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“Your parents?” I asked softly, hoping I wasn’t going to fuck up whatever common ground we’d just found ourselves on.
“I don’t give a shit what people think,” he answered again. “What are we doing here, man? Talking on the phone? We’re not friends.”
He was right, but I didn’t have an answer to what we were doing. Well, not one other than “I want you. I told you I own that ass. You’re stuck talking to me until I get it.”
“So I have to put up with you until the day you die?”
A quiet chuckle fell from my lips. “You can’t hold out that long. You want me, too.”
“I want you as much as I want a hole in the head.”
I doubled over laughing. “You say that when someone says you need something, not want it. I need it like a hole in the head. No one ever wants a hole in the head.”
“Same fucking thing, smart-ass.”
This conversation was more fun than it should be. “I can’t wait to play you this season.”
“Can’t wait to get your ass kicked?”
“Not gonna happen. We should meet up before that, though. You probably won’t be in the mood for me to dick you down before or after a game. What’s your schedule like?”
He gave a gentle, husky laugh. I liked the sound of Patrick’s laugh. He should do it more often. “I’m not meeting up with you.”
“Who was the redhead?”
“Jesus, Tucker. Your stalker ass really is jealous. She’s a friend, which is more than I can say about you.”
“You like it, though. You like knowing how much I want you.”
He sucked in a breath, and I knew I had him. “I’m gonna go.”
“Why? Too much?”
“I have a date.”
I rolled my eyes. “No, you don’t, Bougie, but I’ll let you pretend you do. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“I won’t answer.”
“We’ll see about that,” I replied, then ended the call before he got the chance.
11
WHITT
October
Houston McRae walked fresh from his post-interview dinner with the Royals’ coaching staff into Le Blanque’s VIP area with the swagger of a king and the outfit of a lumberjack. I’d debated the wisdom of inviting him to meet for a drink in the first place, but curiosity had gotten the better of me and, hell, if he was going to come coach for the Royals, I wanted some kind of rapport with him. Besides, I’d liked playing with him at Southern U, even if revisiting those years filled me with a strange sense of dread.
Houston grinned, giving me an assessing up-and-down as he slid onto the leather bench opposite me. “Bougier than ever, I see.”
The nickname nearly made me flinch, though it wasn’t one I was unfamiliar with—even my own teammates referred to me that way sometimes—it was just that Houston’s proximity to Tucker had me wondering if he’d been talking about me to him.
Schooling my reaction, I waved a hand nonchalantly. “Just keeping up appearances, man.” I reached out and clapped him on the back before lifting my glass, and before it was even halfway in the air, a server was at the table. “Another whiskey on the rocks, please. McRae?”
Once our drinks were delivered, McRae dug in, asking me a few questions about the team and clearly trying to figure out how he’d become the Royals’ top choice as a wide receiver special teams coach, wondering if I’d had any sway. The truth was, I had no clue. Some of the other guys obsessed over management and the everyday ins and outs of the admin side of the NFL, but I wasn’t one of them. If I was playing, it was a good day, and if I got called in or reamed out for something—which was rare—I did my goddamn best to not repeat the mistake. I’d had eyes on me all my life, so I’d gotten good at staying within bounds, even if I flirted with the edge sometimes.
“You’re my secret, and I’m yours.”Tucker’s whisper wound through my brain as McRae rambled on, and I shifted uncomfortably, tossing off a joke about making a PowerPoint presentation detailing why management shouldn’t hire him.
