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Alex’s laugh was watery. “Tempting.”
“Or I could stomp the hell out of the patch of grass that tripped you up.”
“Not sure it has the intellectual capacity to grasp the error of its ways.”
Lee was about to reply when Alex’s phone started buzzing. When Lee tried to move away so Alex could more easily dig it out of his pocket, Alex slung an arm around Lee’s back to keep him close. He managed to retrieve the phone with his other hand, then stilled, staring at the display.
“What is it?” Lee asked after a beat.
Alex drew a breath. “My dad.”
Ignore him.
Lee didn’t say it but God, he wanted to—as far as he could tell, nothing good had ever come of Alex speaking to his dad, at least not in those weeks they’d spent together. The last thing Alex needed right now was a kick while he was down. It was Alex’s call, though. Literally.
Waiting, Lee rubbed his thumb over the sensitive skin on the inside of Alex’s elbow, back and forth, back and forth.
“Maybe,” Alex said in a tiny voice, “he heard about my ankle? And he’s actually calling to see how I’m doing?”
“Yeah.” Lee wanted to grab the bloody phone and throw it out the window. “I guess it’s possible.”
“Yeah.” Alex didn’t sound like he really believed it himself, but he moved to accept the call—only he put it on speaker, holding Lee’s gaze. “Hello, dad.”
“Good evening, son.” Crisp pronunciation and an authoritative air—nothing in Charles Beaufort’s voice suggested that the man was facing allegations that could land him in prison. “I heard about your accident.”
“You did?” Alex cleared his throat. “The timing is terrible, of course.” It was fascinating, the way his words gained definition in what seemed like an automatic reaction triggered by hearing his father.
“Of course.” Beaufort didn’t sound particularly concerned. “Now, since there is no reason for you to remain in Spain, I assume you will be flying home tomorrow?”
Alex’s brows drew together. “I’m part of the team, dad. Even if I’m not playing, I’m still part of the team.”
“You’re needed at home.”
“I’m staying.”
“You have obligations, Alexander. It’s time you start taking them seriously.”
Alex exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment. “You didn’t even bother to ask how I am.”
“A sprained ankle is hardly a matter of grave concern.” Beaufort’s tone was brisk bordering on impatient, and he didn’t get it. He just honestly didn’t get it, did he—his world view distorted by either aristocratic grandiosity passed down through generations or a narcissistic personality. The latter would, in fact, explain a lot.
“It only costs me my dream,” Alex said flatly, a painful twist to his mouth that made Lee want to end the call right there and then. “But no big deal, I guess.”
“No need for melodramatics,” his father chided, and really, that was the final fuckingstraw.
“Are you actively trying to be a prick,” Lee jumped in, “or does it just come naturally? Fucking hell, man. You’ve got a brilliant son, and you should be so fuckingproudof him. But seems like you have no idea because you can’t get out of your own bloody way.”
It was quiet for a second.
“Who even are you?” Beaufort drawled, his tone implying that he was not impressed.
“I’m—”
“My boyfriend,” Alex cut into Lee’s response.
Holy shit.
Lee widened his eyes at Alex, and it wasn’t even that this was the first time either of them had said the word out loud—no, this was Alex, having just come out to his dad on an impulse. Fuck, what if he ended up regretting it?
