“It’s a real relationship. There’s no contract, and whatever you think is going on, it isn’t.” I reconsider that, since Alex and Vi are pretty strait-laced, apart from the locker room sex and the dick dress-up games. “Well, it probably is going on, but not quite the way you think.”

“I’m not judging. I’m trying to understand what this is. I mean, you and Char have been together almost as long as me and Vi, and it all seems pretty casual. What’s your plan if you get traded—to Vegas or another team?”

This is the exact question that’s been eating at me since the expansion draft was announced. I shrug, because I don’t have answers to that. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

Do I want it to end? No. Not at all. Would I want her to come with me if I was traded, yes and no. Selfishly, I want to keep her, but is it reasonable? I don’t know. I can give her what she needs physically, but I’m unsure if I’m capable of providing her with more than that, or if she’ll even let me try.

Is it fair for me to take her away from everything she knows, everyone she cares about and keep her all to myself? I know Charlene, maybe better than she knows herself. If I took her with me, I’d be her everything, and she’s made it very clear that’s not what she wants. And I respect that.

Her childhood was bad enough that her mother took her and ran in search of a better life, and Charlene shuts down every time I try to talk to her about it, which admittedly hasn’t been often. Most of the time it’s enough that I know she’s broken. But sometimes I want to know how closely our broken parts match.

Alex’s brow furrows. “Haven’t you ever talked about it?”

“About what?” I ask.

“The future, asshole. Your future with Charlene.”

“She doesn’t like being tied down.”

“Uhhh . . . We’ve moved on from your sex life, Westinghouse.” Randy snorts.

I shoot him a look. “I’m not talking about my sex life. Charlene is . . . complex.”

“She’s a woman; of course she’s complex,” Randy says.

“Do you think I should talk to her about the future?” I look between Alex and Randy, who are both more than half a decade my junior, yet still manage to have a better handle on relationships.

“Probably? I have a hard time believing she’s hanging around just for the orgasms at this point, man,” Randy offers.

We hit the showers. The locker room is empty, everyone else long gone. I think about what’s waiting at home for me—which is a whole lot of nothing—and how I’m going to be away soon and unable to see Charlene.

Typically after Charlene spends the night at my place, she’s scarce for a day or so, depending on how the night went and whether or not I got all up in her personal space like I did last night with the accidental spooning. I don’t like the space, but I also understand she sometimes needs it. Staying at my place makes her nervous. I’m not exactly sure why, but I sense it’s because she feels trapped, much like a firefly in a jar.

Whenever she comes to see away games, I expect at least one day of silence for each night we’ve slept in the same bed. It’s fucking torture, but I’m not the easiest person to be with, so I usually accept what she’s willing to give.

It’s a fine balance with Charlene, but with everything that’s going on, I don’t feel like toeing the line. Even if it makes her uncomfortable, I want to push, and honestly, it doesn’t even matter if I do, because I won’t be here for the fallout anyway. By the time I get back from the away games, she should be fine again.

I open my locker and find my boxer briefs. I look around and note that both Alex and Randy have their phones in their hands, and they’re awkwardly trying to text and get dressed at the same time.

I scroll through my alerts—there aren’t many since my people are all here, apart from Charlene. I freeze when I see that I have both texts and a voicemail from her. This has never happened before. Ever.

It’s been less than twelve hours since I left her in my bed. That she’s messaging me this soon afterwards is unheard of. I fight the initial shot of panic that something bad has happened and check the message.

The one from this morning is an image of the living room post wheel of sex toys and requests that I listen to my voicemail. Another came an hour ago asking how practice went. I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing because it’s so atypical.

“Dude, you okay?” Alex asks. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

“Charlene messaged me.”

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.” I listen to the voicemail, relieved it’s just about Gertrude. I can handle that, but Charlene messaging hours after we’ve had a night together is . . . different. I can’t explain that without it being strange to Alex and Randy. Which makes me question how fucked up my own perception of relationships is, and whether I’ve been doing Charlene a disservice all this time.

I care for her. About her. I don’t want to be without her. But I have no idea if she feels the same way, and it’s setting me off balance. Like I’m riding the Tilt-a-Whirl after drinking a bottle of scotch.

I send her a response:

“Just go see her if you’re that worried,” Alex says when she hasn’t messaged back fifteen seconds later.

“Go see her?”

He makes a face, the same one he makes when one of our teammates makes a bad play. “Yeah. Like, if she said she needed you right now, you’d drop your shit and go, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“So go.”

“But she hasn’t messaged me because she needs me.”

Alex exhales a slow breath. “Look, man, she’s not going to say it outright. Is she messaging and calling when she doesn’t usually message or call?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then she’s asking you to be there when she needs you.”

“But she hasn’t asked me to be there for her at all,” I argue.

Alex rubs the space between his eyebrows. “Look, I get that maybe this isn’t familiar to you, but you can’t tell me you don’t know when Charlene is asking you to be like . . . on for her.” At my confused expression he shakes his head. “Do I even fucking know you?”

I scrub my hands over my face. “Look, I’m emotionally stunted. I don’t understand how this whole thing works. I want Charlene, and I don’t want to lose her. The possibility is actually my worst fucking nightmare. I didn’t grow up in a home with two parents who cared about me and whose entire existence was based on my success as a human being. You had that. I didn’t. I don’t know how to do this and be successful, and Charlene is just as fucked up as me, so any normalish perspective you can give, without judgement, would be really helpful right about now.”

“I don’t—“

I grab him by the shoulders. “Just tell me what the fuck to do!”

“Go to her house. Go see her. Make her happy, however you do that.”

“Make her happy?”

“Yeah, man, like, however that works for you, make her feel good.”

“You mean sexually, right?”

Alex frowns again. I don’t like that expression on his face. It makes me question things. “If that’s what works, then yes. But considering how long you’ve been together, I’d say it’s probably beyond just where your dick goes.”

“My dick goes in a lot of places.” I figure honesty is important here.

Alex scoffs. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. “Can we think beyond your dick, Darren?”

“Of course. What would you like me to think in terms of?”

“Charlene. Think about her.”

“What about her, specifically?”

Alex stares at me and says nothing for a long time. “Other than your weird-ass sex life, what does she like? How do you show her you care about her and that she’s on your mind? What do you do for her?”

“I buy her things.”

“Such as?”

I consider that for a moment. “Usually clothes or lingerie. Sometimes I take her out for dinner, and there was that time I sent her to the spa with Violet. That was good. She liked that.”

“Aside from clothes and lingerie, is there anything else?”

“I bought her a chair.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s some kind of fucked-up sex chair.”

“There are fucked-up sex chairs?” Randy asks, reminding me this conversation isn’t private. Jesus, I’m offering up an awful lot of personal details to these guys in the name of making sure my relationship with Charlene doesn’t get messed up.

“No. Well, yes, there are fucked-up sex chairs, but I didn’t buy one of those for Charlene. I bought her a chair to read in. And a blanket for when she gets cold.”

“Which I bet is pretty often if she’s only allowed to wander around your place naked, eh?” Randy says.

“She doesn’t need my permission to put on or take off clothes.” I turn back to Alex, because Randy’s commentary is unhelpful. “Should I buy her something else along those lines—maybe a footstool, or a pillow, or a side table for her tea? That could be good, right? It’ll show her I’m thinking about her for reasons that don’t pertain to sex.”

Randy shakes his head. “Or you could just buy her some fucking flowers.”

“Chocolate is always nice, or candy,” Alex adds. “Unless she’s feeling bad about her body; then chocolate is a bad idea.”

“Charlene never feels bad about her body.”