Chapter 8: Kelley

Chapter 8

Kelley

I wake up at the butt crack of dawn to the sound of Brady sneaking back into the cabin. It’s funny to me that he thinks he’s being subtle, but like Thad said, we should pretend for his sake.

I don’t blame him for wanting to keep it quiet.

When I think back to all the queer greats in sports, like Brady’s fathers being the first queer couple to win a Super Bowl, it’s unfathomable how much more difficult they had it. Even Damon King went through a lot to become the agent he is today. The industry has come a long way, there’s no denying that, but it still has a long way to go.

I’m far from the first person out in baseball, and I won’t be the last. Those players who were brave enough to come out at a time where it wasn’t accepted at all had balls of steel, and I wish I could say it made a difference. But here we are, decades later, and I’m still facing the same kind of backlash they did.

It’s complete bullshit and no one else’s business but my own and whoever is in my bed.

Speaking of bed, I roll over onto my side, the warm blanket shifting with me, and I stare at the empty spot beside me. It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone, and even then, I don’t have the most experience. I was always too scared of being caught, of being outed. I don’t even know if it’s the orgasms I miss or that connection where skin is on skin.

I want to be held and feel safe while doing so.

Coming out was supposed to give me that freedom, but Thad’s right about one thing. I’ve been too focused on the public backlash and what other people think of me to seek out the thing I’ve craved since puberty.

The way Thad looked at me last night, the urge to lean in and kiss him and take what I want …

I really am desperate if all it takes for me to forgive asshole behavior to the point I want to rip his clothes off is one small apology and a smile.

And when he suggested we go to bed? Of course I had to think he was coming on to me. But there was something there; I can’t have been imagining it.

Oh dear God, I was imagining it, and now he thinks I’m an even bigger loser than I am. I groan and cover my head with my pillow. Maybe if I press down hard enough, I can suffocate in my embarrassment.

I swear if I wasn’t so good at baseball, my self-esteem would be at zero.

“You’re up early.” Thad’s muffled rumble echoes around the cabin, and my casual morning wood becomes a raging hard-on instantly.

That’s going to be a fun reaction whenever he speaks now.

“I didn’t even hear you come to bed last night,” he adds.

He’s obviously talking to Brady, but I hear “come to bed” fall out his mouth and can’t help picturing him saying that to me. With a sexy rasp. Looking at me like he did last night.

Come on, Kelley. Just because a boy gives you attention, that doesn’t mean you have to get naked with him.

Even if I want to.

I really, really want to.

Though, I don’t know what it would mean for his position. I’m sure sleeping with a client—any client of King Sports—is probably a no-no in the rule book. I couldn’t ask him to risk that. Not for a night of orgasms in exchange for cuddles.

Out of everything I feel like I’ve missed out on in life, cuddles are what I want to experience most? I really am sad and pathetic.

Brady and Thad’s muted conversation continues, and I should get up and go out there, but what’s the point? I’m probably going to walk out there, trip over something, and then fall on my very hard dick.

There’s a knock at my door, and I jump a mile high, the pillow falling off my face as I try to make sure the blanket covers my lap. It does, but it still has my heart racing anyway.

“Come in,” I squeak.

“Hey,” Brady says in that soothing way he has about him. “I was seeing if you were awake and wanted coffee.”

“I’m awake, and yes, please.”

Behind Brady, Thad scoffs.

“What, Mr. Diva can’t even make his own coffee?” He says this under his breath, but almost like he wanted me to hear.

Okay, did I dream we put this shitty attitude behind us?

Did he wake up this morning and decide there was no truce after all?

But as Brady walks by him, shaking his head at Thad’s poor behavior, Thad winks at me as soon as Brady’s out of sight.

I smile.

Right. We’re supposed to keep things as usual. To protect Brady and his secret. I still don’t know why we can’t tell Brady that we at least buried the hatchet, but keeping the status quo should be easy enough. Though this time, I don’t think I want to back down or pretend I can ignore him like before.

I get out of bed and stretch. I’m shirtless, and my pajama pants ride low, showing off the bulge that’s trying to escape. Normally, I’m not a tease—I haven’t had the luxury to be one—but if I want to find out if Thad and I even have the smallest opportunity to hook up, I’m going to need to do something. Short of asking him, which no way in hell would my rejection sensitivity disorder let me, this is all I’ve got .

Thad’s gaze takes me in from top to toe, briefly pausing on the thick C and A tattoo with an arrow going through them on my rib cage. I wonder if he thinks it’s someone’s initials. A long-lost love.

I kind of wish it was instead of what it really is. The Charlotte Arrows. My college baseball team. All of us in my graduating class went and got them. I don’t regret it, but it does bug my finicky brain that I don’t have my other teams tattooed on me as well. Sure, I could go get them added or put somewhere else, but a team is never secure. I play for Philly now, but I could be traded at any moment like I was in the minors. By the end of my career, it’s possible I could be on ten different teams. I only have so much skin.

I turn my back to him to reach for my shirt on the floor, and I happen to know I have a great ass in these PJs. They’re basically what gray sweatpants do for dick imprints but with my ass.

A soft growl comes from the direction of the door, and when I glance over my shoulder at Thad, he’s biting his fist.

Okay, I’m definitely not imagining that.

“Do you mind?” I snark for Brady’s sake. “Trying to get dressed here.”

I startle him, and he steps back, his face looking incredibly guilty. But like he did to me, I wink back at him.

He dramatically rolls his eyes, playing into the I-still-hate-you bit. “Calm your ego, dude. You’re not my type.”

Damn. He’s either a good actor, or that’s the truth. And it stings more than it should.

He walks away, and I’m left to dwell on whether or not he was playing or if I’m really not his type.

“Are you two ever going to stop bickering?” Brady asks.

“Nope,” I call out.

“He’s too easy to rile up,” Thad says.

It’s true. I am.

Brady lowers his voice, obviously not realizing sound carries in this place. “Careful. Kelley has enough on you to get you fired after this trip, so don’t push it. And give him a break, okay?”

Thad’s reply, cocky and arrogant, isn’t as quiet. “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”

Even that sounds like a genuine barb. I know it’s supposed to, and logically, he’s just playing the game of reassuring Brady that we still have beef. But the thing about mental health and logic is they often don’t go hand in hand. As much as I like that Thad and I are on good terms now, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep up the charade of still being on the outs. Not when it makes me question everything he says.