by Saxon James
“Great. Well, maybe I’ll hear from you, maybe I won’t.”
T looks like he wants to say something else, so I quickly leave. Taking advantage of drunk guys is a solid no in my rulebook, and I don’t want him making that decision harder than it already is.
Especially when something else is harder than it should be.
I check my cell as I head out, finding a text from Rainer letting me know he was leaving. Fine by me. I take a cab the few blocks back home, resigned to spending the night with my hand.
And for the first time in a while, that thought doesn’t depress the fuck out of me.
Chapter Three
I groan, long and drawn out, but it does nothing to ease the pounding in my head. We won our game yesterday, and then… I’m pretty sure I must have gotten fucked up and passed out. It wouldn’t be the first time lately.
My muscles protest as I push up and stumble across the hotel room to the bathroom, trying not to wake my teammate Zane. He’s out of it though, which is lucky because the door slams closed behind me way louder than I mean it to.
After throwing up my guts, I dunk my head under the running faucet. The cold water feels good, but as soon as I switch it off again, the pounding and churning and stink of bad decisions hits me again.
Kill me now.
I slump onto the ground, legs thrown out in front of me, a long groan echoing from my chest. Everything sucks.
I’m still in last night’s clothes, so I was clearly well past the point of coherence, and I shift a little to try to pull out my phone. The light burns my eyeballs, and I cringe as I dim the intensity.
Like every night after I get shitfaced, I check Google alerts for my name, and once I’ve made sure the only hits are from the game yesterday, the dread in my stomach starts to lessen a little.
For now.
Until the next time when missing Liam gets too much and I drink until I forget. I drop my cell and press my hands against my eyes, knowing this isn’t healthy. In the moments when I’m not missing what we had, I can think clearly. I know drinking isn’t the answer, and I know that I’m quickly heading to a place I won’t be able to come back from if this goes on much longer, but every time I lurk Liam’s social media pages and see his life going on without me, this cold panic hits and I’d do anything to make it go away.
It’s been a month and a half and there’s only so much time football can fill. A yawn stretches my mouth, and I push back up, heading out to grab some ibuprofen.
Zane is lying on his back watching me, eyes narrowed at the early morning sunlight. He’s pissed I’ve woken him again, but imagine how pissed he’d be if he knew I was gay and he was lying there with barely a sheet bunched up around his waist.
Not like I’d look, but try telling anyone that.
I’m down to my last few pills, so I take them and crawl back into bed, trying to remember anything from the night before. We won the game—bringing us to one win and one loss—did the press conference, showered and went to a bar. Where I sat and drank. And drank. And got hit on by chicks which made me drink even more.
Something else nags at my memory, though. It’s just a feeling. Surprisingly, it’s a pleasant one, but I can’t place it for the life of me.
I finally get up properly at lunch time to drag my ass onto the team bus. It’s over an hour and a half to get home to Philadelphia, and thank god my hangover has eased enough for the ride to not be complete torture.
This is normally the point where I’d text Liam to tell him I’m on my way home. I open up my contacts, scrolling down to his name, stupidly hovering my thumb over it. I’m turned a little away from Zane who’s talking smack with O’Brien about what he got up to last night, and I wish their conversation was enough to keep me distracted.
I sigh, long and pathetic. Zane shoots me a look, but I ignore him, turning instead to my messages. Hopefully my sister will meet up with me for dinner, and maybe that will help take my mind off it. It’s not like she was ever convinced we’d last.
But when I tap on my message icon, an unsent text opens.
You’re realgy easy 2 talk 2. and cute. Ca8 I say you;re cute? Iw anred
What the damn hell? It ends there and I’m so damn happy it does. How drunk was I? Who the hell was I texting? The number is saved under A Friend which gives me exactly zero clue, but that weird pleasant feeling from this morning comes back. Even if my brain doesn’t remember the person, my body clearly does.
It has to be a guy, and I’m suddenly very worried I got drunk enough to flirt with someone in front of my team. But they’re not acting as if anything is out of the ordinary, so maybe I’m okay. I quickly delete the nonsense text, deliberating over sending a far more sober one. But what the hell do I say? “Sorry I got blackout drunk last night and don’t remember who this is? Think you could help me out?” I cringe at the mental image.
I want to delete the number and move on, but I’ve never been someone who can leave questions unanswered. I know I’ll write back eventually, so might as well get it out of the way now.
Me: On a scale of “one” to “never-text-me-again,” how drunk was I last night?
I hit send before I get a chance to second guess myself. Did I give the guy my number? Does he know who I am?
Oh shit, does he? Panic surges through me at the thought this guy is off telling his friends all about the drunk football player who hit on him. Did I hit on him? Was it… more?
No way. Even drunk I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have crossed that line.
At least I hope not.
Jesus. Speculation about my sexuality is the last thing I need at the moment. I’ve never felt comfortable telling the team I’m gay, no matter how many times I’ve wanted to, and it would be a huge fucking joke for the universe to out me right after I lost Liam over it.
We’re an hour into the trip, and I’m sweating through my shirt with anxiety that
A Friend still hasn’t written back, when my cell chimes with a text.
A Friend: Pretty far from a one, but not as bad as never-text-me-again. You were lingering around “too-drunk-to-hit-on” though, which was mildly disappointing.
I smirk, both flattered and nervous.
Me: Only mildly?
His response is instant.
A Friend: I’m trying to play it cool, you know, so stop fishing for compliments. We’re both well aware of how hot you are, but even if you weren’t drunk, I doubt I would have hit on you anyway.
Okay, so he says I’m hot, says he was disappointed nothing happened, but now he’s claiming nothing would have?
Me: I’ll play along. Why?
A Friend: Because you’re “permanently sulking,” remember?
I clear my throat before finally fessing up.
Me: I don’t, actually. I don’t remember anything. I found your number in my phone.
A Friend: Well, don’t you make a guy feel special?
A guy? It doesn’t read like the genderless “guys” so it gives me hope A Friend is a he. Hopefully a he who knows how to keep a secret.
Me: Sorry? Honestly, I don’t know why I’m texting a complete stranger. It’s kinda weird.
A Friend: Yeah it is. Haven’t you ever heard of stranger-danger, T?
Me: I can hold my own. So… can I ask for your name again?
A Friend: I’ll give you as much as you’ve given me: E.
Me: Wait, you don’t know my name?
A Friend: Nope, all you’d give up is a letter. I’m cool with that though, privacy and all.
I try not to get my hopes up. If he doesn’t know my name, then he clearly doesn’t know who I am. Of course, he could be lying, waiting to get a whole story on me before leaking it to the highest bidder, but… I’ve been lonely. So lonely. And there’s no harm in talking to someone, right? As long as I keep it low-key and stop with the flirting, I won’t give this guy anything he can use against me.
Me: Now who’s talking
to a stranger?
A Friend: True, though I at least remember how we met. So… I know you don’t remember, but I told you maybe you should talk to someone about whatever it is you’re so conflicted about. I’m not sure where you are or who you’re with, so I won’t specify, but we both know what it is. I gave you my number in case you needed someone, but don’t feel obligated to make that someone me.
I frown at my screen, because yeah, I clearly know what he’s talking about. It seems to be all I can think about these days. Surely I didn’t come out and tell him, though—I never talk about it.
Me: Can I call you when I get home?
A Friend: Yeah. Sure. How long will that be?
Me: About half an hour. We’re almost back in Philly.
A Friend: Philly? As in Philadelphia?
Me: Where else would I mean?
A Friend: Wow… I didn’t realize you lived so far away.
That’s good. If he’s surprised by where I live, then he really must not know who I am. The rest of my team wasn’t hard to miss last night, and surely everyone—even people who don’t follow the NFL—know the Sharks come from Philly. Again, it could be lies. But while I’ll be careful, I like to see the best in people.
Me: You live in Jersey?
A Friend: Yep. Moved here about three years ago.
Me: Where from?
A Friend: Places. It’s a long story, and I really only have the emotional capacity to focus on one person’s crisis at a time.
Me: Maybe we’ll come back to that.
A Friend: Maybe we will.
I stop texting at that, my head a mess. There’s still a vague pounding in my forehead, but it’s easy to ignore most of the time. Most of the time being when my head is cycling through possibilities.
E—whoever he is—sounds like an okay guy. I frown a little, trying to remember last night, trying to find a face to put to the letter, but I still come up empty. Maybe I could ask him to video chat? Or for his real name so I can stalk him on social media?
But if I did either of those things, he’d expect me to reciprocate and that’s not going to happen.
I’m antsy all the way back to our home stadium where we climb out of the bus, wave each other goodbye, and take off. My car is waiting in the exact place I parked it, and thank god, it’s only a ten-minute drive back to my house. I’m tired, and I really need to shower, but damn if I’m not desperate to hear E’s voice.
When I’m finally home, I dump my bags and jog up the stairs. I concede that a shower isn’t optional at this point, and I kind of feel bad for Zane having to sit next to me smelling like a mix of beer and sweat.
Not pretty.
After my shower, I inspect the wicked bruise blooming on my side from a good hit one of the defenders got on me yesterday. It’s not too bad, but it’s going to be tender for a while. I quickly pull on a shirt and some sweats, almost desperate to get E on the phone.
Sitting on my couch, my mouth is kind of dry as I look at the number. I have no reason to be nervous—I don’t even know this person—but that doesn’t stop my hands from getting clammy.
At the last moment I grab a bottle of water and my cap, pulling it down over my face. It’s all I was wearing last night and if he didn’t recognize me then, he’s clearly not a sports person. Hitting Video Call, I remind myself to breathe.
The phone rings once before it connects and—wow. The guy on the other end is… well, I can see why I let him give me his number.
He’s got really dark blond hair pulled back in a hair tie, dark lashes, and the most incredible full lips I’ve ever seen. My stare trails to the beauty mark just above the left side of his mouth as he hurriedly pulls off his glasses.
“You could have warned me you were video calling.” His unexpectedly deep voice goes straight to my cock.
“Umm… hi.” I inwardly cringe at how squeaky my voice sounds.
E doesn’t seem to notice, though. His slightly panicked look melts away. “Hey, yourself.” His eyes narrow suddenly. “You’re wearing your hat again.”
“Yep. I do most of the time.”
“But you’re at home.” His voice carries a hint of laughter.
I shrug, but he can’t see it with the way I’m holding the phone. “I’m shy.”
This time he really does laugh. “Somehow I doubt that. But since all I can see is your nose and that jawline I was drooling over last night, it seems like someone doesn’t want me to know what he looks like.”
“Cute and smart. I’m glad I got too drunk for you to hit on, but not too drunk for you to give me your number.”
“I didn’t give you my number so you could call and flirt with me.” He lifts one eyebrow shrewdly, and my eyes are glued to the way those perfect lips tilt up in the corner. “I was genuine about talking.”
“Are you single?” I ask.
His eyes narrow a little, but I know my question has piqued his interest. “Yes,” he says, guardedly.
“And are you gay?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t see the harm in flirting while we talk. Do you?”
A light smile crosses his face as he props his cell up and lies back on his sofa. “Guess not.”
“Good. Because if you were opposed to it, I’d have to hang up now.”
“Oh yeah, and why is that?”
“Now who’s fishing for compliments?”
“If you want to hand them out, I’m definitely not going to say no.”
I laugh a little. “I’d have to hang up because I don’t think we could get through a whole conversation without flirting.”
E tucks his hands up behind his head, and I let my gaze roam over the nice muscles in his arms. “You nearly managed it last night.”
“Damn, I wish I hadn’t gotten so drunk. I wouldn’t have stopped you if you had made a move.”
“Yeah, you would have.”
I blink. “Why the hell do you think that?”
“Because we were in a public place. Closeted guys don’t tend to kiss guys in public restrooms.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“You couldn’t have been more obvious if you were wearing a sign.”
My face blanches. I feel the color fade from my cheeks as I wonder what I did to be so obvious. Does anyone else know? It seems unlikely considering no one has mentioned it.
“Hey, don’t freak out,” he hurries to say. “Only because I was paying attention. That’s the only way I picked up on it. I’ve been with a few closeted guys, and let’s just say, I know the signs.”
I grumble a little, hoping it sounds like I’m not happy about the whole obvious comment, and not that picturing him with another guy sends a flare of something through me. It’s pretty hot to imagine.
“I have three questions,” he suddenly says. He’s watching the ceiling above him, no longer focused on the phone, but I can’t drag my eyes away.
“Shoot.” As nervous as I am over what those questions could be, I can refuse to answer any that are too personal.
“Okay. First, what were you supposed to be celebrating yesterday?”
“Ahh…” That question is pretty high on my list of things not to answer. “A work success.”
“Promotion?”
“No, nothing like that. Me and my… work team… we met a pretty big goal of ours.”
“Wow, that’s great,” he answers, without pushing for more details. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah, thanks…” I rub at the back of my neck. It’s not like I’m lying, but I haven’t given him the whole truth either.
“Second question: why are you permanently sulking?”
I sigh. “I’m not sure if it’s too early to be talking about that embarrassment.”
His attention snaps back to me. “Well, that’s got me interested.”
I chuckle as he rolls onto his stomach, moving closer to the screen.
“The whole point of givin
g you my number is so you can tell me stuff like this,” he says, kindly. Like I should trust him. I don’t—he’s a complete stranger—but I want to.
“My boyfriend left me,” I finally say.
He whistles low. “Yeah, that’s rough.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“But… I thought you were in the closet?”
“I am. Mostly.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I think for a moment, considering talking about my ex with this guy. “No, not really. Liam’s in the past now. But we were together for six years, so it’s been hard.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Almost two months now.”
E hisses in a breath. “Think he’ll come back?”
“No. I know he won’t.” I don’t mean for my voice to sound so bitter. “Anyway, enough about him. I can’t really complain, with this view in front of me.”
E smiles, but there’s a tinge of sadness there. “You’re allowed to be upset.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “But I’ve done the upset thing. I’m at the point where I want to put the hurt behind me.”
He nods, and it’s nice talking to someone who seems to understand. But the last thing I want is to get into too much and have E think I’m still hung up on my ex. Which I am. I know I am. But also… if anyone can get me to move on, maybe it’ll be E.
“You had a third question?”
“Yeah.” His soft tone quickly turns teasing. “Why didn’t you eat yesterday?”
