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He was prepared for the shove that came next, but he stumbled forward so he didn’t bruise Bren’s ego.

“Fuck, I spend two months liftin’ heavy shite ’cause of you and you’re gonna talk ’bout Brick’s arms?”

“I knew they looked bigger!” A.J. said, giving the left one a squeeze.

Bren let out a scoff but obliged with a flex. “How do I know you’re not picturin’ Brick right now?”

“Shut up,” A.J. said, trying to keep the blood in his head where it belonged. “What made you go all jock, though?”

Bren tensed his arm harder then shrugged.

“The lad I fancied flew across the ocean. Had to do somethin’ with all that pent up energy. Figured I might as well use it to get fit, like.”

“I didn’t want to—”

“I know you didn’t, Arlo.”

A.J.’s heart swelled and their lips met in the heat that rose between them. He was only able to keep his hands from drifting lower by reminding himself that third period was going to start soon. If he walked into welding late after a free period with Bren, Yu would never let him live it down.

“Hey, so how much time does the whole jock-Bren thing take?”

Bren shrugged. “I lift some heavy shite ‘till I get bored a few times a week. Why?”

“Well, fall play is going to start in October.” He tried to fix a pouty look on his face but looked away out of embarrassment—which was extra stupid considering they could barely see each other. “I thought you might wanna sign up with me?”

“Fuck, Arlo, the last play I was in was back in primary . . .”

A.J.’s heart fell despite the use of the once-hated name. It was a pretty big ask.

“Oh, yeah, that’s fair. You don’t hav—”

Bren sighed and kissed his temple.

“Tree Number Two reportin’ for duty.”

4

The smell of the canteen hit Bren before he got to the bottom of the stairs. It was familiar at first, too many bodies crammed into a room, mingled with sugary drinks and just a hint of mystery meat. There was an extra something to the mix that he couldn’t quite put his finger on—something sweet, maybe a little fruity.

Ah, right.

Everything clicked when he stepped into the room. There were girls in this canteen. At every table—at every other seat nearly. After three years of nothing but lads five days a week, Bren had almost forgotten lunch wasn’t a men’s-only sport.

He sat down at the end of the first of eight long tables and chuckled at the sight of his faded T-shirt. Twelve years of trousers and ties and here he was, wearing whatever he felt like in a sea of mixed classmates who wore whatever they felt like too.

A lad with hair that looked like he’d been wearing a helmet every other moment of his life sat across the table from him. He took a bite of his sandwich and nodded at Bren with a mumbled, “Sup.”

“Alright?” Bren asked, trying to decide if he’d misheard that.

“What?” The other boy asked, sounding like he was wondering the same thing.

“Uh, how’s it goin’?”

The other boy broke into a grin and elbowed the guy next to him in the side.

“What?” he asked, turning away from the pretty blonde girl across the table.

“Say that again,” the first boy said, nodding over to Bren.