AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Ian’s posts on social media with the ducks have taken off, too. The team is still speculating who is leaving them, and once we get to our next location and they start popping up all over again, they’re going to know that it’s someone on this bus. Hopefully, I can keep it under wraps for at least a little bit longer. The best time I’ve had leaving ducks around was in college, even if it did get me expelled from the dorm. It’s not my fault my roommates didn’t share my sense of humor or my love of tiny yellow ducks. The three-hundred-strong mini-rubber duck army lined up, waiting for them in the bathroom one day when they returned from class probably tipped them over the edge. But on the flipside, I got to move in with a cousin off campus and the rest of my college experience was amazing.
Ian and I haven’t talked about the kiss since that first morning. Both of us have kept busy with our articles, dance rehearsals, and the games. No matter how many times I go back to that memory, though, it has the same effect on me, and I end up jerking off in the shower or on the bed, usually picturing all the ways it could’ve gone had I not run. Not that I have any idea of what it would be like if we hooked up for real. Could it be as good as it is in my head? Could it be better?
I tried to watch porn to see if it would get me to the same place as the memories of that kiss, and though I can see the men in it are attractive, it wasn’t until I imagined Ian doing the things on the video to me that my body got in the game. Does that mean I’m bi or just gay for one man? That’s a thing, isn’t it? Whatever the case, every time I imagine him dropping to his knees and wrapping his pretty lips around my hard cock until I fill his throat, my cock hardens.
“Won’t be long, boys, and we’ll be at the hotel,” Coach Miles calls from the front of the bus. “Rooms have already been assigned. Most of y’all will be two to a room, but we might havea triple in there too. The same goes for you, pen pushers. We’ll hand out room assignments when we get there.”
I nudge Arthur Green, the right fielder for Animal Control who’s seated beside me. “Did he just say we’re all sharing rooms?”
Arthur nods. “It’s pretty standard. Not many hotels have enough vacant rooms to house us all and we spend so little time in them that it makes more sense to share. Man, I hope I don’t have to share with Harrison, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Fucker snores like a freight train.”
“Do not!” Harrison yells from two seats up.
They debate for a few minutes who snores loudest, Harrison Roe or Pat Night before settling on an agreement that whoever is paired with one of them will swap out so that both of them are kept in a room together and away from the rest of us.
There are six of us writers following the tour, so a one-in-five chance I get paired with Ian. It’s not the best odds, but do I even want to be sharing a room with him? Would he want to share with me after I just planted that kiss on him? He said we were good and that he liked it. Actually, he said it was amazing and he would do it again if I wanted. He said that, didn’t he? I hope I’m not imagining that, like I imagine all the other things he could have done to me in that hotel room.
Shit. I can’t be thinking about Ian Levram. I have to focus on the sport, on the writing. My last article wasn’t great. Ian’s posts with the ducks are getting twice as many hits. I hate to admit it, but I wish I thought of it first. I’m the one leaving all the fucking ducks around, after all. I catch the hint of jealousy in my thoughts and push it away. That’s not me. If I want to get the views, I have to do the work and stop daydreaming about how amazing it was to feel his body against mine. Shit, motherfucker, stop.
I try to focus on editing my next piece, a short article covering the rise of Banana Ball and the teams’ excitement to be on the road. I grab a few statements from some of the players seated nearby, including one from up-and-comer Tim Sage. Ian did a feature piece on him a few days back, and ever since he’s blown up online, he said he’s had three marriage proposals, and though he’s flattered by the offers, he swings the other way. I reassured him his statement was off the record. I won’t be outing anyone. But he laughed and flicked his phone over to show me his social feed. It’s loaded with photos of him just being himself, totally open and out. His bio even says he’s single but looking for Mr Right to come and knock him for six. That’s a great line. I might use that one.
We arrive at the hotel, and I follow the team off the bus and grab my suitcase from the stack being piled up beside it. The team isn’t exactly traveling light. With twelve cities on the tour, we have two buses, one for us and the players to travel on, and another for the support staff, equipment, costumes, and props.
“Come grab your keys, then get to bed. The training bus leaves at six,” Coach Miles yells, and then he and Coach Lennox start calling out names two at a time. When he gets to the writers, I’m practically buzzing. I try to look nonchalant sitting on my suitcase, but I can’t stop my leg from bouncing. Call out the names already.
“Levram, Grant,” Coach Miles calls, and I almost fall off my case.
“Come on, Coach,” Ian complains, and Craig, the writer forThe Blast, nudges him with his elbow.
“Not cool, man,” he says, and I glare his way. It probably looks like I’m glaring at Ian when really it’s square at Craig.
“I’d rather share with Harrison or Pat than be stuck in a room with you, but you don’t see me making a scene, do you, newbie?” I retort. I’m saying all of this for the rivalry, for the show weagreed to put on, but his reserve wavers a little when I call him a newbie, and I regret it instantly.
“Settle, fellas. You can be adult about this, right?” Coach Miles asks, handing over an envelope with two keys inside.
“We’ll manage,” I say, grabbing the envelope and walking inside without even looking to see if Ian is following. I hope he’s following me. I hope he knows that what I said was all for show.
The elevator door opens, and the back wall is mirrored. Relief washes over me when I see him behind me, a smirk on his lips.
It’s torture trying to stop my lips from copying his smile, but a second later, we’re joined by the other writers, as they all pile into the elevator behind us.
“You two need to get a handle on this rivalry of yours. We’re all here coverin’ the same games. Not everything has to be a competition,” Rob says to the resounding agreement of the others.
“I said I’d share with the newbie, as long as he keeps his hands to himself, we’re good,” I reply, turning to pretend to play with the latch on my suitcase when I catch Ian’s eye in the reflection and almost smile his way.
“Call me a newbie all you like, it’s thosenewideas that have my numbers just going up. What were yours again?”
“Fuck off, if you didn’t post with your little rubber duck, how great do you think they’d be? It’s a gimmick and has nothing to do with the words you’re writing.”
Rob sighs. “Maybe one of us should swap.”
“No way,” Sherman replies. “Those two are as bad as each other, the only way they’re going to sort through their shit is by actually talking to each other, so no one trades, got it?” Sherman steps out of the elevator the second the door opens. “See you all at six.”
We follow him out, Ian and I taking a right when we reach the end of the hall to get to our room while the others go left. Wedon’t talk the whole way there, but when I reach the door of our room, he’s right behind me, leaning over my shoulder. His warm breath tickles the skin at my neck, and a rush of electricity surges through me.
