Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [57]
He wasn’t right for her.
And wished he were.
Where was his competitive spirit? He attacked every basketball game as though it would be the last one he ever played, tenacious, focused, eyes set on winning above all else. Or those track meets in which he viewed each opponent as a threat to his very existence, summoning up every last ounce of energy and fire to finish first. Always finish first.
Love was different, he now knew. There were no referees to call foul, no umpires to set the rules. No one counted the number of times you stole the ball from an opponent, or how many seconds you shaved off your personal best in the quarter mile. Love was no game. It had to do with how lifetimes would be spent, and who would spend them together.
He returned the car a little before midnight. Simmons looked up as Rotondi walked in, laid the car keys on Simmons’s desk, stripped off his shirt, tossed it on a chair, and sat at his desk. “Thanks for the car,” he said.
“Anytime, pal.”
Rotondi opened a textbook.
“You know, right?” Simmons said.
Rotondi swung around in his chair. “Yeah, I know. Jeannette told me. You knew she planned to tonight. That’s why you gave me the car.”
Simmons shrugged. “I figured it was better coming from her than me.”
“You mean safer, Lyle?”
“No, of course not. She’s the one who’s pregnant, not me.” It was an ugly attempt at a laugh.
Rotondi turned away. Simmons rolled his desk chair across the floor to his roommate’s side. “Look, Phil, I know this comes as a hell of a blow to you, and I’m sorry. I truly am sorry for the way it worked out.”
“Drop it, Lyle.”
“I can’t drop it. You’re my best friend, damn it! You’re the last guy I’d ever want to hurt. You know that, don’t you?”
Rotondi faced him. “What I know is, Lyle, that you and Jeannette are getting married. I’m square with that. I wish she weren’t pregnant going into it, but that’s not my concern. You’re right. I am your best friend. I thought you were mine.”
“I am, I am, Phil, and this shouldn’t get in the way of that friendship. It’s not as though I planned it. It just—it just happened, like these things sometimes do. By the way, this is no shotgun wedding. Jeannette and I have really fallen for each other, and it’s because of you. You spotted her first. Man, you’ve got good taste.”
Rotondi sprung out of his chair, grabbed Simmons by the throat, and propelled him across the room and into the far wall, spilling chairs and knocking things from desks en route. He held him against the window, the venetian blinds falling and tangling Simmons in the slats and cords. Rotondi cocked his right fist and held it in front of his roommate’s face.
“Go ahead,” Simmons gasped. “Take a shot, pal. Beat me bloody. I deserve it.”
An animal growl came from Rotondi’s throat. His hand shook as though the nerves in it had short-circuited.
“Go ahead, Phil,” Simmons repeated. “Break my nose. Get it over with.”
Rotondi loosened his grip on Simmons’s throat. He lowered his hand and took a step back, hyperventilating. Simmons rubbed his neck and slumped to the floor. Rotondi backed away and fell into his chair.
“Lyle,” Rotondi said.
“What?”
“We have a month before graduation, and I don’t want to hear another word about this. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure, but I don’t want it to destroy a great friendship.”
“It won’t, Lyle, if you’ll just shut up. The best man won and—”
“Oh, no, my friend, you are definitely the best man. You will be, won’t you?”
Rotondi stared at him.
“Be my best