I nodded to his face. “Your scruff.”
“Jeez,” he said, shoulders drooping. “Don’t scare me like that, Sal.”
“What’d you think I meant?” I laughed. “Your head?”
He nodded. “You were looking pretty pissed.”
“Nah, I love your hair too much for that.” Becks looked up sharply, and I played it off with another laugh. “So, will you let me do it? Shave your sacred five o’clock shadow?”
“You really don’t like it, do you?”
I waited.
“Sure.” Becks shrugged. “Why not? There’s not another game until next week. The luck’ll still work if I don’t shave again past Wednesday.”
Pouring some cream into my hands, I got a good lather going and spread it gently across his cheeks. “It’s got nothing to do with luck, Becks. You’d win even without this.”
“But why chance it?”
I shook my head, rinsed my hands then filled a bowl with water, placing it at my side. “I just hate that you can’t see how talented you are. Why won’t you believe me?”
“I want to, Sal. Really, I do. It’s just I’m not willing to take a chance on something so important and lose.” He tried to catch my gaze. “If I was wrong, the fallout would be too painful. You know what I mean?”
I did. That was exactly how I felt about my love for Becks. I really wanted him to feel the same, but I’d never risk losing him as a friend. That wouldn’t just be painful; it’d most likely kill me. How could I live without having Becks there with me, to talk to and laugh with? There was just too much at stake.
“I get it.” Light gleamed off the razor’s blade as I picked it up, tucking my right leg beneath me to get more comfortable. “I still disagree. You and I both know you’d win without this beard, but I understand what you’re saying. You ready?”
“Yep,” he said.
“You’re going to have to come a little closer.”
“Like this?” Becks moved so he was only a hairsbreadth away.
My throat went dry. “That’s good.”
I could make out his grin through the foam.
“Listen, I’ve never done this before, so you’re going to have to stay still.”
“No movement, got it.” Just as I was about to put the razor to his cheek, he smiled. “Great song.”
“Becks,” I warned.
He stopped talking.
As I raised the blade to his skin, I realized he was right. This song was great, setting the mood perfectly, slow and lazy, filled with repressed emotion. The rasp of the singer’s voice, Becks’s closeness, the whole situation left me feeling raw, exposed. I’d never realized how intimate shaving could be.
My hand shook on the first stroke, leaving a long, untidy line of bare skin. I traced it with the tip of my finger, watching Becks’s lids flutter. Silky smooth.
His reaction satisfied me in a way I couldn’t explain.
The second pass of the razor revealed more skin, the next even more. A glimpse of cheekbone. A hint of jaw. I tried to keep my breathing steady, but Becks wasn’t making it easy. Despite his promise, he did move. Barely—less than an inch—but it was enough. Becks swayed toward me every time I leaned in. It was like he couldn’t help it.
Sort of like I couldn’t help touching each patch of newly uncovered flesh.
I was close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow that he’d gotten falling off his bike in sixth grade. There was something powerful about the way his eyes followed my every move. After tonight, I wouldn’t be able to touch him like this, so I took my time. I’d miss him being my F.B.F.
“So,” I said about half-way through, “pick a college yet?”
Becks gave me a look.
“Okay, okay. It was worth a shot.” Pisszilla was not going to be happy, but I had more immediate concerns. “How’re we going to do this anyway? The break up. I know you said big and public. We want to do it in front of the most people possible, right?”
Becks couldn’t say anything. I was being very cautious around his lips.
Dipping the shaver in the bowl, I shook off the excess foam then went back to work—and rambling.
“Are you going to break up with me? Or am I breaking up with you? Are we supposed to fight or not? We never really talked about it, Becks.”
“Sal,” he murmured.
Noticing a small area I’d missed, I titled his head and placed the blade gently against his jaw.
“Sal, I don’t think we should break up.”
I was so surprised my hand slipped, and he winced.
“Oh God,” I said, grabbing the towel, dabbing at his cut. It was small, but those always hurt the most. “I’m so sorry, Becks. Are you alright?”