by Saxon James
“Sorry to cut the workout short, guys,” Coach calls. “But there’s something we all need to talk about before it goes public.”
Well, that explains the heavy smell of sweat. It’s then I notice Coach looking at me.
I clear my throat. “Ah, hey. This is all kind of my fault.” I catch Edgerton’s friendly smile and wonder how long it will last.
“You want to do this, or should I?” Coach asks.
I appreciate the question, but I’ve got this. Pushing up from my chair gives me a feeling of control, and I awkwardly tug down my shirt as I avoid my team’s stares. “The thing is, someone close to me got hurt bad this week.” I avoid going into detail because Coach and I agreed it was best to keep the rest of the stuff between us. “And since then, we haven’t exactly been quiet about our relationship.”
Someone shifts and I catch a low murmur, but I refuse to check who it is. My stomach has twisted itself into knots.
“I’m, umm…” Saying it specifically feels too clunky, like too much, as though the word doesn’t belong here. I stuff my shaking hands into my pockets. “When you guys met Elliot, I introduced him as my friend. That was a lie. Elliot’s… my boyfriend.” My throat suddenly cuts off the words. “I’m gay.”
When no one says anything, Coach hurries to stand beside me. “And as a team, we are all here to support Taryn. I hardly need to point out to you dumbasses that things are going to be a bit rough for him in the media and from fans, but none of that bullshit is going to come from the team. Got it?”
There are a few murmurs of agreement, and I finally chance a look up. O’Brien is smiling at me, and Edgerton looks thoughtful but not angry. I seek out some of my friends—Johnson, Trace, Michals—and while it’s hard to tell, I feel a little spark of hope. The more I look around, the more I pick up on the mixed emotions, though. Some are smiling, others look bored, and some are too slow or shocked to hide their disgust. I take note of those names, hating that while I’d known there were sure to be homophobes on the team, I’d really been hoping it wouldn’t happen. Already I can feel a divide starting to go through the room.
I need to lighten the mood. “Let’s look at this like show and tell,” I finally say. “Just this once, you can ask me anything, and you don’t have to worry about coming across as an asshole. Just ask or say whatever you need to, so when we get back out on the field, we don’t take anything with us.”
“Do you give or receive?”
My eyes fly wide at that question, and okay, I did say anything, but… nope. Not answering that. At the risk of getting hit I say, “Why? You interested?”
Someone splutters, and I quickly laugh before I get punched.
“You don’t need to worry, I’m not interested in any of you jackasses. But seriously, don’t ask guys in same-sex relationships that question because it’s really fucking weird when a straight dude wants to hear all about our sex lives. Next.”
“You sure you’ve never checked any of us out? Not in the locker room or anything?” O’Brien asks.
“Definitely not.”
He smirks. “Why? Aren’t we hot enough for you?”
“Nah, just not much to see.” There are a few laughs and it makes me feel incrementally better. “Being gay doesn’t mean I’m attracted to every guy I see, and those of you who have met Elliot or Liam will know for a fact none of you uglies are my type.”
“Liam was your boyfriend too?” O’Brien asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re not bi?” a voice from the back calls.
“Positive.”
“But… but… boobs!”
I laugh this time. The guys are becoming more animated, and even though one or two guys get up and leave, most of them seem intent on the conversation. “Yeah, you can keep them. I’ll take dick any day.”
There are cringes and calls of gross, and okay, I’m pushing it a little, but for fuck’s sake, if I have to do this, I’m going to have fun doing it.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Michals finally asks. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and the room settles. All at once the weight of all those stares lands on me again.
“I was scared. Being different isn’t an easy thing. It’s just this constant reminder that while we might be teammates and friends, it could all be gone in a second if you found out the truth. There are constant slurs thrown around, and okay, I get it’s smack talk or whatever, but some days that shit hurts. And I didn’t want to say anything because then I’m the wimpy gay dude who can’t handle real man jokes. It’s a mind fuck.”
“You know it doesn’t matter to us,” O’Brien says, and I’m grateful. I don’t believe him, of course, because it definitely matters to some people. I can tell by the way Coach’s mouth has gone flat that he’s noticed the way the room has started to thin out.
“I appreciate that.”
“Is your boyfriend okay?”
I’m not sure who asks that question either, but warmth explodes in my chest. I have to work really hard not to get emotional because fuck it if I’m going to come out to my team and then cry in front of them. There are some things they’ll never be able to handle. “Mostly. I’m hoping he’ll be out of the hospital this week, then he’ll move in with me while he recovers.”
“What happened?”
Yikes, another question I don’t want to answer. “I’d rather not say.”
“Sex injury?” Johnson jokes.
I shake my head. “And there you go talking about gay sex again.”
They laugh, and Coach pats me on the back, stepping forward to take over. He runs us through the press conference I’m refusing to go to, and O’Brien and Edgerton are quick to say they’re happy to be there as support. The others are run through what to say to the media until the PR team can be arranged to go over things properly.
I just sit back, both sick and relieved that’s it’s all finally out there. I’m not stupid enough to believe it’ll all be okay, but for now, I can relax.
Just for a moment.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jetson, the security guard Taryn hired, is some next-level, Terminator shit. He’s got a buzz cut and square jaw, and where Taryn’s muscled but agile and sexy, this dude fucking bulges under his shirt. He doesn’t smile, and I assume he must be ex-army or marines or something that screams a whole lot of PTSD.
Still, when he helps me up the stairs while Taryn parks the car, his hands are gentle, and his encouraging words are soft. My brain can’t put it all together.
I’m still worried sick over what happens from here. Taryn says he’s got it all under control but I don’t see how that can be the case when his team lost again last night. Two days after he came out to them. He was in a filthy mood when he left the hospital, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised when he actually showed up for me this morning. Then again, I don’t think I’ll ever not be surprised to find him here for me.
All through the meetings at the hospital and the lying to the police about not remembering anything… he held my hand, right there in front of people, not willing to let me go through it alone.
There’s still a long road of recovery ahead, especially for one of my legs. It’s in a cast with no way to tell if it will ever be one hundred percent again. The other is wrapped, and I have strict instructions on how to care for it, number one being no walking until I meet with my specialist in seven to ten days. And between the operation and hospital visit… there was only so much my insurance covered. My five-year plan has been blown out to impossible levels. Both Rainer and Taryn tried to cover the bill, but I refused. And when Rainer tried to cancel his flight to Ibiza while I recovered, I knew it was just one more excuse to play it safe. Taryn and I drove him to the airport this morning and put him on the damn plane ourselves.
Taryn bounds up the stairs with my bag slung over his shoulder. He dumps it down the hall in his room while Jetson grabs me a glass of water and some more pai
nkillers, which he places on the side table before retreating downstairs.
“Nice guy,” I say to Taryn when he finally emerges. He’s changed his shirt to a soft gray one and has pulled on a pair of sweat pants.
He snorts. “Better not be. I hired him to keep you safe.”
“You big sap,” I joke, trying to make this all normal, rather than focusing on the fact I have fucked up legs and no way out if someone comes for me again.
“I’m serious.” He sinks down on the lounge beside me, and I reach for his face, running my hand over the stubble that has grown out into a soft, thick beard. He turns his face to press a kiss to my palm. “I was so worried, Elliot. That’s not going to happen again. I’m going to protect you.”
“That’s sweet and all, babe, but this isn’t on you. It’s on those dicks who thought it’d be fun to teach me a lesson. And I’ve done two out of the three things they asked of me. I sent in my resignation, and I’m out of the state.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe I should have let you go…” He doesn’t even try to sound convincing.
“Don’t get cold feet on me now, big guy. You’re stuck with me for the next four to five weeks.”
He screws up his face. “How on earth am I gonna get through that?”
I aim a light punch to his shoulder. “Hey! I’m an excellent roommate. I cook, I’m semi-clean, and I can keep viruses out of your computer.”
“Don’t have a computer.” His attention has already drifted to my body. “And you’re far too injured to cook or clean. I think we’re going to have to figure something else out.”
He reaches for my waist and nuzzles his face into my neck.
“I’m not trading my body for a place to live, Taryn,” I warn him before melting into his touch. I turn my face toward his until his lips brush mine when I add, “You can have it for free.”
He lets out the most delicious noise as he deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling away. “Do not get me worked up right now. Doc said you need rest.”
“Yes, and what’s more relaxing than a daily BJ?”
Taryn lets out a burst of laughter before he gets up and heads for the kitchen, his erection very noticeable in his pants. As he moves around making dinner, I lean back on the couch and watch him, feeling like a little light has blinked on inside me. He hums a song off key and throws me a smile every time he notices me watching him. Being here, having Taryn, it calms the shitstorm inside me. And it’s like, no matter what happens, this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
He cooks spaghetti and garlic bread and when he brings it over and nothing is burnt, a little burst of pride hits me. He gently pulls my less injured leg over his lap and massages my calf lightly with one hand as he eats with the other.
It’s suddenly so obvious to me why I couldn’t walk away.
I love him.
For the first time in the history of my life, that thought doesn’t scare me. My revelation is quiet and small, yet I feel like I could drift clean off the couch with the rightness of it all. We finish eating, then hold hands and kiss lazily, and he tastes like garlic and onions, and I know I taste the same. He tells me how insecure he was, and I tell him how afraid I was, and we whisper and kiss and talk and laugh until I fall asleep with his breath in my ear and his heartbeat under my hand, completely gone with love.
***
We only get one blissful day together before Taryn is back at training. Jetson rotates watching the house with another security guard, Iora, so I never have to worry.
But I still do.
I still think about the room and the drain. The bruises from the zip ties around my wrists have started to fade, but the memory clings on. The steel in the man’s eyes. The sharp blade of the knife. The moment the hammer first made contact…
Fuck.
Phantom pain shoots up both legs, and I grimace as I fight it back. I took my painkillers an hour ago, so I know that other than a few mild aches, there’s no way the pain is real, but damn if I can tell my body that.
It fades after another few seconds, and I slump back into the couch. Half a day without Taryn and I’m already bored. My laptop and phone are gone, and I haven’t missed them so far, but there’s only so much TV I can watch before I start getting restless.
And that amount isn’t much. There’s this itching under my skin I can’t get rid of, like I need to be working, need to be doing more. Gary called me after I turned in my resignation to see if there was any changing my mind, and I’m still on the fence about whether he was being genuine or trying to test me. Because he has to be the one behind it all. He’s the only one who knew I was suspicious.
“Iora!” I project my voice enough that she’s bound to have heard me downstairs, and after a couple of moments, her heavy footfalls approach.
“What do you want?” Her demeanor is far drier than Jetson’s, and even though she’s well over six foot, has arms like tree trunks, and spikey black hair, there’s something maternal about her. She and Jetson make an awesome pair.
“I’m bored. I need to get out of the house.”
She snorts. “Riiight. Because that’s a definite possibility.”
“It’ll be quick. I want to buy another laptop since mine is gone.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
“C’mon. Please?”
“We both know boss man would kill me, so that’s a hard no.”
“Iora…”
“Elliot… Literally nothing you say is going to change my mind, so there’s no point trying, little man.”
I flip her off, and she starts laughing. “I’m injured. Take pity on me.”
“Yeah, that shit doesn’t work on me.” She goes to head back downstairs then hesitates. “Tell you what, I’ll text Jetson and see if he can pick up one on the way. You have the money, right?”
“I might currently be sponging off my boyfriend, but yes, I have my own money. It’s sort of what got me into this mess.”
She eyes me again before giving a noncommittal hum and leaving.
It’s another four hours until Jetson arrives, and by that time, I’ve caved into my boredom and shifted into my wheelchair to awkwardly try and prepare dinner. It takes more than double the time it should since I have to reach up for the counter while I chop the ingredients for the stir fry, and by the time I’m done, I literally collapse back onto the couch, completely wrung out. Taryn can cook when he gets home, but at least it was something.
When I’m woken by a nudge to my ribs, the new white box in Jetson’s hands makes me moan in relief. I’m well aware it’s a sad day when you react that way over a computer, but fucking hell, I need some access to the world if I can’t actually go out in it.
“Jetson, you are officially my new favorite person.”
“Careful,” he says. “Boss man will have my balls if he hears you saying that.”
I grin, loving the way they call Taryn boss man. I’ll have to try it later in bed.
Iora ducks back up to say goodbye and tease me over my injuries some more before she leaves and Jetson settles in for the night shift. Taryn should be leaving training any minute now, but it usually takes around half an hour for him to get home in peak traffic. While I wait, I busy myself setting up the new computer and signing in to all my accounts. It’s not until I log into my banking app that I’m finally able to relax a little when I see my accounts haven’t been completely cleared out.
My fingers tap lightly on my thigh as I wonder whether I still have access to work’s online storage. Considering we don’t have an official HR department, it’s entirely possible. Suzanne is usually way too overworked with administrative duties that processing an employee’s exit paperwork would probably get put on the backburner.
But even if I can access it, do I want to?
I pretend to think it over, but there’s no doubt in my mind I’m curious as hell. If something’s been planted on me, I could potentially find it and get rid of
the evidence. I have no idea if the evidence would be there or on my physical hard drive, but if there’s a slight chance I can keep Taryn and I out of trouble, it’s definitely worth the risk.
But first, I have to cover all traces of my access. I’m not a hacker by any means, so I start with the easiest thing—setting up a VPN to hide my IP address. From there, I have to go searching deeper, looking for the exact program I’ll need to mask my entry and the files I access. It takes me an hour to download and do remedial tests on the software, but it looks as solid as my skills can figure out.
With a deep breath, I type the link into the address bar and wait for the page to load. Slowly, like I’m afraid it might jump off the screen and punch me in the face, I type my credentials in and wait to see if it works.
To my relief and dread, it does.
It must be a sign, albeit a pretty weak one. I’ve spent years organizing and developing my processes for how I store everything and encrypt the data. It’s hackable if you know what you’re looking for, sure, but anything here that shouldn’t be would stick out like a sore thumb.
I click through from one section to the next, checking through my files and making sure the encryptions are all still in place. Someone’s been in here, judging by the history, but I can’t find anything new.
Some of the anticipation starts to seep out of me. I’d been so sure I’d find what I needed.
I’m about to close out when I’m struck by another idea. I may not have figured out who that number belonged to, but I know enough about their betting habits that I should be able to find similar patterns if they’ve ever used me too.
I’m not that hopeful, but Taryn still isn’t home yet, so I start to combine some of my data from the last few years. The spreadsheet I import it to is basic and quick, but it will do what I need it to for now.
First, I filter by money spent and set it to five thousand, which is a pretty common amount. From there I start to look for betting consistency and amounts won, and then discount any bids that lost. There are a couple of people who look pretty lucky overall but have the occasional loss, and while I’m not ready to rule them out completely, I move them over into another document.
