6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

“You got my email then?” Ian, the agent that Dean had started chatting with this summer, leaned forward, his greenish-gray eyes intent on Dean.

They were sitting in Jimmy’s, in one of the back booths, sipping coffee, and Ian had ordered a slice of Jimmy’s famous apple pie, but Dean found he couldn’t relax against the cushion because he was so tense.

He’d been dreading this meeting for a week now, ever since he’d gotten Ian’s email.

Of course, the whole business with Brody had been a pretty decent enough distraction. If he wasn’t agonizing over what had happened with his roommate on that couch, he was agonizing over the hard truths Ian had delivered.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He’d read it probably a hundred times, and he couldn’t say now that it was potentially any less true than it had been the first time he’d scanned through it.

Was he too tense? Too tightly wound?

Maybe.

But he was only that way because his life had forced him into that mode, over and over again. If he let go for a second, something bad could happen, could derail everything he’d worked for, and then what would he do?

Be average? Have an average life? Keep scraping away for every little thing?

He wasn’t going to do that. He couldn’t do that.

“You don’t look happy about it,” Ian said.

“Of course I’m not happy about it,” Dean retorted.

“Right,” Ian said sympathetically.

But Dean didn’t want Ian’s sympathy. He wanted his reassurance that these concerns weren’t going to cost him a spot in the first round of the draft next year.

“Well,” he said in a hard voice, “tell me what I can do to fix this.”

Ian tilted his head and regarded Dean for a long, endless moment.

He’d come to this lunch hoping to smooth things over and reassure Ian—so that he could in turn reassure NFL teams—that he wasn’t going to be a hot mess. But this thing with Brody had fucked him up so much, bringing all these frustrating hungers to the surface, hungers he’d never even noticed before. As a result, his temper was shorter than he’d hoped for.

Avoiding Brody for a few days had seemed like a good plan to return them both to the place they’d been in pre-hookup. And it had mostly seemed to be working, at least until Brody had shown up at his bedroom door last night, all soft sleepy brown eyes, warm with an emotion Dean didn’t want to identify, and reminded him all over again of how good it had been.

Of how much his body craved a repeat.

Fuck my life.

Why hadn’t he just told Brody he didn’t want to be his experiment? That he didn’t want Brody to be his experiment? Because he’d been relaxed in a way he never was, which was only partially the booze’s fault—the rest lay entirely with Brody and also his goddamn curiosity.

He’d wondered and let those questions take the reins for the first time in his whole life, and now look at him paying for that choice.

“I’m not sure what to tell you,” Ian said, and there was that blunt honesty again.

Of course, that same tendency to tell the truth was what had attracted Dean to Ian Parker in the first place.

He hadn’t wanted polite platitudes. He’d wanted fucking results .

He’d wanted an agent who was going to fight for Dean as hard as Dean had fought for himself. Up until this point, it had been going well. He’d been ready to sign on Ian’s dotted line the moment he could.

But now, ever since the email, he wasn’t sure.

That wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t sure of these days.

Yeah, you were pretty fucking sure you were straight, too.

Brody had destroyed that with one kiss—and Ian had done the same with one email.

Was it any wonder he was reeling and fucking hiding ? Maybe Brody had come to his door last night wanting a repeat, but with everything else shaky in a way that made Dean anxious, he wasn’t willing to risk it.

Too much drama. Too much uncertainty. No matter how much his body craved what Brody had possibly been offering.

“I want to know the truth. I know I can fix this, but you have to tell me how,” Dean said gruffly.

Ian sighed.

“Dean, I said it all in the email. I’m not saying that concern is gonna really scare any particular team away from drafting you, especially not if you keep playing lights out, this season and next. But it could . Especially if people start talking about it more—”

“You mean like the sports media.” Dean glowered, just thinking of how he’d like to squeeze the life out of some of these bloodsuckers who’d never actually played a down of football yet felt like they could offer endless, pointed analyses of his play. Of who he was as a player. Of who he was as a person.

Ian nodded. “You can’t listen to them, though, you know that. We talked about that.”

They had. At length. And usually Dean was too busy to do it, anyway, but for a time, a whole stretch of his freshman and sophomore year, he’d had a Google alert set up with his name.

That had been one of Ian’s first pieces of advice. Delete that alert. He’d done it, and it had helped him focus more on what was really important: his own performance, not what everyone else might say about it.

“I know, but—”

“No buts,” Ian interrupted. He still had that easy, uncomplicated smile on his face, but Dean knew his future agent well enough to know that casual smile hid a sharp brain and a backbone of steel.

You like those things about him.

But not when Ian was using them against him.

“So there’s nothing I can do?”

“Find some hobbies? Learn to smile on the sideline?”

“They should be happy I’m not having a fucking meltdown on the sideline,” Dean grumbled.

Ian smirked. “They wouldn’t like that either. Trust me on this one.”

No, and he’d know better than anyone. Ian was famously with Carter Maxwell, a receiver in the NFL who had once been famous for those sideline meltdowns. He’d been even more famous for the methods he’d used to combat them: partying hard and fucking even harder, with anyone who’d have him. And since Carter Maxwell looked like a GQ model come to life, all golden hair and charming smile and ripped abs, there’d been a long, long line of takers.

But after Ian had come into his life, all that had stopped.

“I can smile. I do smile,” Dean argued. “I just . . .I’m focused on the field. That’s what they want, isn’t it?”

It felt like every time he recorded another achievement, the nebulous powers-that-be moved the fucking goal posts, ensuring that he’d never be exactly what they wanted.

Guaranteeing that he’d stay Dean Scott, broke and from the wrong side of the tracks, with the boozy mom and the absent dad.

“Listen, Dean, nobody ever said this was right. Or fair.” Ian sighed. “I’m going to do what I can to get out what I do know of you, which is that you’re maybe the most determined guy I’ve ever met. The hardest working. That counts for something. But you gotta do something for me, too.”

“What? Anything, I’ll do anything.”

“Relax a little, okay? Don’t just smile now, smile on the sideline. Enjoy what you’ve accomplished. You should , because it’s a serious achievement to even have made it this far.” Ian’s voice was wry. He didn’t call Dean on his desperate plea. He could have, but he didn’t. Another tick in the column of he is the right agent for you .

“I can do that.”

“Get a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Whichever. Or even a friend. Hang out with them. There’s something besides just football and school. I know you’re friends with Wes, but I’m thinking finding something outside football might be more reassuring.”

Dean thought about Brody, but only for a split second. Then he dismissed him. He wasn’t a boyfriend. He wasn’t even a friend. He wasn’t . . .well, he wasn’t anything . Between Brody’s panic over what they’d done and Dean’s commitment to his future goals, they’d both made sure of that.

But he could tell Ian about Brody . . .

No.

No, he couldn’t. What would be the point?

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dean said dryly. Don’t mention Brody, just don’t do it, it’s not anything . . .you’re not anything. “I . . .uh . . .I have a new roommate this year. Good guy. Plays hockey. Does that count? Yeah, he doesn’t play football, but he’s on the hockey team.”

Why had he gone and brought him up?

“Hey, he’s not in your normal path, that matters. Tell me about him,” Ian’s eyes lit up with approving pleasure.

He didn’t want to talk about Brody, while also being literally unable to keep his name out of his mouth. It was a conundrum that Dean didn’t fucking understand.

We kissed. It was hot.

“I . . .uh . . .he’s a hockey player, like I said.” What else did he know about Brody that wasn’t part of what had happened on that goddamn couch? “He’s a bio major. Super smart. Parents are doctors. He’s goin’ places.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, but that was all. Because if he said more, he might keep word vomiting and that couldn’t happen.

Him, word vomiting. Who most people had to freaking persuade to talk.

“Anything else? He’s just your roommate who plays hockey who’s a bio major?” Ian teased him gently.

“I guess . . .Brody’s sort of a friend. A friendly acquaintance.”

He sure didn’t feel like just an acquaintance the other night, when your tongue was in his mouth and his hand was on your dick.

Ian rolled his eyes, but his face was still full of teasing delight. “This gonna be one of those roommate situations, Dean?”

“No. No. Definitely not.” Yes .

“It would be okay if it was,” Ian pointed out kindly.

“Funny how it doesn’t matter if I’m fucking my male roommate now, but God forbid I care too much about my future and don’t smile enough on the sideline.”

“I know,” Ian said sympathetically. “It’s fucking nuts, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dean griped.

“But if it’s not like that—”

“It’s not,” Dean interrupted him before he could continue.

Ian just laughed. “Of course not. Well, keep me posted. And bonus points, if this roommate makes you smile and look like you just did when you told me about him . . .see more of him, okay?”

That was a fucking joke, considering that Dean had just spent the last few days making sure their paths literally never crossed. But before he could say anything else, their waitress arrived, two checks in hand.

Ian was scrupulous, making sure never to overstep the NCAA rules that forbade him from giving anything of any monetary value to Dean before he’d officially signed with him.

And Dean? Well he wasn’t about to let some faceless organization that half the time felt like it was out for his youth and his blood all while it took in hundreds of millions of dollars because of guys like him do anything to fuck him over even more.

“I mean it,” Ian said as Dean pulled a few dollar bills out of his wallet. “You actually looked like a real person the moment you brought him up.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean grumbled.

“Sure. But I’m here when you want to.” Ian shot him a knowing grin.

But Dean already knew that he was never going to want to talk about it.

About the easy way they’d begun to know each other over a dozen or so passing conversations they’d shared.

About Friday night’s experiment.

About the heat and the knowing look in Brody’s eyes when he’d knocked on his door yesterday.

About Brody, at all.

And definitely not about how he didn’t know what the fuck to do about any of it.