6. Wes

Wes

The loud poundingon the door can only come from one person. Nobody else in the building knows who I am, and even if they did, nobody would be rude enough to bang on the door at eight in the fucking morning. Nobody but Blake Riley, that is.

Jamie and I freeze mid-kiss in the center of our bedroom. We’re both buck naked, dripping from the shower we just took and sporting raging hard-ons. He looks as annoyed as I feel.

“Maybe if we ignore him he’ll go away,” I murmur.

Jamie makes an annoyed sound under his breath.

“Wesley! Open up!”

Blake’s muffled voice travels toward the bedroom, and Jamie’s expression darkens even more.

“C’mon, bro, it’s an emergency!”

My shoulders tense. Shit. For some reason, my first thought is that the truth about my sexual orientation broke out. How egoistical is that? Like the media in Toronto has nothing better to do than report on who Ryan Wesley is screwing. Still, it’s my biggest fear. That the success I’ve been having in my first season with Toronto will be overshadowed—or worse, forgotten—because being a gay professional athlete is the far juicier story.

“This could be important,” I tell Jamie, while trying to convey with my eyes just how unhappy I am with the interruption.

I throw on a pair of sweatpants and go to answer the door. Blake barrels inside wearing track pants and a gray undershirt that shows off his huge biceps.

“Thank fuck,” he groans. “Do you have coffee? I’m desperate!”

I watch open-mouthed as he charges into the kitchen and starts opening cupboards like he owns the place. Seriously? He nearly broke down my door because he wants coffee? I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from pointing out that there are hundreds of Tim Hortons in Toronto, two of them within a three-block radius of our building.

“How lucky is it that we’re neighbors?” Blake grabs a mug from the cupboard and heads to the other side of the counter to click on the coffee maker.

Lucky? I’m about ten seconds from committing a murder. Except I know that giant body wouldn’t fit into the hallway chute that feeds our building’s trash compactor.

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach when I notice the mug he’s holding. It’s one of a pair, with the word HIS written on it, courtesy of Cindy Canning. She gave us the mugs for the holidays, and I can honestly say it’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. I want to snatch it out of his huge hand and say “Mine!” Maybe pee on it to mark my territory. But Blake has already filled my favorite mug with coffee and is raising it to his mouth.

He leans on the counter and sips the hot liquid, then lets out a contented sigh. “Thanks, man. I can’t function without my morning vitamin C.”

He’s thanking me as if I graciously invited him in for a cup of joe. Which I did not.

Footsteps echo in the hall and then Jamie walks into the kitchen. He’d thrown on a pair of sweatpants too, along with a blue button-down shirt. The shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his washboard abs and smooth, golden skin.

“Morning,” he mumbles without looking in my direction.

“Aw shit, did I wake you?” Blake sounds genuinely regretful. “I’m bad at knocking on doors.” He holds up one massive hand. “These paws don’t know how to be gentle.”

“It’s okay, I had to get up anyway,” Jamie answers. He pours himself a cup of coffee, then glances over his shoulder at me. “Got any plans for today?”

I know he’s trying to act like a polite roommate, but the pain in his eyes rips me apart. I want to open my mouth and declare, “My plan is to spend the whole day under your naked body!” and Blake be damned. I keep my mouth shut, though. Jamie and I have worked hard to keep our relationship under wraps since the start of the season. We can survive a few more months of hiding.

“Not sure yet,” I say lightly.

Blake pipes up, “We have that benefit tonight, remember? Champagne and models? I feel a slutty night coming on. You?”

I shake my head. “Nope. For once I’m not on the list. The PR department only asked veteran players to make an appearance.”

“Shit, they consider me a veteran? It’s only my third season,” Blake protests. He takes a hasty sip. “Hope that doesn’t mean they think I’m getting old.”

“You’re twenty-five,” I say dryly. “I’m sure they still consider you a spring chicken.”

He rests one forearm on the counter and I almost swallow my tongue when I realize where he’s standing. The exact spot where I bent Jamie over not even ten minutes ago. My man is clearly thinking the same thing, because he offers a wry smile behind Blake’s shoulder.

Blake sips his coffee and then I see a light in his eyes. “Ah! I’ve got the best idea. Did you know I’m brilliant?” He grabs a phone out of his pocket and starts texting. I don’t ask him why, because with Blake, you’re always going to get a full story of anything that pops through his big meaty head. So I enjoy the silence, choosing a second-rate mug because Blake is using mine and pouring myself a cup of coffee.

Jamie is puttering around the kitchen now, taking things out of the refrigerator. A dozen eggs. Some corn tortillas from the organic market where he likes to shop. Chorizo sausage. Salsa. He takes out a glass mixing bowl and starts cracking eggs into it. I love the care he puts into cooking. I could watch his hands all day. They’d look better on my dick right now, but this is nice, too. He puts the sausage into a heated pan and it hisses against the surface. Then he tosses the pan into the oven to cook.

“Whoa,” Blake says, looking up from his phone. “Whatcha doing there, J-Bomb?”

“Breakfast,” Jamie says, chucking the eggshells into the trash. “Wesley told me he has a big workout planned for later. Thought he could replenish some protein.” Jamie pulls a whisk out of a drawer, giving me a meaningful glance. Then he begins to give those eggs the business.

“Holy cow! You cook?” Blake marvels, his big puppy-like face obviously impressed. “No wonder Wesley likes you.”

I see Jamie bite his lip against a smile. There is a lengthy list of things I love about Jamie. His cooking isn’t even in the top fifty. There’s his smile, his flawless body, his easy personality, his highly skilled tongue…

Right. Now is not the time for me to think about that.

“You staying for breakfast, Blake?” Jamie asks over his shoulder.

Our neighbor yanks a counter stool out and plants his giant self onto it. “You’ll never be rid of me now.”

Damn. I’m going to start crying like a little girl if he says that again. I find some plates and silverware and make myself useful.

I’m only trying to help Jamie plate up the food when I reach for the handle of the sausage pan. Before I can even register the motion, Jamie’s hand shoots across the kitchen space and knocks my hand away from the pan.

“Dude!” Blake bellows. “J-bomb doesn’t want you touching his sausage!” Blake laughs hysterically at his own joke.

But Jamie can’t even appreciate the irony of Blake’s words, because he’s busy glaring at me. “Again—the towel draped over the handle means…”

“It’s hot. I forgot.” I’m already famous for burning myself, and I don’t even cook.

Jamie waves me out of the way and serves up the breakfast.

“Those goalie reflexes,” Blake says. “They saved your mitt.”

Two minutes later we’re chowing down on scrambled eggs with chorizo and cheese in warmed corn tortillas with salsa.

Blake takes another bite and moans comically. “I love you, man.”

“That’s what all the guys say to me,” Jamie deadpans. He’s probably imagining the last time we ate a quiet weekend breakfast together in our bed naked.

But ultimately, it’s hard to hate Blake. It really is. Especially when he collects the plates after breakfast and just starts washing them without asking. When he’s done with that, he does the pans and then wipes down the countertops. Jamie pours himself another cup of coffee and plunks down on the couch while the kitchen is cleaned by someone other than him.

Even Jamie is softening toward Blake. I can tell.

Finally, Blake thanks us for breakfast and makes a move to leave. “Let me just check—ah ha!” he says, tapping on his phone. “This is awesome. I got you invited to the benefit tonight! This is a big shindig. My favorite one of the season. We’re talking A-listers at this puppy—supermodels, dude.”

“I don’t think…” I start.

“Check yer email, eh? The publicist said he was pumped up to have you. Two guys bailed because their wives are flipping out at them. The team bought a table and it looks shitty if it’s not full. So you’re in!”

On the end of the counter, my phone starts to ring.

“TTFN, kids. And your food is da bomb, J-Bomb.” Blake is still talking to himself when he leaves our apartment and closes the door.

Jamie glares at the door like it’s a venomous snake, and my phone starts dancing a jig again. I walk over and squint at it. “Shit. I have to take this.” I pick it up and greet the head of publicity. “Hello? Frank?”

“Morning, Ryan. Sorry to bother you on the weekend.”

“No problem, sir.” I’m extra polite because I’m speaking to the man who is going to have to manage my Big Gay Moment when my secret finally leaks. Whenever I speak to him, I never forget that.

“Blake Riley says you’re available to go to the black-tie benefit tonight. I know it’s sometimes a chore to spend yet another night away from our families, and I want you to know that I really appreciate the offer.”

“Umm…” I didn’t offer is on the tip of my tongue. “You said it’s black tie?” Christ. I’m going to kill Blake.

“Do you have a tuxedo? I could send you the number for an emergency formalwear service…”

“I got it,” I sigh. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you. See you at eight. And Ryan...?” He hesitates.

“Yeah?”

“Do you plan to bring a date?”

“No,” I say awfully quickly.

“All right,” he says lightly. But he knows it’s a loaded question. Frank is one of the handful of people who knows about Jamie and me. I told him last summer, because if the team was going to ax me, I wanted to know that going in. “Have fun.”

As if. “I will, thanks.”

Jamie is sitting on the sofa when I hang up, staring at the TV, which is not even on. I walk over there and sit beside him. I put my feet beside his on the coffee table and my head on his chest.

“Let me guess. You’re going out tonight to some shindig.”

I burrow my face in his neck. “I can call them back and say I’m sick.”

Jamie sighs. “They might put you on the IR if they think you have that flu that’s been in the news. It’s starting to freak people out. You have to play Detroit tomorrow.”

“Fuck. Fucking Blake.” We are quiet for a minute. I reach up and stroke Jamie’s beard. I’m still getting used to it. “Okay, I’ll call a realtor on Monday and search for a new apartment.”

“What?” Jamie laughs.

“I’m dead serious. This is… He…” I don’t finish either sentence, because this is something Jamie and I don’t talk about aloud. The things we do to hide our relationship—the awkward little omissions, the outright lies—it all feels terrible. I know it bothers him, too. We don’t talk about it because it’s embarrassing. I put him in this position because I wanted to have a rookie season judged solely on the merits of my skill. But we’re only halfway through, and it’s getting harder all the time.

“We can’t move,” Jamie says dully. “Be a pain in the ass and no guarantee of more privacy.”

This is depressingly true. “I only need three more months. Four, tops.”

“I know.”

There is more silence. But at least his hand wanders onto my back. If Jamie is touching me, then everything will be okay. “I’m sorry about the movie tonight.”

“We could go to a matinee.”

“Sure,” I agree. But neither of us gets up to check the times. Instead, I start dropping little kisses inside the collar of his shirt. He resists me for a minute or two, because he’s pissed off that our evening is wrecked. But I keep it up. And ultimately, I’m irresistible. I trail my lips down his collarbone, then down the broad planes of his pecs. I part the halves of his shirt and nuzzle his nipple, then start to suck.

He shifts on the sofa, his legs falling open. I kiss my way down his body and onto the bulge in his sweatpants.

Jamie drops a hand in my hair and sighs. He’s a little sad, but also turned on.

We don’t make it anywhere near that movie. After I blow him on the couch, we retire to our bed where we alternately nap and fool around all day. And when I finally have to get up and pull myself together for a benefit I have no interest in attending, he’s too relaxed and sexually satisfied to care that much.

At seven, I’m cursing at my bow tie while he watches me from the bed. “You are smokin’ hot in a tux,” he says. “Even if your tie game is pretty weak.”

“Help,” I whine, starting over for the third time.

He gets up and knocks my hands away. “The trick is to start sloppy and tighten everything up later. Kind of like giving a blowjob.”

I snort with laughter. Who knew that my childhood crush would ever learn to give a blowjob? Throughout high school, Jamie was my fantasy. The big blond hottie whose long fingers are fixing my tie still astonishes me every time he touches me. I hold very still because I want this to last. He can fiddle with this thing all night long if it means I have a front-row view of his brown eyes—so surprising on a blond guy—and his golden, chiseled cheekbones.

“There,” he says softly, his breath on my face. He gives the tie one more tug.

I reluctantly shift my gaze to the mirror, and my tie is perfectly centered and straight. I have no more reason to stay at home now. “Thank you,” I say quietly. When I say this, it means so much more than just for tying a tie.

He cups my cheek. “You’re welcome. Now go. Behave. Wave on the red carpet or whatever. When they ask you who you’re wearing, make some shit up.”

“Good idea.” I lean forward and kiss him once. A quickie. Then I beat it out of there before I can reconsider.