He sighs like a deeply tired man. And I love it. He may rattle me—mostly because I’m trying to hide how attracted I am to him—but I enjoy getting a rise out of him, too.
Spence shakes his head. “Not happening.”
I grin lazily at him. “Weren’t you going to ask me a question?”
He clears his throat. “I get that you would want to sign with Anthony. I even get that you’d want to invest in the agency.” His deep blue eyes hold mine. “But why the queer youth center?”
Shit.
“What made you want to be the primary donor for that?”
And there it is. The question. The honest answer sits right there in my chest, heavy and real. I wish I could tell him. I wish I could say it out loud.
I wish I could tell him that it matters to me because I know what it feels like to hide who you are. Because I know what it’s like to grow up hearing certain words thrown around locker rooms like they’re jokes.
LikeI’ma punchline.
I want to tell him it’s because I know what it’s like to fall asleep wondering what would happen if anyone ever found out the truth.
Instead, I paste on my PR smile. The one I’ve been perfecting since high school. “It’s important to my best friend,” I say easily. “So, it’s important to me.” At least what Idosay is true. It’s just not the whole truth—and that’s what makes me feel gross.
Spence studies me closely as I continue, shrugging casually. “I get paid millions of dollars a year to play a sport I love. Least I can do is give something back to the community.”
Silence hangs between us as Spence gives me a look I can’t quite read. We just stare at each other for a moment. Something charged sits in the air. So, naturally, I do what I always do when things get too real.
I deflect.
“Besides,” I add lightly, “if it ever becomes public knowledge, it’ll piss off my father.” I flash him a grin. “So, win-win.”
“But Ryan—”
“Excuse me?”
We turn toward the voice cutting Spence off mid-sentence.
A woman stands a few feet away—and wow—she’s gorgeous. Long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Skin-tight leggings showing off her curves. Massive breasts practically defying physics. Big eyes. Full pouty lips.
Everything I’m expected to be attracted to.
I nod politely. “Hi. Sorry, are we in your way?” She giggles and tosses her hair back.
Oh boy.
“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she says breathlessly. “My brother is a huge fan, and I’d be kicking myself forever if I didn’t ask for your autograph.”
“No trouble at all,” I say on a smile, used to this. “What would you like me to sign?”
She bends down to her gym bag and rummages around for a second, pulls out a pen, then straightens up, tugging the strap of her top down on one side. “Sign my bra.”
I stare at her and raise a brow. “You’re going to give your bra to your brother?” I already know the answer before she giggles again and places a hand on my bicep.
“Okay,” she coos. “You got me. It’s for me.”
My eyes drop to her hand. I feel absolutely nothing. I stopped trying to make boobs happen for myself a long time ago. Back in college, all my locker room stories about girls were completely made up.
Every. Single. One.
And honestly? It made me feel disgusting.
