eventually two pieces of data sorted themselves in his head.

One, Hank had been much closer to Connor’s house this morning than expected. And two, dude was in a very good mood. The best mood of his adult life, Connor guessed, so good he didn’t even mind getting taunted by their opponents.

There was only one conclusion to be drawn. This was going to be so fucking delicious.

“You’re pretty relaxed today, Hitman.”

Hank grunted and returned the serve competently. Not great, not with his usual ferocity, merely competently. They kept playing, and they kept losing points. And Hank cared about the final score only about as much as Connor did.

“I mean, dude, you’re loose like a nine-year old’s tooth even though we lost the first game.” They bent for their water bottles at the same time and brushed shoulders. “And you smell like oranges?”

Third data point, bingo.

“Vanilla and oranges. Nice change, man. That’s really nice. Where’d you get that soap? Maybe I should try some.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s making me think of creamsicles. Good motivation tactic, I approve.” Connor took a long sip of water and kept his gaze steady on his friend.

Hank’s lips were pressed together, and he was turning some weird shade.

“Although, taking a shower before sports, that’s a lil bit strange. I mean, who showers before they run around getting sweaty? Only someone who was⁠—”

Hank growled at him and smacked his bottle back on the bench.

Connor spread his hand dramatically across his chest. “Hank Kahue, do you have something you need to share with your good friend? Something to confess? Or acknowledge?”

Hank turned darker and grabbed the bottle again.

Connor understood the inability to decide what to do with your hands, but that didn’t mean he was going to let up. He took off in a circle around the half court, pumping his fist up and down in the air. “Finally! Tell me yes, buddy, tell me it happened! You and Emma!”

“Yes.” He yanked the lid off his bottle and poured water on his head. “Now shut up.”

Connor rolled up to a stop in front of Hank, lightly panting, and grabbed the monster shoulders with both hands. He’d try to make Hank jump up and down, but this was Hank, so Connor did enough hopping for both of them. “We are the two luckiest dudes in the world, aren’t we?”

Hank rolled his eyes. Stoic, that was the word.