Page 35 of King of Pain

I set the sketchpad aside and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. My fingers trace the smudges of charcoal on my hand absentmindedly.

This is getting out of hand. His quiet intensity, his quick smirks, the way he speaks without saying much at all. It’s like he’s living rent free in my head and refuses to leave.

I glance at the sketchpad again.

“I’m so fucked,” I whisper to no one.

Little G lets out a soft snore from the couch, completely oblivious to my turmoil. I reach over and give him a quick scratch behind the ears before standing up and cleaning the mess I’ve made.

Once the charcoals are packed away, I gather the sketchpad and flip it closed, deciding not to look at the drawing again. At least not for now.

I pile all the supplies onto the kitchen table and glance at the clock. It’s lunchtime, and I haven’t eaten yet. I decide to go grab a sub sandwich and stop by the shopping center in Old Town Scottsdale to find a bag for my art supplies that will work with my bike.

After taking Little G out and putting him in his crate, I grab my keys and as I reach for the door to head out, my thoughts drift back to Ant once again. What time did he leave this morning? Did he get to his dorm or practice ok? Did he realizehow much restraint it took for me not to pull that beautiful face into my hands and taste him? What’s he doing right now?

I sigh, shaking my head as I step outside.

I don’t know what this is, but one thing’s clear: the beautiful, mysterious boy is going to completely upend my world.

TRACK SIXTEEN

Hungry Eyes

Anthony

It’s been three weeks since that first night we hung out at Chance’s apartment. We’ve fallen into an easy rhythm—grabbing beers, talking trash about each other’s sports, and finding excuses to hang out. It’s almost ridiculous how quickly we’ve clicked. He’s become one of the few people I feel comfortable around, which is saying something.

“No, man. I get that you think it’s the toughest sport with the most injuries, but I’m telling you, football is harder,” I fire at him from across the table.

Chance leans back in the booth we’re occupying at my favorite pizza and wings spot, smirking as he dunks a chicken wing into a pool of ranch dressing. “You’re out of your mind. You’ve got breaks between every play. Hockey is nonstop. And the hits? On skates? Twice as brutal.”

I shake my head, laughing as I polish off my own wing. “Yeah, but we’re running full speed into each other. You think your little boards are tough? Try getting flattened by a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebacker who’s basically a freight train in human form.”

“Freight train? Please,” Chance says, rolling his eyes. “Your game stops every thirty seconds. Hockey’s three straight periods of chaos. It’s not even close.”

I shake my head at the huge grin he’s flashing at me and try to keep my pulse in check. Every time we hang out is a reminder of the things I need to keep pushed down. Things I shouldn’t act on. Like now, as he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table, the muscles in his arms flexing those damn sexy tattooswith every move. His smile is easy, his laugh genuine, and I… I need to get a grip.

“So,” he says, casual. “We’ve hung out a bit now, and you haven’t mentioned anyone special. You… uh, you got a girlfriend… boyfriend?”

I pause with a wing halfway to my mouth. Why did he ask that? What do I even say? I drop the wing back in the basket and take a long drink of my beer to cover my nerves.

“No. No, not seeing anyone,” I manage to cough out after setting my beer back on the table. “What about you?”

Chance shakes his head. “Not anymore. I did, back in Boston. We weren’t very serious.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling my heart squeeze for reasons I can’t risk analyzing right now. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He shrugs. “We were friends for years and then friends with benefits. They were thinking of moving out here with me, then backed out last minute.”

I notice he’s leaving out pronouns. I’m dying to ask, but that might prompt him to return the question, and I’m just not ready for that. “That’s rough, man. I’m sorry,” I say instead.

“It’s whatever,” he says. “Like I said, we weren’t that serious. But moving out here alone… it sucked at first. Maybe it’s for the best, you know? Fresh start, new people.”

Then he pauses, looking directly at me. “More interesting people.”

Then the fucker winks at me. Or he has hot sauce in his eye. That’s gotta be it. Yeah, he sauced a retina. I’m sure of it.

A few beers later, we’re still talking, and thankfully the conversation has moved to music and the latest trending videos on social media. The bar is loud, but it’s easy to tune out the noise when it’s just the two of us.