5. Blaise

FIVE

Tryingto breathe like I'm not dying, I wonder if Jordan's up for learning other new things. Because, yeah, he definitely didn't have any expertise, but I think I have a newly discovered kink for sex with novices. It's superhot.

He stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and something about it—or maybe it's his puffy lips or the glazed pleasure in his eyes—makes my cock twitch again.

"So… was that okay? I mean, you came, which is a good sign, but… any notes?"

I huff a laugh. "It was more than okay, and sure, practice makes perfect, but enthusiasm helped. A lot."

He smiles cockily. "That's my secret to life. Do everything enthusiastically, and people either don't realize you suck, or they feel bad for you and try to help."

Ah, to be that confident. Though it's not really that bad of a life motto to have. "To be fair, you did suck. It's just that's what I wanted."

It takes him a second to get the (admittedly terrible) joke, and then he cackles. "So, uh, is there anywhere I can wash up? I'm kind of gross right now." He grimaces, and remorse floods me.

"I'm so sorry. I should have asked if you were okay with… that." I wave toward his chest, then bite my lip. God, he looks hot wearing my cum.

His cocky grin flashes. "I am seriously fine with it. But I also came in my pants, so… can I clean up?"

"Sure. Down the hall, first door on the right. If you want a real shower, that's fine—towels under the sink."

"Thanks." He turns away, then hesitates and turns back. "Uh, so… you said practice makes perfect, right? Any chance you're volunteering for me to practice on?" His cocky little smirk almost masks the insecurity lurking in his eyes.

"You want to give me BJs until you perfect your technique? Oh no, how will I cope?" I ask, deadpan, and he laughs again.

"I know it's a sacrifice. You're a real American hero." He saunters off down the hall while I snicker over that. Getting head for America? Sign me up.

I use Drey's bathroom to clean up—he won't care—and hear Jordan in the shower as I pass the bathroom on the way back to the living room. I'm a little surprised that he didn't just use a washcloth—I figured jocks weren't that fussy about stuff like that. I guess I shouldn't stereotype.

Plus, dried cum itches.

In the kitchen, I get the water pitcher from the fridge and fill a glass, then drain it. Gotta replace those fluids.

I take my time with the second glass, sipping while I wonder how this is going to work. I hope Jordan means he literally wants to practice gay sex with me, and not that he wants anything more. Not that I'm opposed to dating or even having a boyfriend, and sure, he's hot and seems like a great guy, but I haven't heard anything about a queer player on the baseball team at Franklin, and I have enough friends still taking classes that I probably would. That's the thing about rainbow mafia friendship groups—when someone in sports comes out or is openly queer, we talk about it. Only one of my friends even likes sports, but we still talk about queer athletes. And we'd have gone to a baseball game at FU by now if one of the players was out, because the community stands strong when we support each other.

So it's very unlikely Jordan went home on Sunday and openly proclaimed he was queer, which means any dating would either need to be behind closed doors or invite a publicity circus. Which… no thanks. I don't want to be a household name in college sports circles. The only people I want talking about me are in the entertainment and design world… and one day, maybe on the awards circuit.

I hear the bathroom door open and footsteps padding out, but they stop too soon. Curious, I lean over the counter and catch a glimpse of him standing in the doorway to my room, mouth agape. He's seen my Hector costume. Most people react like that—it's why I keep it on the dress form instead of packing it away or taking it apart like I do for most of my "for fun" costumes.

Pulling back, I wait for him to regain his wits and come to join me. He glances around the living room, then spots me in the kitchen alcove. "Hey."

"Want some water?" I lift my glass in demonstration, and he nods.

"Yeah, that would be great. Thanks."

I get a glass and pour him some, and for a moment we both sip in silence. Then he clears his throat. "Ah, so, I couldn't help but see into one of the bedrooms."

"My bedroom," I correct. "Unless you were opening doors."

He shakes his head fast. "No, the door was open. Sorry if I wasn't supposed to look."

"Nah, it's fine. Door was open, and I've got nothing to hide."

There's another little silence, and I wait for him to ask. He will. Everyone who sees Hector does.

"So… that costume was for Hector from the Space Reivers live-action remake, right?" he says, surprising me. Not everyone gets it right away—mostly they ask me what it is and if I'm going to a costume party.

"Good guess. Most people don't pick that."

He shrugs. "Well, it's not exactly the same as what Hector wears," he says, surprising me again. The only people who've ever picked up on that are my friends in the same industry, because we all scrutinize costumes like other people do with sports statistics. "Where did you get it?"

I smile. "I made it."

His mouth drops open again. "Get out! You made that? Fuck, you're insanely talented."

"Thanks." I preen a little. That's always nice to hear.

"Why'd you make it a bit different? Supplies or something?"

"No." I shake my head. "I made it when the movie was first announced, before the costuming was decided on. I like to do that sometimes, with remakes or adaptations—pick a character and design the costume I think would work best." I shrug. "Sometimes they're incredibly different, because I have no idea what the studio's vision for the movie is, or even who the costume designers will be that early on. But this one came really close. How'd you spot the differences, by the way? Only two other people ever have."

He opens his mouth, hesitates, then says, "I really love that movie. I have an, um, emotional connection to it, I guess. Well, to the animated version, but that transferred over."

I want to ask about that, but he seems uncomfortable, so I don't. Probably worried I'll judge him for loving a kids' movie. Which of course I wouldn't—kids' movies are the best for tongue-in-cheek jokes aimed at adults. Plus, they get some great costuming opportunities.

"So you just made it for funsies? That seems like a lot of work."

"No. Yes," I correct. "It was a lot of work, and I guess I did make it for fun, since it's never going to be used unless I go to a dress-up party. But that's what I do—what I want to do, anyway. I'm trying to get into wardrobe and costume design."

"That's cool. Uh, seems like a tough industry to break into."

I put my empty glass in the sink. "Yeah, not the easiest. Right now I'm building my portfolio with local stuff and saving to apply for an internship at Joy Inc."

Something changes in his face, but I can't put my finger on it. He's not going to judge me for wanting to work at Joy Inc., is he? That would be hypocritical, since he just said he has an emotional connection to one of their movies.

"Oh? I didn't know internships cost money to apply to."

"They don't. This one doesn't, anyway. But it's unpaid, so I'd need to be able to support myself living in LA for a year, which…" I grimace.

"Yeah," he says sympathetically. "You're not the first person I've heard mention that. It sucks that the internship is unpaid, though. You'd think Joy Inc. made enough in profits to pay one measly minimum wage salary."

Aww, he's cute. "Most internships are unpaid. Or paid so badly that they barely cover coffee. It's not ideal, but instead of raging about it, I'm going to get this internship—eventually—and maybe one day I'll be in a position to do something about it." Or at least to insist that any interns working with me get paid.

The outrage on his face turns to determination. "That's a good plan, but I'm going to rage against it instead."

I laugh. What does he think the rage of a college student will do? "I appreciate the solidarity, since ball players don't usually have to intern." Do they? Don't they all get huge deals when they're scouted at their college games? That's what movies and TV have taught me.

He shakes his head and puts his glass in the sink beside mine. "I'm not going to be a professional ball player, and I'll probably have to intern somewhere." A slightly guilty expression crosses his face, though I have no idea why. "Or at least get summer jobs as a lackey in my field."

"What's your field going to be?" I'm genuinely curious. I thought most college athletes aspired to go pro.

"Events management."

My brows shoot up. That's not anywhere close to what I was expecting. Jordan notices my surprise and chuckles.

"You thought I was going to say sports management or physical therapy, didn't you?"

"Or agent," I agree. "There was also the chance that you'd opt for phys ed teacher."

"Not gonna lie, I thought about all those when I was still in high school," he admits. "It would be a way to still connect with my sport, you know? But a friend of my dads' works in event management, and this one time on ‘take your kid to work day,' I ended up shadowing him for a couple hours. There were so many details he had to think about, so much scheduling, but it was also really creative. And at the end, the result was that a lot of people had a fun time." He waves a hand. "I talked to him about it, and shadowed him a few more times after that, and it feels like a good fit for me."

Seeing the way his face has gone all happy and intense, I can't help but agree. "You might also get the chance to still be connected to your sport," I point out. "Teams use event managers, don't they?"

He winks. "That may have occurred to me too."

A new thought strikes, and I realize why he looked guilty when he talked about needing an internship. "And your dads' friend, will he let you get some experience working with him?" He's got a connection. Most of the kids with money do.

Jordan nods sheepishly. "Yeah. Toby—that's his name—already said if I keep my grades at the right level, he'll keep a spot in their summer program open for me. I didn't do it last year because they don't take freshmen, but I'm on track this year."

"That's great. You totally shouldn't feel bad about that," I assure him. "If he was holding the place even if you failed everything, I might judge you, though."

He shudders. "Dude, no. My dads would say no, even if he wanted to. Uncle Luke told me before I started college that it was fine if I struggled with classes, but if I wasn't even trying, he'd confiscate my stuff. I've got some pretty cool collectibles."

"Your dads would let him take your stuff?"

For a second, he looks startled. "Oh—sorry. I forget sometimes that people don't…" He shakes his head. "Uncle Luke is my dad. He adopted me and my sister when our parents died."

Foot, meet mouth. "Sorry," I say awkwardly. He seems fine talking about it, but…

"Nah, it's fine. I mean, it's not, but I don't mind talking about it. I was only five, and I don't remember a lot about my parents. And Uncle Luke really is my uncle, kinda. He was married to my mom's brother at the time. Then Uncle Matt split, and he adopted us."

Whoa. That's some crazy movie shit right there. "Uh… can I ask about your other dad? I'm guessing it's not… Matt."

"Nope." He shakes his head. "I still talk to Uncle Matt sometimes, but not a lot. When I was eleven, Uncle Luke started working with Grant—they knew each other in college but hadn't seen each other since. Anyway, they ended up together, and two years ago they got married. He was my dad before that, though," he adds thoughtfully. "I'm lucky to have had two sets of parents who love me."

I'm literally speechless. His dad's life is the plot of a Hallmark movie.