Page 23 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Micah

Now

Panting, I collapse onto Zeke, back arched against his abdomen, head on his shoulder, as he slowly softens until, with a somewhat unpleasant gush of liquid, his cock slips out of my tender hole. Without the connection of his body inside mine, I ease my hips into position so I can lie flat and comfortable on his chest, and he wraps his arms around me in a lazy embrace, his heavy breaths brushing my cheek.

“Wow,” he puffs. “That was . . .”

I match his breaths with labored ones of my own, muscles trembling with that wonderful mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. “Yeah,” I agree needlessly.

It’s always wow. Every time. No matter how long we do this.

With a grunt, Zeke rolls us to our sides so he’s spooning me, placing a kiss on my cheek and holding me tight. “Tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. How’s work been? Any exciting projects?”

The reminder of David’s ridiculous assignment on Monday makes me sigh. “No, just busy work. I got invited to represent the company at some NFL behind-the-scenes award banquet, though.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“It’s not nearly as popular as a Hall of Fame induction or winning a Super Bowl, but it’s nice that they recognize the little guys. I didn’t go last year, but I heard the segment for sideline collisions involving camera guys was pretty hilarious—no one was injured,” I add in a rush. “You guys are usually pretty good about catching them before they hit the ground.”

“Hey.” Zeke playfully nips my ear. “Don’t rope me into that group.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. Quarterbacks are too soft and breakable to run after the ball.”

He gasps with mock disbelief, hissing a “You little—” before manhandling me onto my back and digging his fingers into my sides. I laugh and fight as he tickles me mercilessly. “Does this feel soft and breakable?” he demands, grinding his resurrected erection against my hip.

“Already? How?—”

But Zeke captures my lips, and round two with my NFL quarterback takes precedence over any dumb questions I might have asked.

? ? ?

“Tahegin said I’m irresponsible,” Zeke says out of nowhere. We’re lounging on the sofa after a tandem shower, his attention on a hockey game while I play around with some sketches for work. He’d pulled my feet into his lap as we sat down and has been absently massaging them while we’ve rested in companionable silence. He throws me off guard with this comment, though.

Setting my tablet in my lap and locking the screen, I give him my full attention. “How so?”

He waves his hand around as if to tell me to take my pick. “The parties. The drinking. The kissing. All of me.”

“Where did this come from?” I ask, letting my genuine confusion show. “Tahegin’s never judged you before.”

“He’s not judging me now. It’s—” He sighs and rubs his face. “I started that stupid group on Facebook, and my other friend keeps asking if I’m going to be the leader or some shit. I asked Gin, and that’s when he said no one expects me to do it because I’m too irresponsible.”

I touch his hand reassuringly, pulling it from his face to meet his eyes. “You don’t overindulge in alcohol unless you’re at yours or Tahegin’s house. You never drink and drive. You pay all your bills on time, and you don’t slack off at work. Have you told him why you kiss everyone? The truth, not just the bullshit about not getting caught by the media and having your personal life splashed across the news.”

Zeke purses his lips and shakes his head.

“You are as medically responsible as you can be—your doctor says so,” I insist. “When that player was caught outside a BDSM club, or when those three players from Miami were outed, your celebrity kisses post helped divert attention from them. Every player in the league is lucky to have someone willing to shoulder the limelight they don’t want on themselves. And you help fundraise for good causes.”

“That was your idea,” he mutters under his breath.

“But you’re the one who puts in the work. I’ve seen you debate for hours between two different charities, and then the one you didn’t pick, you still made a donation. So, yeah, you look like a playboy, but you’re really just like . . . a bachelor dad with grown kids.”

“A . . .” His mouth opens and closes, confusion furrowing his brow. “A bachelor dad?”

“Or like a big brother who has custody of his younger siblings who are now adults. You’re protective but not overbearing, you look out for others, and you have fun—safely—along the way.”

“Gin called me a fun uncle.”

I tilt my head, considering that. “Eh. He doesn’t know you.”

“He’s literally my best friend.”

“So tell him the truth.”

“I . . .”

“Hey.” Shifting, I crawl into his lap, hold his face with two hands, and stare into his eyes. “You don’t have to tell him,” I promise, voice gentle, “but if he doesn’t have all the facts, his opinion isn’t all gospel, okay? You decide if you want to lead this group, not him. And I know you can do it if you truly want to. Do you get distracted by shiny things?” At that, he whips his gaze from my necklace back to my eyes, and I chuckle. “Yes, you do. But between an agent and a lawyer, I think you’ll manage to do just fine.” I plant a kiss on the tip of his nose after my spiel, and that encourages a small smile out of him.

Then, the smile wavers before falling away completely. He clears his throat, looks away. Bites his lip. Grasps my hips. Looks back. “So, you, uh . . . You’re a big advocate for the truth, huh?”

“I am,” I answer immediately but stiffen as soon as the words leave my mouth because I forget myself. I used to be. Not so much anymore. Not since I began keeping my job at Mischief a secret from him. “Well?—”

“I saw Frankie the other day,” he blurts.

I blink at the abrupt shift. “Yeah. I was there, remember?” Recalling that day at the mall, I also remember the way he’d stared at my friend and the doubt I’d felt curling in my gut. I lean back on his lap, putting distance between us. “You’ve been thinking about Frankie.”

Hopefully, the hurt in my voice is only audible to me.

“Yes,” he admits and then quickly stammers. “No! I mean, I saw him somewhere else, and it’s been weighing on me. I’m worried about him, and I think if you knew, you would be, too. I’ve been debating whether or not to tell you because he may not want you to know, and I?—”

Zeke’s nervous rambling fades out as I start putting the pieces together. Needing more space between us, I crawl from his warm, usually inviting lap onto the arm of the sofa, his words bouncing around in my head.

“—might be in trouble? Financially, maybe. I hope he knows I’ll help him if he needs it. I’m sure you would, too. With your nice apartment, Neverending Designs must pay well. Surely between the two of us, we can get him help. He might be too embarrassed, maybe?—”

Worried about him.

If he needs help.

Financial trouble.

Embarrassed . . .

No. That is the last thing any of us are.

“Where did you see him?” I interrupt his word vomit with a stern question.

Startled, he snaps his mouth closed and, surprised I’d traveled so far away, turns to face me. To be fair, I hadn’t realized I was climbing on top of the back of the couch either, but here I am. “At this club called M?—”

“Mischief,” I finish for him. “You’ve been there? When?”

He blinks at me, still taken aback by my rudeness. “A few times?—”

“And you only— I mean, you saw him, and you’re only bringing it up now?” I have to bite my tongue and tread carefully, lest I give myself away by saying, “You only saw him ?”

“I only saw him the last time I went,” he defends. “I haven’t really gotten to see or enjoy many of the other dancers. There’s this one who insists— Wait, so you know he works there? At a strip club?”

I don’t bother to try and discern his tone, knowing he’s probably just like everyone else who looks down on us because we dance nearly nude. “He isn’t ashamed of working there,” I state with more vehemence than necessary. In some ways, it feels as if I’m defending myself as well. “He isn’t struggling financially. He doesn’t need help.”

“I checked the poster, and he goes by Frankie there, too. A bouncer said one of the dancers had a stalker.” Of course I know about the stalker. I was there when Chicago saved Dream after his stalker ambushed him in the parking lot of Mischief one night. It’s the reason why people have to pay a cover charge before they can ask who is dancing that night. “Shouldn’t he be using a different name? What about what happens in the back during private dances? He’s so small, and anyone could?—”

He’s just like everyone else who judges a dancer, even though they have no problem buying a dance from one of us. I knew he wouldn’t be different. I knew he wouldn’t understand.

Rolling my eyes, I let out a scoff. Seriously? What kind of establishment does he think it is? Didn’t he see the security stationed everywhere? “He doesn’t care if his friends know he works there, so he lets them call him Frankie. He introduces himself as Francisco if he’s in a professional setting. Not that I have to explain this to you. Frankie is a grown-ass man paying his own bills in a way that makes him happy. The club is safe and swimming with security. There is no reason for him to feel embarrassed whether you disapprove or not. I guarantee your opinion would run off him like oil on water because he is strong, independent, and beautiful, and he can do whatever he wants with his body!”

I must have climbed higher during my rant—that, admittedly, did get away from me, whoops—because I’m perched precariously on the balls of my feet on the back of the couch. At my final declaration, I rise from my crouched position, towering over Zeke on the narrow edge as if to physically show my opinion is superior to his, and then jump down to make a mad dash for the bedroom door. Angry, frustrated tears well in my eyes, and I’m grateful my back is to him.

“Micah,” he calls, aghast by my raised voice and abrupt dismissal. As he should be; I never have outbursts like this. “I?—”

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” I tell him without turning around. “I’m tired of everyone thinking they can tell—” I almost fuck up and say me . “—Frankie what he should and shouldn’t do. And of all people, I hoped you would have understood. Should have known better.” The door slams behind me louder than I intend it to, and I’m glad the solid wood prevents him from seeing my flinch. The lock clicks, firm and ominous. He surely hears it and knows he’s in the doghouse tonight.

He has to be because I can’t let him see how broken I am.

“Stupid, stupid,” I hiss under my breath at myself, hitting the back of my head on the door as I collapse against it. “I’m so stupid. I should have known he’d react this way.”