Illegal Contact (The Barons)

by Santino Hassell

  I flopped onto the bed again. “I know. And remind me again why I care? We’ve known each other for two months, and half of that time was spent with us being assholes to each other.”

  “Uh. Because, as I said, you’re a sucker for a pretty-faced fuckboy with a heart.” Jasmine patted my hand. “Now tell me what happened. You listened to me bitch about Marcus, so it’s your turn.”

  I tapped my feet against the floor, lips pursed and brain grinding out a way to explain how I’d wound up on Gavin’s lap.

  “We got physical.”

  “You fucked?”

  “No. But I wanted to. His dick felt pretty good against my ass while I was shoving my tongue down his throat.”

  Jasmine reared up from the bed. “Oh shit. Tell me everything.”

  I told her everything. Starting with his “thank-you” kiss in the pool house and the second one in his bedroom. And how my basic ass had brought him a first-aid kit, knowing he was in the shower at the time, because I’d wanted something to happen between us. Or I’d wanted to see if something could, since that kiss had been on my mind all damn day.

  And how it’d felt too real. Too deep. Because all of that kissing and touching and rubbing on each other had started stirring up feelings besides lust. I’d started thinking about how nice his hair felt between my fingers, how strong his hands were on my body, and how amazing it was that he could be so careful and sweet despite the ferocity he showed on the field.

  In short, I told her that I was screwed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gavin

  The conversation with the Vice editor was weird, and I immediately wished I’d waited to make the call when Noah was present. I voiced this concern to Joe, and he made some fucked-up comment about me needing Noah to take a piss these days. Total bullshit, since the dude had no desire to go anywhere near my dick.

  “It’s basically gonna be a human-interest story,” the kid from Vice said.

  We’d done a conference call on Skype, which meant I had to look at this scrawny bearded twenty-two-year-old bastard while he twirled a pen between his fingers. He was nice enough, but there was something about his expression that screamed I can’t wait to exploit you. Or maybe I was being cynical.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means they make you look good,” Joe said obnoxiously, speaking over everyone and taking up all the space in the conversation. “Instead of just being an aggressive football player, he humanizes you.”

  “So, you think I need humanizing,” I said. “What am I, an animal?”

  “No, not at all.” The kid—Spence—kept twirling his pen, smiling cheekily. “But people only see you in one way, and I want to capture other sides. What better way to do that than shadow you for a weekend? I want to get to know the real Gavin Brawley and tell his story.”

  “If we do it, it’ll be for one day,” I said. “When my assistant is here.”

  Joe sighed at the same time as Spence clicked his pen and asked, “What’s his name?”

  “Noah.” There was no way I was giving Noah’s full government name to some random reporter. “Actually, hang on for a second.”

  Joe’s face screwed up, but I didn’t pause in standing up from my desk and grabbing my phone. I tapped Noah’s number and went into the hall, pacing the long corridor while the phone rang and rang. It went to voice mail once, I frowned, and tried twice more before he picked up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m out, Gavin. We never discussed me being on-call on the weekend.”

  “No one said you had to be on-call.” I frowned at his impatience. “I just asked what you’re doing.”

  “I’m with friends.” A closing door sounded loudly on the other end, and Noah’s voice pitched lower. “Do you need something? I can call—”

  “I just wanted to ask you something.” It was hard not to ask which friends he was with. Friends like Jasmine or like mechanic boy? “About that Vice piece.”

  “Oh.” Was there disappointment in his voice? I couldn’t tell. “Well, what do you want to know?”

  “The guy is saying it’s some kind of human interest piece. Wants to humanize me. But I’m wary. Vice has run all kinds of fucked-up articles on the NFL in the past.”

  “And you disagreed with them?” There was an edge in Noah’s tone. “Because I remember them being about things like the constant assaults and the toxic culture, which are valid topics.”

  “I didn’t say I disagreed. Just because I love football doesn’t mean I’m blind to all the awful shit surrounding the NFL. But I still don’t want to wind up in an article where they twist all my words to make it out like me being a miserable bastard has anything to do with the NFL suspending me.”

  “You think it would hurt your reputation with fans if they make it seem like you’re bitter about your punishment.”

  It was hard to admit, but that was exactly what had crossed my mind. I’d just developed a reputation beyond douchebag, and it was nice to get a few thousand less insults from fans. Everyone thinks that shit doesn’t weigh on athletes, but it can. At the end of the day, it was the sport I loved. The sport that had saved me. But it sucked to get constant hate from people who claimed to love it as much as I did.

  “I just don’t feel like getting dragged now that everyone has laid off me. They’d make it out like I’m talking trash because I don’t think I should have been punished. Which isn’t true at all.”

  “Okay.”

  I could almost see Noah’s nod through the phone. The way he would press his thumb against his lower lip, eyes narrowing, as the gears in his head churned.

  “When are they coming to shadow you?”

  “We didn’t set a time yet. Do you think I should do it?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Who else would I ask?”

  “Your agent? Simeon or Marcus?”

  “She already gave me the go ahead, and they’re traveling.”

  “What about Max?” Noah cleared his throat. “He’s a model, isn’t he? He might have opinions about this type of thing.”

  I paced farther to the end of the hall. “I’m not calling Max, and I don’t give a shit about his opinion. He only talks to me when he wants to get dicked out.”

  “Call?” Noah’s voice was a little too casual. “I thought he was there.”

  I halted my pacing and stared at the stretch of windows across from where I now stood on the landing of the staircase. It would have been easy to dismiss all traces of hope that I’d ever get another shot with Noah after our conversation on Friday night, but I’d held on. It hadn’t been all me that night. He’d kissed me just as hard and pinned his body against mine just as insistently. But I hadn’t expected him to really feel some type of way about me seeing Max, even though I’d childishly hoped he’d be jealous.

  “Why’d you think that?”

  “Because you said he wanted to come over.” A pause. “And you posted a picture of yourself on Instagram looking pretty satisfied this morning.”

  He had a point there. On a whim, I’d snapped an unfiltered picture of myself in bed. Shirtless, mouth lifted in a slight smirk. It was the type of shit Noah had insisted I do to keep my new followers entertained. Maybe he also wanted to humanize me.

  “I was, but not because of Max.” How much to say without going back on my promise? For so many years I’d lived my life being brutally honest regardless of the outcome. This new thing, this picking-and-choosing-my-words thing, was tripping me up. There weren’t very many ways I could say I had that smile on my face because I’d dreamt about fucking you to sleep. Not because of Max, without crossing our new boundaries. “You could say I’d just woken up from a real nice dream. About someone.”

  He didn’t answer at first, and I wondered if I’d pushed it too far, even being that vague. Or maybe I’d misread his tone, and there hadn’t been a hint of jealousy after all. Maybe this entire flirtation was in my head, and Noah had just wanted to make out
with a fucking athlete. He wouldn’t be the first one.

  “I think you should do the interview,” he said, and hung up.

  Nice.

  I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut.

  ***

  Since I had nothing on my schedule, I said Spence could come by the mansion as early as the following Friday. He lived in Brooklyn, so he said he’d show up around noon. I worked out like a maniac all morning, and nervously gulped down my protein shake while Noah looked on.

  “Why did you agree to do this?”

  “Because every one of you said it was a good idea.”

  He pointed at me with a jam-covered butter knife. “I do think it’s a good idea to remind people you’re waiting to get your starting spot back, and to maybe try to reclaim your reputation, but not if it means you’re going to be this anxious.”

  “I’m not anxious.”

  Noah pursed his lips. “I know we don’t normally sit here and gab, but it’s not usually this kind of dismal silence. I can actually hear that gunk sliding down your throat.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to flirt with each other,” I said.

  “Funny.”

  “Ha ha.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and dropped the container on the counter. “This whole thing is fucking up my head. Ever since we set the time, I’ve been overthinking all the ways I might say things wrong and all the ways they’ll twist it into something else.”

  Another mouth twist and another skeptical stare. Noah loved letting me know he disagreed with both the full power of his side eye and his words. “Not all journalists are evil, you know. Sometimes I bet stories go wrong after they run it up a flagpole and editors tweak things to fit the narrative they want to put out.”

  “So now I have to worry about editors fucking me up even if Spence likes me.”

  “Gavin, stop.” Noah stepped around the counter and put a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed, frowned at how tense my muscles were, and squeezed again. “He doesn’t have to like you. Everyone knows Gavin Brawley doesn’t put on a show for anyone, and I doubt he’s expecting you to. Just be the same with him as you were with me, and we’ll be fine. You barely even have to talk to the guy if you don’t want to. Remember? He said he was going to shadow you.”

  That was a very good point I’d somehow forgotten. “So you’re saying we can just go about our day?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. He might talk to us or ask questions, but this isn’t really an interview. It’s him seeing what a famous athlete does when he’s under house arrest and observing.”

  The kinks unwound in my shoulders, and I was putty in his grip. Without thinking, I inched forward. It didn’t occur to me I was too far into his space until he took a half step back. Fuck, I liked him. The desire to be nearer to him was constant and distracting. But I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d ever read me as well as he could, and who tried to talk things through with me instead of treating me like an idiot or a child.

  I’d spent the previous night trying to figure out if him treating me with a measure of respect was why I was so infatuated, but I liked too many other things about him for it to just be that one. He stood up for himself, he was fair, he cared about people, and he was the only dude I’d ever met who looked hot in a button-down. Or maybe that was my infatuation speaking.

  “You’re good at de-escalating me.”

  “Deescalating,” Noah repeated, smiling. “I see you’re taking your therapy sessions to heart.”

  I grunted. “Only so I can figure out how to channel my near-constant rage into working out and football instead of blasting on you and Joe all the time.”

  “You don’t really blast on me anymore. Just call me on the weekend to weirdly question me about what I was doing.”

  “What can I say? I’m a curious person.”

  “A nosy person,” Noah countered. “If you really want to know, I was watching sports-themed rom coms with Jasmine. We were using it to create a bullshit list of pros and cons as to why she should or should not date Marcus.”

  Snorting out a laugh, I grabbed a slice of his toast and bit into it. He watched but didn’t scold me.

  “You should tell her to give him a chance.”

  “Why? I don’t know him.”

  “He’s a good dude,” I said. “Only had one girlfriend since high school. She dumped him after he got drafted in the first round. Figured he’d turn into some sleazebag and didn’t want to spend the life of their relationship being paranoid. I don’t blame her.”

  “Did he?”

  I shrugged. “After she dumped him, he started partying hard. Couldn’t say if it would have happened regardless or not, but over time he realized it’s not his thing. Doesn’t like screwing around.”

  “Huh.” Noah did his thinking pose again, pressing the flat of his thumb against the swell of his lower lip. “Can I tell her this information came from you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. I’ll pass it along.”

  We looked at each other, me still chewing his toast and him pensive the way he always was, before the clock chimed. It drew him out of his thoughts, and he grabbed his remaining slice of bread.

  “So, I emailed Mel after you called me on Saturday and she gave me a list of safe topics. We can go over it after breakfast.”

  “That’s what you did on Saturday night?”

  “Yeah. I don’t mind. It didn’t take very long.” Noah walked around the counter without meeting my gaze. “What did you do?”

  “Worked out, watched porn, and swam. I lead a full life.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He gave me his skeptical face, which was half eyebrow raise and half exasperated and fond smile, before turning to the refrigerator. He knew I was full of shit, but he had no idea why.

  I’d also called a woman at Under Armour to follow up on whether they had any corporate openings that would fit Noah’s father. She’d apparently not seen the résumé in her email, and had agreed to look into it as soon as possible.

  The entire conversation had underscored the fact that me putting the moves on Noah was a shitty thing to do, since he needed this job. What if he’d only reciprocated because he felt pressured? I couldn’t let him feel like that. There was just no way. If the next couple of months passed with my body still lighting up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree whenever he was nearby, I’d make a move at that point. Until then, the ball was in his court.

  I helped him make breakfast and then we went over the notes Mel had sent. I wasn’t to talk about the fight, what had preceded it, or anything legal. I also wasn’t to talk about the NFL. Other forbidden topics were my bisexuality and the names of any female flings I’d had in the past. Basically, nothing that could result in me fucking myself over with the law, my bosses, or anyone who didn’t want their names coming out of my mouth. I could do that.

  Spence came over, and it was immediately apparent that he didn’t care about impressing me. He wore a white T-shirt, faded green cargo pants, and a pair of flip flops. His beard was a little longer than it had been in Saturday’s Skype session, but his eyes were sharp and flitted around quickly to take in every inch of the mansion.

  “This place is intense,” he said as we headed inside. “Did you just move in?”

  Here we went again.

  “No. I just don’t decorate it.”

  Spence did a double take. He laughed sort of skeptically. “Why not?”

  “Because I only use fourish rooms.”

  “Huh.”

  Spence didn’t ask me anything further, which only prompted me to explain.

  “It’s the first house I’d ever bought, and I figured I was supposed to buy the biggest and flashiest I could afford. Turns out that was a dumb fucking idea.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. But I’d do the same. I mean, I got this job and instantly bought an apartment in Williamsburg. Now I’m house poor.”

  “Heh. Fuc
king hipster.”

  Spence laughed, appearing amused by this, and spent the next twenty minutes showing me a website that made fun of hipsters. I didn’t really know what to say about it, so I said nothing and primarily wondered why someone would dedicate their time to making fun of people on the Internet. Seemed like a shitty waste of energy. I’d rather swim and watch porn and watch Noah painstakingly sort mail.

  “Not your cup of tea?” he asked, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

  “Not really. Seems sort of fucked-up.”

  Spence made another “huh” sound, and followed me around the house. I had no idea why I was giving him a tour other than I had nothing better to do. I was post-workout and usually spent the next couple of hours reviewing game tape, watching ESPN, and then trying to do the activities that the anger management counselor had suggested for me. Her new thing was journaling. She wanted me to write whenever I felt so pent up that I felt the need to punish my body some more in the gym.

  It sounded frankly terrible, but I wasn’t sure how much of that was me not wanting to scrawl my horrific handwriting across paper and how much was my brain being infected by the hyper masculine bullshit that typically surrounded me. Real men don’t keep journals. But according to my homophobic peers, they didn’t suck dick either.

  Just as the silence between us grew overly awkward, Noah walked in and flashed his politely charming smile. It was nothing like the blank-faced confusion he’d given me the day of his interview. Was I really that easy to dislike on sight?

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Noah. Gavin’s PA.”

  “Spence.”

  Spence took Noah’s hand. He wasn’t discreet about how closely he took stock of Noah, and I wondered if he was also on the rainbow spectrum or just trying to memorize the details for his article. Either way, he’d better get the description right. Tall, lean, soft, dark hair, big bright eyes, and the kind of half-assed business casual that amounted to a button-down with sloppily rolled up sleeves, Dickies, and old sneakers. Noah was adorable.

  “Let me know if you guys need—”

  “Don’t go,” I blurted. Both Spence and Noah looked at me sidelong. “I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do.” As soon as I said it, I felt like an idiot. Noah had agreed to be at the house while I was being interviewed. He hadn’t promised to stick by my side the entire time to hold my hand.