Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
“Fuck off.” I gave him the finger.
“Is someone grumpy because he didn’t get to have sex last night—oh my God. He turned you down, didn’t he?”
“Remind me again why we’re friends?” I slipped my cell into my pocket, looked at the damned sunglasses, and grabbed them. I mean, it couldn’t hurt to keep them with me. What if, by some miracle, I ran into Anson?
“Because I put up with your shit?” Jeremy replied.
He did, and I was grateful for him. “No, because I feel sorry for you.”
We laughed as we headed out of the apartment.
We went to a café Jeremy raved about for a late breakfast, then spent a few hours in the city. Eventually, we got a car to drive us to the stadium for the game.
“You’ve been quiet,” Jeremy said.
Well, that was because I was currently losing my mind and obsessed with my mystery man. I didn’t get like this over men, but I’d seen it, how much he’d wanted to say yes, how scared he’d been. The memory weighed heavily on me, but I tried to push it aside, and said to Jeremy, “Did you miss the sound of my voice?”
“No, I was actually grateful.”
“Lies!” We pulled up at the stadium then, and I added, “Go team!” before getting out. “Will you buy me one of those foam fingers? Please, please, please?” I teased.
“You’re a jackass.”
We waited in line, went through security, then grabbed beers and headed to our seats. They really were good seats, close to the action. We talked while the stadium filled up and got louder and louder. Eventually, it was almost kickoff time, and yeah, my pulse jumped up a notch. As much as I gave Jeremy shit, live sports really were something special. It was easy to feed off the energy of the crowd.
The announcer was talking overhead, then jumped into introducing the visiting team. I tuned most of it out. This wasn’t the exciting part, so I checked my email on my phone.
“Number eighty-nine, from Atlanta, Georgia, tight end, Anson Hawkins!” My eyes shot up to the screen as the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and…holy fuck, there he was. My guy from last night. On the screen was a photo of him grinning, there one second, gone the next… “Holy fuck,” I said aloud. Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck. No other words would compute.
“What’s wrong? You look pale.”
My gaze darted to Jeremy. I wanted to answer his question, wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. I never fucking would, but… Football? He was a professional football player? There were no out queer players in professional football. I didn’t pay close attention to the sport, but I knew that.
“Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with you?” I must have really looked bad because there was a quaver of worry in Jeremy’s voice.
He had given me his real name. Why in the fuck had he given me his real name? But then, I remembered his brief flash of shock when he’d said it. The reaction hadn’t made sense last night, but it did today.
“Nothing.” I finally managed to pull my head out of my ass long enough to respond. “Email from this guy I fucked.” The lie had been the first thing to come to mind. Jeremy didn’t look convinced, but what could he say?
I returned my attention to the field, leg bouncing up and down while they finished the introductions. Anson Hawkins. He was a tight end for the Atlanta Lightning. If the situation wasn’t so serious, I’d have a joke for that. In what world did shit like this happen? My world, apparently. I just happened to sit next to a queer, professional football player and flirt with him all night.
My nerves were shot for the whole game. I’d never been so into football in my life. Anson was…fuck, he was good, and sexy, but yeah, really fucking good. Of course he was. He had to be to play professionally, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I cheered for him, getting the evil eye from those around me because I wasn’t rooting for the home team, but I didn’t care.
It was a close game, not much time left in the fourth. I hadn’t left my seat all night, not even during halftime. I’d wanted to use my phone to look up more about him, but I was nervous Jeremy would see and somehow put two and two together. Why would I be researching a random football player at a game?
The score was tied, less than two minutes left. Atlanta had the ball. The quarterback was working to get it downfield but was struggling some. Anson was trying to block defenders. When a player from DC hit the ground, there was an opening, and Anson took it, breaking free. The quarterback threw for him. Fuck, he was fast. He caught it just before he was taken down. Holy shit, they’d hit him hard, but he jumped up, ball in hand, and shook it off. I breathed out, as if he didn’t do this every fucking day, and holy shit, he did this every fucking day. Well, once a week during football season.