She should know he gets butthurt easily.

BlueAsTheSky: You don’t like being teased, or you don’t like sarcasm?

Me: At the risk of sounding like a sissy, I hate being the butt of jokes.

BlueAsTheSky: Noted. It’s a good thing I’m not a sarcastic asshole.

Me: There are some real assholes on the wrestling team I’ve had to deal with, so…

I hit send before I can think twice about it, knowing that if JB goes back through the conversation after he logs in later, he’s probably going to be pissed I told her that.

Oh well.

It’s out there and I can’t take it back.

A small part of me gets a cheap thrill at dishing out that particular bit of information, knowing it was a shitty thing to tell her.

BlueAsTheSky: I respect that; thanks for telling me.

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, not looking forward to the argument I’ll have with my roommate about it later.

I’m making him sound like a pussy.

And in all honesty, since Tasha broke up with him, he’s been acting like one. He kind of was one before, but for the past three months, it’s been worse.

He fucking hates being picked on, and you know how dudes are—constantly giving each other shit, especially in the gym and practice room. It’s almost like we have nothing better to do than screw around when we’re supposed to be focused.

Dick jokes.

Lowbrow insults.

Mocking someone’s intelligence is always a favorite go-to.

We’re all pretty offensive, and at the same time, we’re like one big happy dysfunctional family. It’s really fucked up in a weird way that only makes sense if you’re part of it.

Anyway.

Jack is a titty baby and he’s going to hate that I told Blue.

I change the subject.

Me: So there is no chance you’ll tell me your name?

BlueAsTheSky: Not tonight. Sorry big guy.

I am a big guy.

Much bigger than JB, not that she would have any way of knowing that. All she sees are his photographs; she’ll never see mine, and why I’m even thinking about it is beyond me.

I wonder what she would think of me.

Me as me.

Abe.

Me: You said you like tall guys, right?

JB says he’s six foot, but that’s a total lie. He’s five ten on a good day; I have several inches on him, measuring in at six two.

BlueAsTheSky: I do. I really do.

Then you’re going to be disappointed when you meet me in person, I start to type.

Delete.

Me: I’m your guy then.

BlueAsTheSky: I’ll have to take your word for it. You’re not going to show up for our date and be standing eye to eye with me, are you? Because I love wearing heels, haha.

I flip back to her profile to see if she makes any mention of how tall she is.

Nothing.

Me: How tall did you say you were?

BlueAsTheSky: I didn’t. I’m five seven.

Oh shit, that’s pretty tall for a female. Only three inches shorter than JB if you’re doing the math.

That’s not going to end well.

I wonder if I should say something but decide against it. No reason to put the cart before the horse, and who knows—

maybe she won’t even notice, or care.

I laugh at the thought, knowing that when a girl has her mind made up about something—especially what they consider their “type” to be—there isn’t much room to change their mind.

Especially not when the entire relationship is built on a lie.

Five foot eight.

That’s pretty fucking sexy, and my mind quickly wanders, wondering about her legs. How long they are, if they’re smooth. If she ever wears skirts or favors jeans.

I wonder how closely she resembles the pictures in her profile. One thing is for certain, she’s not using any filters. Still, you never really know until you’re face to face with a person.

I have no right to be having these thoughts. When I lift my eyes and stare out my bedroom window, the bathroom across the way is dark, the white curtain flapping a little with the breeze since the girls living there have cracked the window open a bit.

BlueAsTheSky: You still there, JB?

I drop my eyes back down to the phone in my hand.

Me: I’m here. Sorry, I was just…

I hit send even though I didn’t finish my sentence.

Me: Staring out the window, LOL

BlueAsTheSky: Fair enough. I just flopped down on my bed. I give up on studying. I’m never going to ace this midterm no matter what I do.

Me: What class?

BlueAsTheSky: Microeconomics. It’s not my finest work. I feel like I end up reading the same paragraph over and over and I’m not retaining any of the information!

My pre-med, biology class heavy schedule isn’t going to help Blue with an economics class, so I bite my tongue and don’t reply…though, as JB, I should technically know some of that shit since technically, as JB, I would have taken it, too.

Everything on my desk is in perfect order. Straight. Tidy. Organized.

Like me.

The fact that I’m wrapped up in this shit is a paradox when you consider that, among my friends and teammates, I’m the trustworthy and reliable one.

The do-gooder.

The nice guy.

The person everyone goes to when they have a problem