Page 19 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

TY

The Bears were on a sweet four-game winning streak.

We trounced Granville, St. Mark, Central, Brandiss, and tonight, we were about to spank North Falls at home.

My team was so in sync, it was uncanny. Every pass connected and even if they didn’t always pan out, every play had a purpose.

My parents had driven two hours for this game, so I was glad it was a good one.

I spotted Walker in the stands too. I nodded in acknowledgment and okay, maybe I smiled. He was there with Robin, same as always. Maybe they’d come by the locker room later, maybe not. I was just glad he was there, but…it didn’t mean anything special.

We were friends. That was all. Friends who secretly fucked.

At least that was what I told myself.

It was late October now, hockey season was well underway, and my classes were demanding. I had papers to write, quizzes to study for, grueling practices, and tough games. I also happened to have a new gig as an occasional guest for What’s New, Smithton?

Here’s the deal. The response to the milkshake episode had been epic.

Walker gained a crazy amount of new subscribers, we both got more followers, and Smithton saw a major uptick in traffic.

Coincidence? I think not. Yes, Upstate New York was beautiful at this time of year and the campus was decked in autumnal shades of stunning orange, reds, and yellows.

That might have been a factor, but I’d bet big money that it had something to do with Walker, too. And maybe me.

His audience liked our playful banter and were charmed by our chemistry. They thought he was clever and quirky. They thought I was silly and occasionally funny. Together, we made an impact. I wasn’t making that shit up. They said so in the comments.

So far, I’d tagged along to a candle shop and had done a sniff test for rose essence versus plum and herbs, mango tango, and the ever-popular ocean breeze. The whole thing took less than an hour and it had been…fun.

I’d also gone to a shoe store and volunteered to help with inventory. Literally counting shoes. It was the sort of mundane shit that only someone like Walker could make interesting. And he did.

“Did you know that poorly fitted shoes can lead to health problems? Plantar fasciitis is nothing to laugh at, Ty. Did you know that high heels were originally worn by men as a status symbol?”

No, I didn’t know any of that, but I fed off his cues and told silly stories about pranking teammates by putting shaving cream in their sneakers. A lot of nonsense that the fans ate up.

My teammates thought it was all pretty hysterical. They razzed me for sucking up to our local celebrity and for sharing locker room pranks with the masses.

“ You were the one with the shaving cream?” Brady had asked. “Asshole.”

“You’re a freak, Ty-man,” Gus had agreed, adding, “Walker’s okay, though, huh?”

I knew what he meant. Had I finally let go of old animosity toward Walker?

Yes…a thousand percent yes.

Was my dick doing my thinking for me? Well…maybe.

The afternoon of the milkshake episode had changed everything.

I knew what Walker tasted like now. I knew what it felt like to finger his hole, stroke his cock, move inside him…

come inside him. It was all so fucking good.

And kissing him? I got goose bumps just thinking about licking Walker’s lips and sucking his tongue. No shit.

I hadn’t been with anyone else since that day.

That was not normal for me. I had girls clinging to me at Gus’s parties, sliding sharp nails over my pecs and pushing their tits against my biceps.

It didn’t take much to get my motor running.

A pretty smile, cunning hands, and casual flirtation did it for me every time. Not lately, though.

I’d never fixated on a fuck-buddy…ever. Girl or guy. Now, I found myself checking the time, looking through potential lovers who’d made it clear they were very interested and wondering if Walker was still awake. This was strange behavior for me.

True statement. Normally, I was greedy as fuck.

I loved the shape and softness of a woman, I loved the hard planes and rougher touch of a man.

And I’d tried it all. One partner, two, three…

I liked testing limits and experimenting with toys and kinky role play, but one-night stands were my norm.

I didn’t want a girlfriend or a boyfriend or any kind of complication.

Even my loose “arrangement” with Carson had felt confining at times.

I had zero interest in him now. Zero. I ignored his texts and brushed off his attempts at meeting up with semi-valid excuses.

I was busy, tired…whatever. I didn’t owe Carson the truth, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I could verbalize my predicament anyway.

I was addicted to Walker Woodrow.

Once wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.

I thought about him all the damn time and shamelessly conjured off-the-wall reasons to be in his orbit— Can I see the shoe store edits?

I have an idea for an episode and I happen to be in the neighborhood.

And the totally weird: I bought your cat a toy from the pet store.

It’s no big deal, but if you’re around, I can swing by.

Random, right?

If Walker thought I was painfully obvious or possibly a brick short of a load, he was nice enough not to say it to my face. He replied to my texts with goofy emojis and a time he’d be free. Then he’d greet me with a polite smile and invite me inside.

The second he locked his door, we became something totally different.

There was nothing polite or professional about the way we manhandled each other, bumping into furniture and off walls as we tore at clothing, battling for dominance with rabid kisses that lead to scorching hot sex.

I’d fucked him on the stairs, in the kitchen, and over the living room sofa.

Some nights, we’d make our way to his room and do it all over again.

Listen, I loved sex. LOVED. All caps. But I couldn’t figure out why the fuck Walker was different.

Why did I want him so much? Why did I crave his scent and touch?

Why did I look for flashes of red on campus, hoping to run into him by chance?

Why did I think of stories or episode ideas to share as if hoarding currency so this crazy attraction might make sense to me?

I didn’t care about his show that much. I didn’t care about my social media following. I sort of wished I did. At least that would be easier to explain.

It had been a month. A whole fucking month of amazing sex and oddball post-orgasm conversations.

Desire drew us together, but neither of us was in a hurry afterward.

We hung out and talked. Sometimes we griped about classwork or ranked our favorite or least favorite professors or discussed movies we’d liked as kids.

Most of the time, our hot topics were plain embarrassing.

Hot Topic A: Vegetables that couldn’t be trusted.

“I don’t trust eggplant,” Walker had declared, sliding his foot along my calf under the duvet.

“Eggplant? Oh, I see where you’re going with this. Eggplant emoji alert.” I’d grabbed his spent penis and squeezed, faux wincing when he smacked my hand away.

“That’s not it. I’m more suspicious of its dual name.

Is it an aubergine or an eggplant? Aubergine sounds delightful.

The word trips off the tongue…aubergine,” he’d drawn out each syllable in a heavy French accent.

“It’s glamorous and sophisticated, like something you might name a newborn or a pet. ”

“Really? I wouldn’t name a pet rock aubergine.”

Walker had chuckled, propping his head on his hand. “I had a pet rock named Ziggy.”

“Whoa. Ziggy is way too cool for a rock.”

“I know, I know. Back to veggies. Eggplant is confusing. Where is the egg coming from? It doesn’t look like an egg or a plant, and the two words combined are unappetizing.”

I’d wrinkled my forehead. “So if I’m hearing you right…eggplant is a double-agent vegetable.”

“Exactly! What about your least trusted veg?”

“ Hmm .” I’d tapped a finger on my bottom lip. “Broccoli.”

“Because it has treelike aspirations,” he’d deadpanned.

“Yeah. It’s like, ‘Give it up, little green thing. You might look like a mini tree, but you just don’t have what it takes.’”

We’d burst into laughter, and let’s be honest…that shit wasn’t particularly funny. I supposed that was what concerned me. Walker brought out a dopey side of me reserved for close friends and family who knew me inside out. Not hookups.

Hot Topic B: Foods you wouldn’t think twice about eating off the floor.

We’d sat at the table in his kitchen waiting for the frozen pizza he’d popped into the oven to cook.

I’d worn a T-shirt and boxer briefs, my bare feet planted on the rung of Walker’s chair.

His robe had skimmed the hair on my leg—a thin, colorful silky garment tied loosely at his waist. He hadn’t been wearing a stitch underneath and yes, we’d just changed his sheets after round two and my normally eager dick needed a break, but I’d still wanted to see him. I wanted him naked.

I’d tugged at the hem with my toes and distracted him with the three-second-rule conversation. Hey, I never claimed to be a rocket scientist.

Walker had hummed thoughtfully as if pondering a solution to world poverty. “Nothing. Sorry. I couldn’t do it.”

“What? No way. I don’t buy it. Everyone has at least one treat they’d dust off and chow without a thought.”

“Not me. I’m a germaphobe. I mean…not really. I’m not obsessive, but I have standards. Not eating off the floor isn’t even a high one.”

“Oh, brother,” I’d snorted, widening my hands like a director painting a scene. “Zombie apocalypse, access to candy and treats is limited. Something rolls onto the floor in an otherwise empty market and it’s your favorite thing ever. What is it, and are you eating it?”