“I want you to come,” I whispered into the darkness of our bedroom as he snaked his hand behind my head and rocked inside of me.

“I’m close,” Cal promised, increasing his vigor.

“No, no.” I laughed when he slowed down. “Keep going,” I urged, “I meant to the game. I want you to come to the game.”

“What?” he breathed, taken aback by the suggestion. “With Maks?”

“Don’t say his name when you’re inside me,” I groaned, pulling a pillow over my face. “Yes.”

“As what?” Cal attempted to clarify, stopping completely.

I wished I had waited to bring up the topic, chiding myself for getting him off-kilter.

“My friend.”

“Do you think he’ll suspect something?”

I shrugged, feeling as though I had opened my mouth when I should have kept it shut. “I don’t really have friends, so maybe.”

“And you’re good with that?”

“I don’t know what I am other than in love with your needy ass,” I crooned, tilting my head to catch his lips. “C’mon.”

Cal had double checked for a week that I was serious about the proposition, not wanting to hold me responsible for what I said when I found myself lost in the moment. I should have taken the out and reneged the invitation, but I held steady knowing how much it meant to him.

Though we had a great deal of practice keeping our mitts off each other in public, I had to remind Cal just how important it was that we do so. While I trusted Maks, I didn’t underestimate his propensity to get wrapped up in the excitement of something new.

As Cal and I walked toward Wrigley, I reminded myself how it wasn’t abnormal for men to have friends. Plenty of guys had platonic relationships with other fellows based on shared interest or geographic proximity. It wasn’t that deep. I needed to show Maks it wasn’t that deep. Yet as our hands nearly brushed one another as we made our way to the stadium, I lost my breath. How I longed to hold his hand, show everyone in the world that he was my man. Instead, I slipped my fingers into my pants pockets and kept my distance. Comfort was the enemy to discretion, and I could not afford to slack, especially with the way things had been going for queer men.

“Maks, this is my friend Cal Connolly. Cal, my cousin, Maksim Mikhailov,” I introduced, watching them shake hands.

“A friend,” Maks exclaimed, prompting me to roll my eyes.

“We live next door to each other,” I added, trying to make the whole situation seem as casual as possible.