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I held her roommate, passed out in my arms, while Blair stood there, answering my knock in Hello Kitty pajamas, thick black glasses, and a tattered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird in her grasp.
I’ve loved her ever since.
And I’m right here again, wanting to hold her, wanting to try with her, but my life is too complicated. It’s not as simple as hugs and kisses and fucks and love.
I sold that for a football dream and twenty-two million a year for the next three years.
“I’m glad I could help.” I shove the words up my strangled throat. “I staged it. I mean, I’d already read the book twice and knew fans were filming me, but my smile was legit because you’re a good writer. You made me horny and cry and laugh and love at the same time.”
She quickly swipes a tear off her cheek, still not looking at me. “That’s the power of romance.” Humbly, she shrugs, like she’s embarrassed, barely muttering, “Of pure fiction, right?”
I swallow. I don’t know what to say because it’s not fiction between us.
It’s a fact.
“Beau,” she finally sighs, “what do you want? We were one night only. You’re not supposed to come back.”
She’s right. If I could stay away, if I could resist the temptation of Blair Monroe, I would. I should.
But I can’t.
“I need your help.” And she’s the only person I can say that to and not feel like a shriveled dick about it.
She looks back at me, surprised. “With what?”
For the past three days, I’ve practiced this. I’ve feared this. “I need you to go on a vacation with me. Like a work retreat. We’d leave Monday.”
Her eyes widen. “This Monday? Why? Where? And why the hell are you asking me?”
I glance over my shoulder. The door’s open, so I move to close it behind me. No one can hear this, and my hand, holding a male masturbator, starts sweating as I scan the room.
“Are there cameras in here?” I ask.
“No, it’s totally private.” Her brows furrow, her tone worried. “Beau, what’s going on?”
I vomit it out. It’s been sour in my gut for days.
“My coach is making me go on a retreat before we start training camp in July. It’s like a vacation, but it’s not. I have to go. He’s making me do some counseling and shit since the Super Bowl.”
She shakes her head, confused.
“The counseling is with this guy. He’s a sports guru,” I explain. “I have to do video sessions every morning with him and journal all day. I’m supposed to explore my feelings about my performance.”
I use a mocking tone. It’s how I felt when my coach gave me no choice.
“Can he do that?” Blair asks. “Can your coach make you go on some psycho-babble retreat?”
“Fuck yes,” I scoff. “As he reminded me, when you’re paid twenty-two million a year, you do what you’re goddamn told to do to win games.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
“Because I’m not going alone.” My stomach knots. I swallow hard. “I’m going with Colton Hawke.” My pulse races. “You know, my wide receiver, my best friend—the one who missed my final throw, the interception that cost us the Super Bowl.”
I plop down in the sex swing, not giving a damn how many people have fucked on it because, I guarantee you, I’m way more fucked than they ever were.
“Hawke and I have to spend ten secluded days together, exploring our feelings, like we’re fucking married,” I explain. “That’s what our coach says because he knows us too well. He’s had staff watching us in the off-season. We haven’t spoken since the game. We haven’t seen each other. We own restaurants and shit together, but I don’t want to see him.
“Colt feels the same way, and our coach smells it like a fart in church. And there’s no fucking way he’ll let us start training camp until we fix the stench. We’d be toxic for the team, and he’s right.”
