by Leigh Carman
“I can’t discuss the team playbook. You know that. All I can say is that Colton and I work well together. He throws, I catch. It’s not that difficult to understand.” I know I’m being an ass, but dammit, I want to find out if Toby used my tickets. The longer I stand here, the more likely Toby will be gone.
“What about the flag that was called on you in the first quarter? It looked like you were pretty upset about it.”
I sigh, knowing this was coming. Worrying about Toby had my emotions running high during the game. I may have gotten a little pissed when the ref called a bullshit flag against me.
“I’m not happy about any penalties I may or may not accrue during any regular season game,” I respond, forcing my tone to sound impartial.
“So you’re saying you think the officials should have called pass interference during that play?”
“No. What I’m saying is whether or not the call was good, I prefer to play a clean game.” Before the reporter can ask anything else, I thank her and show her and her cameraman my backside.
Thankfully, they take the hint and leave. It was a bullshit penalty, but I’m not going to give them a quote saying so. Coach would have my ass for talking shit on camera, plus, I’m not going to whine about what’s fair or not fair on the field. We won, I had a great game, with nine completed catches totaling over one hundred and thirty yards, one of which was a touchdown, plus I ran in for another touchdown. Being baited into bitching on television isn’t my style.
I pull on my suit, ready to leave, when one of our media guys grabs me. “They want you in the interview room, Archer.”
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
“Sorry,” the guy says as he scurries away.
Colton Rivers walks up next to me outside the interview area off the locker room. “They called you too?” he asks.
“Yeah, bastards.”
Rivers laughs and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Stop playing well and they’ll stop demanding to talk to you.” He grins and steps into the room, which immediately erupts with questions shouted and bright flashes popping.
I wait my turn, knowing by the time I’m done, Toby will be long gone. If he was even here at all.
Toby
“WHY ARE we here again?”
I glance at my best friend as we wait in line to enter the enormous new stadium rising up in front of us, all sparkling glass and metal. The curves are beautiful, architecturally speaking, not that I’m an expert in that area. It is stunning, though.
Leo is wearing his usual bright colors, only today, his blond hair is teased into a faux hawk and he’s wearing bright yellow and gold aviator sunglasses with neon green mirrored lenses.
“What the hell is up with those sunglasses?” I ask, deflecting his question.
Leo huffs, staring at me as if I’m an idiot. “These, my friend, are Versace.”
“Sorry,” I say, rolling my eyes.
We reach the front of the line, and the guy at the turnstile scans our tickets. His eyes widen a little. “You didn’t have to use this entrance,” he says. “These are luxury box seats. There’s a private entrance for these.”
“Oh, ummmm.” I rub the back of my neck nervously. “Can we still come in?”
The employee startles. “Of course, sir. Yes. Please come in. For future reference, the suite entrance is at gate G.” He scans our tickets and hands them back almost reverently. “Take your first left inside the main corridor and circle around until you come to a roped-off area. Give these to that attendant, and he or she will take you to your suite.”
“Okay, got it.” I wish it were cold out so I could huddle down into a scarf or sweatshirt. Anything to hide from the intense scrutiny of the employee or the eavesdropping crowd around us.
Leo, of course, has his chin in the air as if being treated like he’s important is an everyday occurrence. Once we make our left turn and weave through the thick crowd in the main concourse, he gasps and looks around. The walls are sleek high gloss concrete with huge panes of glass high above. Food and other vendors line the opposite side of the giant hall.
“So again, what are we doing here, T? And luxury suites with special parking passes and apparently private entrances? Who did you have to blow to get these?” Leo asks as I hustle him quickly through the mob.
My face bursts into flames. “No one, Leo. A friend sent them, that’s all.”
“Stop.” He grabs my arm and tugs me to the edge of the busy concourse, out of the way of the hordes of people in blue and yellow Wild Cats clothing who are wandering around looking for their seats or just taking in the spectacular beauty of the new stadium.
“What?” I am so not in the mood for this conversation. I knew I shouldn’t have invited Leo. But the thought of coming alone made me nauseous, and there’s no one else I trust enough to bring and not freak out if I start sobbing or getting emotional at halftime or something.
Leo tucks his gaudy sunglasses in his shirt collar and arches a brow. When he sees how unsettled I am, his expression softens a little.
“Okay, Toby.” Leo pats my arm. “I won’t push. Just….” Leo chews on the inside of his cheek nervously.
“What, Leo?” My stomach twists as I wait for him to spit out whatever it is he doesn’t want to say.
“Promise me the tickets didn’t come from your douche-bag abusive ex.”
I exhale in relief. “No, they didn’t.”
Leo perks up, popping his glasses back on even though we’re indoors and it’s not exactly sunny in here. “Let’s find our suite, then. I’m planning on taking advantage of every single amenity they offer.” Leo continues babbling as we walk, which I appreciate. “So many of the clients we dress tell us all about going to fancy events and having luxury boxes or backstage passes. It’ll be nice to be on the receiving end for once.”
I poke him with my elbow as we approach the corded-off area, staffed by a stiff-looking man in a crisp white button-down with the Wild Cat’s emblem on his left breast pocket. Thankfully, his pants are a dark navy and not the Cats other team color, a bright neon yellow.
“Look,” I whisper, ducking my head to Leo’s ear. “First-class service. They even have stuffy, stuck-up, butler-looking guys.”
Leo giggles, practically bursting out of his skin with excitement. “I’m a high-class kind of guy, T. I live to be pampered.”
We hand our tickets to the man, who gives us each a thick game program, detailed directions to our suite, and lists all the perks of being one of the “important people,” if only for a day.
“Holy shit, T.” Leo gapes as we enter our suite. I have to agree. The room is beyond luxurious. A bar area topped with gleaming granite is on one side, a couch, two chairs, and a large television on the other. There’s a door labeled as a private bathroom, and three tiers of leather seats lead down to the open front of the box, where the bright green playing field is laid out before us.
“Fifty-yard line,” I murmur. I don’t know a whole lot about football, but enough to know these are the best seats in the entire stadium.
A quick knock and a server enters, wearing the same attire as the man who let us into the VIP area. She explains that she’s at our disposal—all we need to do to call her is press a button situated next to every chair in the suite. She insists she’ll give us our privacy unless we call. The woman shows us the spread of food that was ordered for us and a fridge stocked with any kind of drink you could imagine.
“At halftime, I’ll come by and clean up if you haven’t called me, and also bring fresh food.”
We nod, both of us gawking, and the woman leaves.
“Damn, T.” Leo stares at me, squinting, trying to figure out how I got these tickets. “Did you buy these? I know you’re a secret billionaire or something, but if you’re going to spend money on me, clothes, cars, or vacations are really more my thing.”
I laugh and grab a beer out of the fridge. “I’ll keep that in mind, Leo. But no, I didn’t buy tickets.” I peek back in th
e fridge. “They have wine and other drinks, but if you want a cocktail, you can call the server.”
Leo pushes the button. “I think I will. Tell your mysterious benefactor I said thanks,” he says with a wicked grin.
An announcer begins speaking. “Let’s sit so we don’t miss anything,” I say to Leo.
He gives me that scrutinizing look again, and I feel like he knows all my secrets—Van, our tryst, that it was him at the bar with those dickheads that night. “Hmmmm, maybe I could learn to love football if this is how people watch.”
“Right?” I agree. We sit in the cushy leather chairs and sigh. “Me too.”
THE GAME ends, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Did Van expect me to hang around and wait for him? Is he coming up to the suite?
Since the envelope had no instructions, Leo and I head back to the car after the Wild Cats win by seventeen points. We pull into our complex and trudge up the stairs to our floor. I turn to say good-bye to Leo only to find him at my back, pushing me inside my apartment.
“So,” he says, giving me that damn scrutinizing look again. The one that makes me feel transparent.
“So?” I snark back.
When he doesn’t speak, I duck into the bathroom, hoping Leo will be gone by the time I come out. After using the toilet and washing up, I exit to find my friend in the exact same spot, and he looks incredibly annoyed.
“What, Leo?” It’s been a long day, and I’m tired and crabby. Every time Van took a hit, which was often, I felt it in my own bones, as if I were experiencing the pain right along with him. All I want is to pop a few ibuprofens and stop thinking for a few minutes.
“How long?” Leo asks, his voice quiet. A far cry from his usual boisterous demeanor.
“How long what?” I ask, unsure what he’s getting at.
“How long have you been seeing number eighty-eight?”
Oh my God.
Leo’s question punches me right in the solar plexus. My throat constricts, and my lungs squeeze tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I rasp, having difficulty speaking since I can’t pull in a full breath of air.
“T. Come on. You don’t have to lie to me.”
I clutch at my shirt, right over where my heart is hammering against my breastbone.
“Hey.” Leo is at my side, gently rubbing my back. “Breathe, T.”
I nod, sucking in desperately needed oxygen. “Sorry,” I wheeze.
“It’s okay. I’m sure I surprised you. I can be a little direct sometimes.” I shoot him a glare, and he laughs. “So sue me. I’m direct all the time.” He shrugs unapologetically. “Anyway, I’m gonna head out. Mia wants me at work early tomorrow. She’s talking about developing a men’s line and wants to have a breakfast meeting. If you want to talk about your man, you know where I am.”
“Thanks, Leo.”
I drop onto the couch, stunned, as he lets himself out. I replay his words in my mind. Your man. I laugh to myself. Right. Only Van isn’t my man. It’s obvious he hasn’t forgotten about me, though. He wouldn’t send tickets if he’d moved on. I pull out my phone, sliding my finger over the screen. Should I call him?
I’m still trying to decide when the phone lights up, the loud ring startling me so much I cry out in surprise. Once I manage to restart my heart, I look at the screen.
Van.
Gulp. Here goes nothing.
“Hello?”
Chapter 7
Van
“HELLO?”
Toby’s voice has never sounded so sweet before. I exhale in relief. He answered his phone. That’s a good start. Right?
“Toby?” I’m fidgeting as I sit in my car in the players’ lot, praying he’ll give me another chance. Please let him have used the tickets.
“Van.” The way he breathes my name has my pulse racing and my pants tightening.
“Did you see the game?” My insides twist and clench as I wait for his answer.
“I did. Thank you for the tickets,” he says softly. “Van. Why did you send them?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. I’m shit at talking about feelings. Always have been, but I’ve never had to actually worry about it. Until now. How can I put into words what Toby does to me? How different he is from all the other men I’ve known? How he makes me want to be more than I am, better, worthy.
“I guess I wanted you to know I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
All day and all night, nonstop. I want to mark you, take you, claim you as mine.
There’s a long pause on the other end before Toby finally speaks. “I’ve been thinking about you too.”
I blow out a relieved breath, and my guts unclench a bit. “I’m glad, Toby. Really glad. Can I… can I call you? Maybe see you sometime?”
“Why don’t you call me and we’ll see what happens?” I catch a soft giggle through the earpiece. He’s stringing me along, teasing me.
That little shit.
I’m willing to do whatever makes him happy. I grin at the thought. “I’ll do that. And Toby?”
“Yes, Van?”
Holy shit. The husky way he says my name has my dick fully hard in my dress slacks.
“I’ll see you soon, baby.”
Now it’s my turn to listen to his sharp inhale. I smirk at my ability to affect him as much as he affects me.
“Bye, Toby.”
“Bye, Van.”
When I disconnect, I feel lighter than I have in a long time. Happier. I sit in my car for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should drive straight over to Toby’s place or go home and give him some time to let everything sink in.
With a heavy sigh, I pull out of the lot and head toward my cold, empty mansion. I don’t want to overwhelm Toby two seconds after I finally got him to speak to me again. Plus, my entire body aches from the game. Tomorrow. He’d better be ready tomorrow, because I can’t go another day without seeing that gorgeous smile.
THE NEXT morning, I once again pull into the players’ lot at the stadium, bright and early and ready for work. There are no days off during the season. We earn every single one of our paychecks, pushing our bodies to their physical max as well as attending meeting after meeting discussing film and plays and strategies.
Feeling energized, probably due to getting my first decent night’s sleep since Toby cut off communication, I head straight for the cafeteria to grab something to eat before starting what’s sure to be a long day.
“Archer!”
I wave at Cal and sit next to him, my tray piled high with nutritionist-recommended food. Other guys are scattered around at the other tables, talking and eating.
“Hey, Cal.” I shovel eggs into my mouth, not caring how rude it is. I’m freaking starving.
Cal nods, swallowing his own bite before talking. “What’s been up with you lately, man?”
My fork is halfway to my mouth when I freeze. “What do you mean?” I put the utensil down so Cal won’t see my hand shaking.
He shrugs. “You just seem different. I noticed a few months ago when we were both rehabbing over the summer. Maybe it was just the injury, but it didn’t seem like it.”
I have to snap my gaping jaw shut. The tendons in my neck tense, pulling my shoulders to my ears. “I’m fine, Cal. Just hated rehab, is all.”
“Yeah, me too.” He glances up from his plate, dark eyes locking on mine. “I noticed your mood went sour right after that night at Turbo’s a few months back. Remember?” My entire body goes rigid, and I white-knuckle the edge of the table, gripping so hard my fingers ache.
How the fuck could I not remember? That was the night my teammates harassed Toby and his pretty blond friend and my relationship pretty much imploded.
“Hmmmm,” Cal hums.
“What?” I glare at Cal. “You trying to say something?”
“That.” He points at my hands with his fork, and I let go of the table. “You’ve been strung tight as a piano wire since that nig
ht. Question is, were you pissed at Justice and Ronnie or the two little dudes they were picking on? ’Cause I gotta say, Van, I never picked you for a homophobe.”
What the ever-loving fuck?
Cal smirks and shoves an enormous bite into his mouth.
“Fuck you, Cal. I’m not a goddamn homophobe,” I hiss under my breath before I shove my meal away and stand up from the table, no longer hungry now that I feel like I might throw up.
“Catch you later, man,” Cal says to my back as I storm off.
Fucking bastard. I try to stay angry with Cal, but my real problem is fear. Fear that Cal might know about me. Fear of exposure, of losing my job, of people finding out what I really am. Ice trickles slowly down my spine, seeping into my veins as my empty stomach does a nervous flip.
Somehow I manage to make it through the day without bumping into Cal again. Unfortunately I had plenty of time to make myself sick wondering if being with Toby is worth the price I would pay if anyone found out about us.
By the end of the day, I still don’t have an answer.
Toby
IT’S THURSDAY and I haven’t heard from Van since Sunday after the game. I shouldn’t care. I’m the one who broke it off with him, not the other way around.
But for Van to send the tickets, call and ask to see me, only to ignore me for almost a week is kind of a dick move. Annoyed, I resort to checking his team’s schedule, only to find out he’ll be in New York this weekend. Shit. He’s not even going to be in town.
At this point, I’m not sure if I even want to see Van after giving me the runaround. I don’t play games, and I certainly don’t do the silent treatment. Not after Austin manipulated the hell out of me for over two years, including ignoring me or slapping me around when I didn’t do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted.
I shake the negative thoughts from my head and turn my attention back to my program. I’m close to figuring out how to close a loophole in the code and don’t want to dwell on Van when I should be concentrating on work.
