Page 42 of Something to Prove

Ty waggled his brows again. “I know. I got cum on my jeans and overscrubbed them in the bathroom. Now it looks like I pissed my pants. I was going to give them a few minutes to dry, but if you want me to go, that’s cool. I won’t be offended.”

“No, that’s okay. I have a paper to write, but it can wait a bit.”

“I have hockey practice in like…” He checked his watch. “Forty-five minutes. The guys are going to want to know all about the diner episode.”

“You told them? I mean…of course, you did. It was your idea. You didn’t tell anyone about…”

My sudden inability to finish my sentences was almost as concerning as Ty knowing what I was going to say.

“Us?” He made a funny face and took another swig of water. “No. I didn’t think you’d want that either.”

“I absolutely do not. It would be extremely unprofessional to sleep with a guest.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just not something a serious journalist should do.” I set my water bottle on my nightstand and pulled the sheet over my legs, looking everywhere but at Ty.

“Not a big deal if you ask me, but I’m a fucking hypocrite, so what do I know?”

I tilted my head slightly. “How so?”

“I’m an out bisexual guy. How noble, right? Except I know for a fact that most people are cool with the bi label as long as you keep the gay part on the DL, so I do because I have a contract with a pro team with expectations. And yet I just had amazingsex with a man…the same dude I told anyone who’d listen to me was on my shit list for outing my teammate last year. So, yeah…I have no moral high ground whatsoever, and I think I should care about that more than I do.”

“You know I didn’t out Jett on purpose, don’t you?”

Ty nodded. “Yeah. I know that now.”

“Good. Well, if you’re worried that I’ll get ideas or blab to anyone about…” I gestured between us. “I won’t.”

His sexy mouth twisted devilishly. “Are we negotiating? ’Cause it sort of feels like it. I won’t tell if you don’t tell and if neither of us tells, we can fuck like bunnies for as long as we want?”

“Was that a question?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’m in if you are.”

“Tempting, but too many people know us in Smithton. If we’re seen together?—”

“They’ll think we’re collaborating. And we are. Or maybe that’s past tense, but it would be easy enough to sell friendship. We have good chemistry. My agent likes us, and he doesn’t like anything.” Ty furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “He thinks the Jackals should probably be paying you for your PR skills. You should look into that.”

“Good press works both ways.”

“So you said. For the record, you were pretty impressive at the diner today.”

I beamed. “Thank you.”

“Seriously. You know your shit. You must have been up all night studying milkshakes.”

“As one does.”

Ty snorted and drank the remains of his water bottle in one long gulp. “I bet you made a few practice shakes so yours would look like dessert art. C’mon…admit it.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Su-re,” he drawled. “Then why was yours so nice?”

“You only think that because yours was more…childlike in its enthusiasm.”

Ty narrowed his eyes playfully. “Fair. When I was a kid, we used to make root beer floats and sundaes for special occasions, like good grades or a hat trick. If one of us did something noteworthy, we all got in on the action. My folks said it was important to celebrate each other’s accomplishments. We went along with it for the ice cream. They were like, ‘Yay, Meg got an A on her Social Studies final,’ and we’d rub our grubby hands together and say, ‘Well done, Sis. We’re gonna wreck that motherfuckin’ tub of vanilla.’ ”