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By the third round, my mind wanders to places I didn’t expect. It replays our encounter but embellishes it further by having Ian not only pin me against the wall but hold me there and kiss me in the shadows of the hallway. It’s not the first time I’ve fantasized about a guy. I’ve made out with a guy once, too. It was at a frat party years ago, and it didn’t go further than a kiss, okay there may have been a little frotting up against a wall, but there was a girl there too. I mean, it was college. Experimentation was part of the curriculum, and despite having a good time, the only people I found myself even remotely wanting after that were women. But I’m watching Ian’s mouth as he speaks and wondering what he tastes like. That’s not something a straight guy wonders about, right?
“Brendan,” Rob calls, nudging my arm.
“Yep, sorry what?”
“Do you want another round?”
“No thanks, I’m good. I actually pretty tired. Today was intense.”
“Was a bunch of fun though, too,” Rob replies, and I stand.
“I’ve still got to submit for tonight, boys. I’m out.”
They don’t try to keep me there. They understand a deadline better than anyone.
“I better be off, too,” Ian says, and my heart picks up its pace a little at the thought of walking back together. He starts to scootout from his seat at the booth, but Craig wraps his arm over his shoulder.
“One sec, newbie. You promised us a proper introduction to Benny G, and he looks like he just arrived.”
I spin and see Benny and a few players headed to the bar.
“See you all in the morning,” I tell them and hurry away. My mind is going a million miles a minute, and there’s only one person I can think of to talk to about it. The second I’m out in the cool night air, I hold my phone close to my mouth and say, “Hey, Siri. Call Carter.”
Chapter eight
Ian
What was I thinkingconfronting Brendan like that? There’s something about him that just gets under my skin so deep that my insides itch, but then, just like any itch, it’s too fucking hard not to scratch, and I can’t help but open my mouth.
I’m glad I did though because holy fucking shit, it was him in the article I wrote. I pull it up on my phone and click the image zooming in tight on his muscled back, his ass just visible through the window, and right there on his lower back, above the right ass cheek, is a tiny little duck tattoo.How did I not see that before?
No wonder he fucking hated me. I’m the reason he’s here on this tour instead of writing about the game he loves. It makes total sense.
Only now I have a new problem. I have to figure out how exactly I’m going to help him. Shit.
I press the elevator for the ground floor, skim-reading through my notes on the way down. I have to figure out how we can collaborate when, really, he’s right. This is about differentpublications promoting the tour and promoting Banana Ball. We’re essentially enemies in this. Wait. That’s it!
We can be enemies in this. We can write contrasting views in our articles. The choreography for game one has us one-on-one battling, albeit dance battling, but battling still.
It’s already set up so well. The world doesn’t need to know that we don’t actually hate each other. Shit, it wasn’t that long ago he did hate me. I’m not totally convinced he doesn’t still.
This idea might work. It could be a really cool way to build buzz about Banana Ball but also build up our names and then, at the end of this, get his boss to agree to let him go back to covering the NHL. Please let this work. Then my article won’t have destroyed the career he built for himself. The work he put in.
In all the time I was writing gossip, not once did I ever have to confront the people the stories were about. Not face to face, anyway. I guess that probably helped get me through it. I don’t think seeing the aftermath of my words regularly would have been bearable. Once was more than enough to solidify there’s no going back to that for me.
The hotel restaurant is quiet, so I grab a coffee, fill my plate from the buffet, and take a seat in the back corner. It’s far enough away from where most people will likely sit for breakfast, but still visible from the main door so that Brendan can see me when he gets here.
That’s if he shows.
In all my excitement jotting down ideas last night, it never occurred to me that he actually might not even show up. He might have just agreed to meet me to get me to leave him alone. But maybe he did believe me. Maybe he really believes that I didn’t like writing the article about him. That I actuallyhatedwriting that trash. This is what I want to do. Write about realsports, and I have no intention of revealing his secret. No one else needs to know that he was the guy in the picture.
I pull my phone out and click back on the article that started all of this for him, and in truth, for me, too. I’d be lying if I said I was looking at it to read it. I’m not. I’m just looking at the photo of him. His toned back and arms holding her legs up and out to the side. I can’t remember the last time I was plowed like that. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever been screwed exactly like that, but fuck, I’d love to be.
“What are you looking at? It must be good judging from the smile on your face,” Brendan asks, and I gasp, fumbling my phone to the floor.
He bends to grab it, but I rush to do the same, and our heads clash together. Pain shoots through my forehead, but I don’t slow down. I can’t let him see. I grab my phone, lock the screen quickly, and shove it into my pocket.
He rubs his head and takes a seat opposite me. “Dude, if you’re looking at porn this early in the morning, I think we’ve got bigger issues than my writing career.”
