Page 24 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

Zeke

Now

What the fuck happened last night? I mentally ask myself, and it isn’t in that fun had-too-much-to-drink way.

My sleep last night, what little I got, was restless. Now, I lie here running through everything that went down between Micah and me. Was my concern for his friend really that bad? How should I just be expected to not worry about Frankie dancing in a strip club? Don’t get me wrong, I respect the dancers, but when I really think about it, I can’t help wondering if Frankie would be there if he had any other options.

The sound of rustling sheets meets my ears a second before a knee slams into my back, eliciting a breathless “oof” out of me. The owner of the knee sighs heavily in frustration.

“Same, Rix,” Tahegin agrees from somewhere near my feet.

“Why did you have to sleep between us?” Hendrix, aka the man who kicked me and then had the gall to sound upset about it, grumbles.

“I’m on top of the blanket,” I defend. “I wouldn’t be caught dead under these sheets. Who knows what fluid you two have festering under there.”

My best friend groans, sounding put out. “Please, don’t say festering. Also, all the fluids are on top of the blanket so we can sleep on dry sheets.”

“What the fuck? Ew!” Scrambling from my position on top of the covers, head at the foot of the bed and feet comfortably on their pillows, I tumble to the floor in a heap. It’s all tits over ass until I manage to get the bathrobe I’d used as a blanket unwrapped from around my legs. I shoot Tahegin a glare once I’m finally free. “Why didn’t you say something last night?”

“You showed up banging on our door at two in the morning, and when I opened it, you stormed in without a word, grabbed one of our robes from the bathroom, and climbed into bed beside my boyfriend. We barely got you turned around before you passed out. No way were we about to be a spoon train.”

From my place on the floor, I raise my chin defiantly. “I have it on good authority that a three-person spoon is very comfortable, thank you very much. Maybe I wanted to give it a shot.”

Muttering something under his breath, Hendrix—the perpetual grump—turns away from us and curls a pillow around his head. Tahegin simply watches him with an adoring smile that makes me want to throw up all over their spunk-covered blanket.

Surreptitiously, I eye said comforter for any telltale stains, which, thankfully, I don’t find immediately. Maybe he was joking.

“Earth to Kiss.” Tahegin snaps his fingers to get my attention. His dark, curly hair is a little flat on one side from sleeping, and a pillow line creases his face across his cheek and eyebrow. Those electric-blue eyes of his cast me a wtf look, and he follows it with, “What happened last night?”

The front I’ve put up falls. My shoulders sag as I sigh and drop my chin to my chest, shaking my head. “I wish I fucking knew,” I mutter under my breath.

Tahegin’s quiet for a moment, but I feel his inquisitive gaze spearing me through as if he can dissect me for answers. Then, he huffs softly and shuffles closer to Rix’s side of the bed. He pats the empty space beside him. “Come back up here,” he says. “The blanket is clean. I fucked Rix in the shower last night.”

“Don’t tell him that!” Hendrix snaps from beneath the pillow.

“What?” Gin throws his hands in the air and looks at Rix, even though the latter can’t see. “He knows you bottom.”

Another noise of frustration from grumpy-pants. “I meant about the blankets being clean. I was enjoying not having him in the bed with us.”

Rolling his eyes, my best friend shakes his head at his boyfriend’s attitude. “Come on. He’s obviously upset about something. Don’t you want to know why he’s here instead of in the room with Micah?”

I swear I catch Hendrix’s shoulders stiffen beneath the blanket, and then he turns over to give me a bed-headed and bleary-eyed glare. “Is Micah okay?”

“Physically, yes. I just . . .” Rubbing the back of my neck, I try once more to make sense of what happened. “Pissed him off, I guess.”

Tahegin pats the bed again, offering me a sympathetic look. “Tell us all the tea.”

Any other day, I’d chuckle at his request for gossip, but this isn’t any other day, and this isn’t any old gossip. This is Micah—the man beloved by all three of us in this room—and I’ve hurt him. Somehow, somewhere in what I said last night, I hurt our friend. I hurt the man I should no longer love but still do. Because how could I not? He’s all that is good. The type of person who gives and gives and gives without ever expecting anything in return. The guy won’t even let me pay for dinner when we go out, not even when we were actually dating. He’s the kind of person who would drop everything to help someone he barely knows. He’s the kind of person who showed me what I can do to help others with my media influence. He’s the kind of person who makes the world better and who makes me want to be better, too. And last night, I fucked that up.

“I don’t know what happened,” I confess as I crawl beneath the blankets beside Tahegin, hugging my knees dejectedly. “Everything was great. We were just talking. Telling each other things— It’s just something we do after . . . well, you don’t need all the details, but we talk. A lot. About nothing.” Revealing what we do in the peaceful hours after our most intimate moments is harder than I thought it would be, and I drop my chin on my crossed arms with a sigh. “About everything. We just . . . talk. Anyway, I brought up something that upset him. I’m still not sure exactly what part of the conversation bothered him, but he said he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Said he thought I’d be different or something. Then, he closed the bedroom door. I respected that he wanted space, so I tried to sleep on the couch, but it was so uncomfortable. I came here instead.”

“So?” Tahegin presses. “What were you talking about when he got upset?”

“It has to do with— Well, I can’t tell you because it involves someone else . . . But then again, Micah did say that this person doesn’t care who knows.” Frowning, I nibble on my bottom lip as I ponder whether I can tell them the full story or not. Micah said Frankie isn’t embarrassed, but I still feel like it isn’t my place to spread his business. “I just won’t say any names,” I decide before glancing at Tahegin to make sure he’s okay with that arrangement.

He nods encouragingly.

“So, a buddy and I have been frequenting a club called Mischief,” I begin, and to my surprise, the grumpy-pants beside Tahegin sits up, looking more awake than he usually is at this hour of the morning. Hendrix’s grey eyes stare so intently at me I wonder if he doesn’t already know where I’m going with this. “It’s a strip club with male dancers and a primarily male audience. The last time I went, I recognized one of the dancers—” I hold up a hand when Tahegin’s mouth falls open, most likely to ask who. “No, I won’t give any names. Anyway, I recognized him, and my first thought was that he might . . . I don’t know, need help? Like maybe he’s doing it for the money? Or worse, fell in with the wrong people. I admit, movies have probably skewed my views in a way that makes me instinctively assume the dancers wouldn’t be there if they had other options. I realize that now. After Micah yelled at me.”

“He yelled at you?” Tahegin asks, shocked. For good reason, too. As long as we have known Micah, he’s always been unapologetically opinionated but never rude. He’ll tell you how it is because he cares. He’ll climb anything and everything because he’s excited or worked up. But he’s never been angry enough to shout.

I hang my head in shame. “Yeah, Gin. I fucked up. He gave me an earful about how this person is not in trouble or embarrassed to be working there. Made me feel like complete shit for even thinking it. It’s just . . . It’s hard to take in, I guess? Not in a bad way—I respect the dancers, and I personally don’t think there is anything wrong with the profession. It’s different when it’s someone you know, and with the generalized stigma that strip clubs are usually involved in sketchy stuff, I guess I got too caught up with being concerned about him. Of course, it’s risky to put himself in a situation where he can be taken advantage of, isn’t it? Micah assured me there is plenty of security, though.” Breaking off, I chew on the realization that it wasn’t any of my business to be concerned with Frankie’s personal life, whether I meant well or not. “I thought he might need help, and I just wanted him to know I’d be there if he needed me,” I sigh.

Tahegin pats my back in a placating gesture. “You meant well, but you went about it in the wrong way,” he sums up. “I know that you know body autonomy is important, so while it might seem like you came across as critical, I know better. I’m sure once Micah calms down, he’ll realize that, too. You probably should have talked to this person about it instead of Micah, and I definitely would have phrased it differently. Maybe ask how he likes working there instead of assuming he’s there because he has to be. Hm . . .” He pauses to think, and dread fills my gut as I recognize the same patronizing look he gave me yesterday morning. I feel like I know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth. “This is why I called you the fun uncle, you know. Delicate personal matters aren’t really your strong suit.”

My eye twitches, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from blurting out how he’s wrong. So unbelievably wrong. Micah believes in me. He understands the precarious balance of the carefree persona and deep-rooted protectiveness ingrained inside me, embedded in the name Ezekiel Aleks and there for the world to see if only they would look further than my mouth.

Instead, I manage a half-hearted twitch of my lips into some semblance of a smile aimed toward my best friend, who really doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does. “Yeah, you’re right, Gin.”

“Just apologize, and I’m sure everything will get better,” he tells me, but the narrowed glare from his boyfriend is telling me the opposite. Hendrix knows . . . something. Being Micah’s best friend, he has to know something I don’t, especially if he’s giving me so much attention this early in the morning, at a time he’d usually be grumbling and shooting me the middle finger for disturbing his rest. No, he’s too serious, too intense, for this to be a casual conversation.

Hendrix knows something. Maybe Frankie is in trouble. Maybe he does need help. Maybe Micah is being a good friend and covering for Frankie. Maybe I need to try harder to figure this out.

“Okay,” my mouth agrees, but my heart . . . My heart is slipping beneath the cabin door, arteries reaching for Micah, straining to wrap him close and never let go. And if that means bringing his friends in also? Well, it looks like Frankie and I need to have a good, long chat.

? ? ?

“Kiss,” my agent greets cheerily when the call connects. “To what do I owe this pleasure? I usually only hear from you when I text first.”

Tossing my suitcase into the trunk of the car I ordered as the ship docked, I quickly slide into the back seat and pass the driver a folded tip in advance. He gives me a surprised smile and opens his mouth to say something, but I point at my phone, giving him the one moment gesture in explanation. Thankfully, he takes the hint, nods, and begins the drive to my home.

Micah was already gone by the time I went back to the room to get my things, and I was in no mood to carry a conversation with Tahegin and his shadow. I’d ordered the car service as an excuse to not have to ride with them, intending to use the free time to get something off my chest.

Jessica has been a wonderful agent, only getting better over the years. She’s cool with my media strategy, scores me awesome sponsor deals, and leaves me alone about public appearances unless it’s a team coordinated event. Basically, she lets me rule myself, and when my neighbors call the cops because of my loud music during parties, she’s the one who releases an apology statement for me.

Which, now that I think about it, probably doesn’t help with the whole irresponsible image I’ve got going.

I feel my brows furrow, lips pursing at the realization. “Hey, Jess. We need to talk.”

“Well, that’s never a good thing to hear. What’s on your mind?” There’s a tapping noise coming from her end of the line, and I mentally picture one of her pristine talons—sorry, nails—tapping away on her desktop keyboard. They’re probably a power red hue and at least as long as the diameter of a quarter. Jess is stunning, all long dark hair, exotic features, and thick figure clad stylishly in formfitting suits. She always looks like a cross between a supermodel and a CEO, ready to take control and send any men—or women—in the nearby vicinity to their knees in worship.

“I’ve been thinking about my image.”

“You mean, your perfectly curated party boy quarterback and most eligible—but totally ineligible—bachelor image? That one? The one I work tirelessly to maintain and control within manageable parameters so you don’t end up splashed across news articles and gossip magazines with STD scandals or passerby pics outside of strip clubs that make it look as if you and known sex club–goer Christopher Richardson, recently retired tackle from the San Francisco Dragons, are in some strange open relationship in which you pay sex workers for sex with your sex club–goer boyfriend?”

“That was . . .” I clear my throat awkwardly, not realizing she’d dealt with backlash from my trips with Chris. “Oddly specific. Sooo, what’s new with you?”

“Aha, funny.” She doesn’t sound amused. “Please, continue telling me about this image you’re thinking so hard about, and keep in mind, I get a raise with every new scandal.”

“You do?”

“How do you think I kept that person from making those pictures public? Do you think I just asked nicely ? No, Kiss, sweetheart. It takes money, and that is why you pay me the big bucks. So you don’t have to deal with all these pesky little things.”

I nod to myself, taking all of that in. “Right. Okay. I guess I was wondering if, maybe . . . Well, maybe I could start dealing with all those ‘pesky little things.’ You know, like, I could be—erm—responsible for it or something?”

She’s silent for a moment, and this time when she laughs, it’s nothing but amusement. “Oh, ho, whew!” If I could see her right now, I imagine she’d be carefully wiping tears from beneath her charcoal-rimmed eyes. “That was a good one, Kiss. Responsible! Pfft! As if.”

“Haha, yeah.” I give a stilted chuckle, drawing out the word. “As if. But, uh, let’s just say hypothetically? Just for shits and giggles. I could do it, right?”

“Ezekiel.” She pulls out my full name, and she doesn’t sound humored any longer. In fact, she sounds dead serious. “What are you fishing for?”

In a rush, I get everything off my chest. I tell her how I want to keep secretly helping with my “scandalous” pics paired with charity posts. I tell her about wanting to make the Allied Players Association legitimate and how I want to fight this new rule. I may even go off on a tangent about body autonomy and how I’ve always been a protective teammate and media fall guy for scandals in order to make things easier for others. Somewhere in the middle of me insisting that I can prove even my best friend wrong about me, Jess cuts me off.

“Why do you care about this rule?” she asks. “From what my sources are telling me, it doesn’t affect any players this season.”

“That!” I exclaim at her words, pointing uselessly toward the seat in front of me. The outburst startles my driver, and I quickly shoot him an apology before returning to the conversation with my agent. “That is why this rule needs to be taken seriously, and it needs to be repealed. No, there isn’t anyone that we know of affected by this rule, but that’s the problem. When the NFL made this rule, they basically said that if two players are dating, then they have to out themselves or be forced to keep their relationship a secret. The world is finally coming around to accepting queers, and we’re finally able to choose for ourselves how and when we come out, but they spat in our faces with this rule. Forcing us to out ourselves or remain hidden all because of who we sleep beside at night might be someone we face on the field one day. It’s backing us into a corner, and we shouldn’t sit here and take it.”

“I can tell you’re . . . passionate about this—” she begins, but I’m not finished. I have one more point to make.

“MLB and NHL players are allowed to take their arenas side by side with their partners.”

Jess huffs, and I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Because there isn’t a rule against that in MLB or NHL.”

“Or NBA,” I add. “And that’s the difference. If this rule was some great equalizer, wouldn’t every major sport organization be adopting it for themselves? They aren’t, and you know why? Because they know it’s dumb?—”

“If you’re really intent on being serious about this, we’ll need to find a better argument than ‘it’s dumb.’”

“So you agree?” I nearly shout, adrenaline pumping. Then it hits me that . . . she actually sounds like she agrees. Huh. “Wait, you agree?”

“I do,” she says, gentle but firm. “Ellingworth’s and Avery’s lawyer and agent have been reaching out. Our world is a smaller business than you might think, and we talk. Boy, do some of us know how to talk—” she mutters under her breath as if thinking of someone in particular. “Most of us agree that the rule takes things too far. That the power should be left up to individual teams and their coaches or owners. The problem with being an agent or a lawyer is that we’re hired to represent people, not our own personal beliefs. Even if we all unanimously agree the rule is in poor taste, we can’t take it on without people— players —backing us. Funding us. Getting our word out. We’re all here for you guys’ best interests, so if you believe this rule is not in your best interest, then it’s something we can fight. But are you sure you don’t want to let someone else take the lead on this? I’ll be honest, it’s going to be difficult to turn your image around.”

The phone in my hand practically trembles, first with anticipation and then with contempt. “I can do this! And, yes, it would be difficult to turn my image around, which is why we aren’t going to do that.”

There’s a quirk in her tone when she asks, “Oh?”

“I’m keeping my image, but I’ll come clean about how my Kiss personality came to be and then about what it has become. I’ll show everyone how my so-called scandals have outshined others who didn’t want the spotlight, and I’ll keep using my popularity to get donations for organizations that deserve and need the money. I want to be more transparent to the public so they can see the real me. I just . . . need help getting there.”

“And you’re sure about this? It could impact the rest of your career. You won’t be a playboy anymore. You’ll be a leader. A protector. Someone to look up to.”

“Yes. That’s what I want.”

Jessica lets out a heavy breath, as if mentally preparing herself for the work cut out for her. “All right. We’ll do it. I’ll shop around for a lawyer, someone who’s an activist and knowledgeable about all types of major organizations, not just sports like your friends’ lawyer, no offense. They can both work together on this, though. The more, the merrier. We’ll also need to get started on your image, but we can’t do it all at once. You understand? This will take time and effort. We start small and work up. By the time the APA is legitimate and we’re ready to fight this rule, you will be an upstanding role model. Well, at least as close as we can get you while you still lip-lock with every stranger you meet.”

“I’m ready,” I insist, though my leg bounces nervously, and I have this strange feeling like I want to summon my inner Micah and begin climbing every surface I see.

“Good because you’re about to be a very, very busy man. I have several sponsorships and campaigns in mind.”

“Already?”

“Kiss, sweetheart, I’ve been turning down Subaru for the last five years because they want you to be in a commercial about shopping for a carry-all with your future spouse, three kids, two dogs, and white picket fence. Does that sound like the playboy image I carefully crafted and cultivated for you?”

I blink. “Uh, no. No, it does not.” And it still doesn’t, does it? Should I be thinking about that? About kids? A husband? Unbidden, my mind flashes to Micah, as if we could ever tie a knot and officially call ourselves each other’s. Ha. As if.

No matter how badly I want it.

“There’s also a gala you can attend. The other agents and I just loathe to receive invitations because players never want to go, but you no longer have a choice. I make your decisions now. It will help your image, make you seem like a real team player. Now, I said gala, but it’s really more of a banquet. Doesn’t really have the funding that the players get for their awards. You know how it is. Behind-the-scenes guys never get as much as the athletes. Anyway, you guys are always too busy and famous to go meet and appreciate the people who make you look good on television. No matter. I finally have a player to send. The other agents are going to be so jealous.”

“Oh, I know about that. I have a . . . friend going. He works in the LA graphic design office. Said he’d be there.”

“Good, you’ll have a friend to keep you company, then. Well, a friend and a date. I trust you can choose someone appropriate, or do I need to handle that as well?”

My first thought goes to Micah, but he said he’s already representing his company. I can’t pull him from that. But who to invite . . . I could ask— “Can Chris be my date?”

She smacks her teeth. “I’m assuming you mean sex club Chris Richardson?—”

“It’s called a BDSM club, and it’s about respect, support, pleasure, safety, and no judgment,” I rattle off, summarizing Chris’ own words.

“It’s called no on account of everyone in the industry referring to him as the sex club player. No judgment from me, but he isn’t what we’re looking for as far as images go at this time. Maybe once you’re more established in your new role. That reminds me, are you and Chris dating? Do I need to prepare a statement for if you both are caught outside a sex club next?”

“We’re just friends.”

“Mhm. Well. Be that as it may, you need someone respectable, elegant, social, and beautiful on your arm for this. Someone to make you look better.” Internally, I wince at her blunt words, even though I know they’re true. I’ve done this to myself, and now I need help getting to where I need to be for the APA. Before I can suggest I bring her , she continues. “And I know you’re bi or pan, but I think it would be best to bring a guy as your date. We’re trying to support a LGBTQ+ community and a rule that is potentially detrimental to you guys. It would help—and I hate to say it this way, please know this—if you look the part.”

Oh. Right. “Actually, I’m just gay,” I inform her, apparently having skipped over that tidbit earlier. “But I get what you’re saying. I’ll find someone, and if I can’t, I’ll let you know with plenty of time to set up a convenient press deal of some kind with some other celebrity’s agent.”

“Perfect,” she practically purrs. “We’ll make a politician out of you yet. Now, keep your nose clean, and when I say ‘go to this,’ no matter how stupid the commercial, photoshoot, or fundraising dinner sounds, you say . . .” She trails off leadingly.

“Yes, ma’am?” I guess.

“Good boy,” she teases lightly, and I can’t help but smile, too.

I think we might just pull this off yet.