Page 28 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

Zeke

Now

I’m panting by the time I reach the fortieth floor of the luxury high-rise apartment building, and it isn’t—totally—from exhaustion at the countless number of stairs I’ve just climbed.

It was either the elevator or the stairs, though I’m still not sure which would have been the best option. On one hand, the elevator rises so fast I’d freak out quickly. On the other, the stairs gave me plenty of time to slowly begin to panic, to feel the air grow thinner, harder to breathe. I swear, the higher I got, the more the building swayed beneath my feet.

Forty floors. An outrageous amount to fall through should something terrible happen.

I didn’t have a choice, though. I haven’t heard from Micah despite the gifts I’ve sent to his apartment this past week. Jessica has had me busy from morning ’til night with commercials, photo shoots, and sponsorship deals, so I haven’t been able to type out a thorough apology. Appearing at his apartment to grovel for forgiveness seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, I’m regretting braving the climb, knowing I’ll be here for however long before having to go back down. It will be a chore, that’s for sure.

Micah answers the door with wide, surprised eyes. They’re rimmed in eyeliner and mascara—something he made sure I knew the difference between on one of our many shopping outings together in the past—and cerulean-blue wisps of hair fall gently along the sides of his face where they’ve slipped from his small bun. He’s as gorgeous as ever, capable of taking my breath away even more so than the stairs did.

“Zeke, what the— What are you doing here? I thought the building was too tall for you to come up here?”

I grit my teeth at the reminder, nausea rolling in my gut. “It is.”

“My God, you’re green,” he exclaims with a concerned look. The door opens wider as he waves me inside. “Come in. Can I get you a drink?”

“Please,” I beg when my stomach gurgles ominously. Don’t gag, don’t throw up, don’t embarrass yourself , I chant internally. Though, if I’m being honest with myself, I left all my dignity behind the very first time Micah and I hooked up and he’d applied ointment to the diaper rash lining my ass cheeks and groin. I don’t think I could have even asked Tahegin to help me with that without hearing the end of it, but with Micah, he’s only ever brought up that night to pleasantly reminisce.

Following Micah inside his apartment, I attempt to take in his place, the apartment that is wholly his, entirely furnished to his preferences, set up exactly how Micah wants it to be, but one glimpse of the city skyline outside the massive windows lining the living room has me feeling exponentially worse. I turn away completely and keep my eyes on Micah as he rounds a marble bar top to rifle through a liquor cabinet. The shelves are full of enough colorful bottles to rival the number of times Micah dyes his hair every year, and I try to focus on what he could possibly be putting together—because it is most definitely not an ice-cold beer from a bottle—instead of the deadly drop just outside the windows and beneath our feet.

“I saw you,” he muses conversationally while shuffling through the liquor and glasses in the cabinet, “in a car commercial, of all things. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your face aired during the home renovation shows I watch. Now, your beer commercials? Those come on all the time when I watch crime TV.”

Stumbling gracelessly onto a barstool, I’m grateful for the idle chat as it gives me something to fixate on other than my trembling hands and watery gut. “Yeah, my agent set it up. We’re trying to make some adjustments to my image, so when the time comes to announce the Allied Players Association as a legitimate organization, I won’t look like an irresponsible playboy trying to lead the group. The car commercial is apparently the first of many new ventures.”

The commercial in question had been . . . interesting, to say the least. I’d walked onto set, recalling Jess’s brief explanation of the company wanting to portray me as a man looking ahead to the future, to family. Not even five minutes of being there, I’d met my co-stars—two gap-toothed kids and a famous non-binary actor. The latter and I had greeted one another amicably, only to be interrupted by my agent.

“Oh, wonderful! You two have met,” Jessica cheered as she approached us with a too-wide smile stretching her full, red-coated lips. “Kiss, Gael. Gael, Kiss. The producers thought you both would be perfect for this commercial seeing as Gael prefers men, and your media presence doesn’t discriminate against any gender, Kiss. It’s a match made in heaven!” She paused, eyeing us and gesturing with her cell phone to the respectful distance we’ve placed between us. “Is it a match? Any chemistry happening here? A public date would do both of you wonders with the media . . .” Catching my glare, she trailed off, that smile slipping some, but true to her image, she immediately bounced back. “I’ll ask again after wrap. Kiss, you’re off to hair and makeup. I’ll see you after. Mwah!” I was graced with an air-kiss to my cheek before she darted off, thumbs already flying across her phone screen.

Gael was a comfortable companion. They provided tips for my acting without coming across as judgmental or snobby, and when the director decided on an impromptu addition to the script without consulting either of us, they politely accepted.

“Are you sure?” I asked them between takes. “I don’t want you to feel pressured or uncomfortable.”

“I’m an actor,” they assured me in a soft, raspy voice, different from the one I’ve heard them use in their films. “This is nothing new.”

Apparently, the commercial wouldn’t be complete if I, the professional football player known best for his promiscuity, didn’t plant a kiss on each of my “family” members. The kids’ parents were on set and agreed to allow a fake kiss atop the head, me burying my face in the children’s hair just enough to appear as if I were showing them affection as a father would. Gael agreed to a peck on the lips, though we managed to stage it at the edge of our mouths where the camera angle couldn’t tell the difference.

The stage kiss with Gael was all for naught when, after the shoot, our agents insisted we go for dinner and post a “real” kiss on our social media.

At least Gael was good company. They didn’t know anything about football, but we managed to find plenty to talk about when one of us mentioned feral paparazzi after one was caught trying to enter the restaurant where we were eating. By the end of the meal, a small crowd had formed on the sidewalk outside, but we’d bonded over the reminder that our lives weren’t our own. Gael had even invited me to their house after dinner, an offer I’d politely declined. We did exchange phone numbers, though, and they’d mentioned our agents suggested Gael accompany me to the NFL behind-the-scenes award banquet. I’d told them to consider keeping the date available but that I might find someone else to take.

I’m still holding out hope that something will change and Micah can come with me instead.

With deft hands, Micah gets to work preparing two chilled martini glasses, pouring liquor and ice into a shaker and stabbing olives through with long wooden picks. “And you met Gael Knox. I’m so jealous. Are they as stunning in person as they are on TV?”

“Yes,” I agree with a chuckle at his obvious awe. “They are. Invited me to their home after our dinner, too.”

“Oh, stop,” he swoons, pouring the shaken vodka into the martini glasses before swiping one up to sip as he holds the back of his hand to his forehead. “I can’t. You are the luckiest man alive, Zeke.”

I reach out and grab the remaining martini, downing it in one harsh swallow that I immediately regret. Hissing through the burn, I admit, “I didn’t go home with Gael, and I didn’t get lucky.”

The apple in Micah’s throat bobs as he carefully sets his glass back on the marble counter with a delicate clink . “No?” he asks softly, and if his voice sounds shaky, I hope it has something to do with me.

“No,” I confirm. My gaze travels from his death grip on the martini glass, up his arm, and across his chest, taking in what I only now notice he’s wearing—an oversized off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater in a baby pink color that highlights his exposed tan skin. My God, he’s beautiful , I can’t help but think. Clearing my throat at the sudden urge to blurt out every compliment I’ve ever thought about him, I tell him, “I needed all my luck for today.”

He cocks his head. Vibrant blue strands fall across his cheek. “What’s today?”

“The day I officially ask for your forgiveness.” My abs clench as if physically steeling me, bracing me for potential rejection. On the counter, I trace the curved base of my glass to try and give the restlessness in my blood an outlet, if even a small one. I’m not like Micah, who climbs and climbs and climbs when he’s nervous, but in this instance, I find myself unable to remain still.

Then, he surprises me by tipping his chin up and demanding, “For what?”

“Did you get the packages?” I ask instead of responding. “There should have been . . . quite a few.”

Micah’s glass slides across the counter as he drags it in his wake, rounding the bar with a sway in his hips that has my gaze drinking him in, sliding down his supple body poorly hidden even when covered by a large sweater. When the rest of him appears, my eyes drift lower, and I suck in a sharp breath when I see what he’s wearing below the waist. I’d been too overcome with fear to notice when I first arrived, but he’s wearing one of the skirts I recently ordered for him. His pink sweater is neatly tucked into the high waistband of a fitted black leather skirt, the kind that hugs his hips and upper thighs before baring the rest of his long legs. On his feet are a pair of fuzzy pink house slippers with cute bunny ears sticking up—I’d bought them for him last Christmas.

A needy groan slips unbidden past my lips.

“I got them,” he assures needlessly now that I’ve seen the one he’s wearing. A small smile tips the corners of his mouth as he takes a sip of his martini. “If your intent was to replace the one you destroyed, I believe you far surpassed what it was worth.”

“Huh?”

He lets out a tinkling laugh, eyes bright with mirth. “You have some drool . . .”

“Oh, fuck off.” I roll my eyes and capture his hand as he tries to wipe some nonexistent drool from my chin. Weaving my fingers through his, I tug him closer. His hips slot perfectly between my spread thighs, all muscle memory and familiarity from the number of times we’ve embraced like this in the past. The only difference is now we’re in his apartment, and I’m attempting to grovel for his forgiveness. At that thought, I bring his hand to my cheek and nuzzle it. “I didn’t send those skirts as an apology for destroying yours—not all of them anyway. I wasn’t sure how much time you needed, but I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. So, I sent you skirts. Lots and lots of them because I know you like them. And I sent flowers to your office. Did you get them? Each bouquet was a color your hair has been. I didn’t buy a bundle unless I could vividly recall a good memory between us when your hair was the same color as the bouquet. Your work building needs better security because they were going to let me go right on up to hand deliver them to you, but I told them not to ever do that. Do you know people get stalkers nowadays? How could security possibly think it would be okay to let just anyone into the building?”

Micah shushes me with a finger over my lips and a smile on his. “Zeke, you are a famous football player, not any random person. They probably recognized you and thought it would be all right for you to hand deliver a bouquet of flowers to an office of NFL graphic designers.”

“I could still be a stalker.”

“I’d be okay with you watching me,” he muses as a slender leg swings over one of my thighs, the other quickly following until he’s straddling my lap. The tight leather skirt I bought him bunches upward, and a hint of pink lace peeks out from beneath the fabric. It drives me mad.

Releasing his hand, both of mine dive for his body. I ruck up his sweater, untucking it from that sinful skirt, and when my palms make contact with his hot skin, I can’t help but groan. My hands glide gluttonously along his ribs, the taut muscles of his back, and the valley of his spine. My lips find his bare shoulder and cover every inch of it with open-mouth kisses. “I’m sorry,” I breathe against his skin. Press my apology into his flesh as if I can tattoo it across his collarbone and along the column of his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

His sweater is all askew as my hand appears from below and through the back of the wide neck to shove my fingers into his hair, mussing the silky strands. With the new leverage, I tug his head backward, and he follows willingly. His back arches drastically, perfectly, displaying how beautiful and flexible he is. So, so flexible, I recall as if I’d somehow forgotten in the last week without him.

I brace a hand against his back to keep him from falling even as I tug harder on his hair, urging him into a sharper arch. Exposed, his bare abdomen calls to me, and I answer it with my lips and tongue. I trace the divots of his muscles and nip the peaked buds of his nipples. So goddamn hungry for him. And so . . . “So sorry,” I pant shakily, tasting salt on his skin, licking it away.

“Zeke. Zeke .” Hands grasping my face, he pulls me off him until our eyes meet, and when his thumbs trace my cheeks, spreading wetness there, I realize the salty taste had come from me.

My tears. I’m crying.

A week without him, and I’m reduced to this.

The hold this man has on me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him to his face this time. “I didn’t mean to insult your friend or assume there was any reason for him to be working there other than the fact that he wants to be. I have nothing against the profession, I swear. The dancers at Mischief are very talented and attractive. I’m going to go and get a dance from Frankie to show my support. I’ll tell every queer guy I know to get a dance from him. Like a refer-a-friend thing. I’ll do that. Be his wingman. Or his reference. Whatever you call it. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I?—”

“Sh,” he shushes me gently, thumbs covering my lips to stifle my endless apology. “Sh. Zeke. I’m sorry.”

My surprised “What?” is muffled by his fingers.

Big caramel eyes stare back at me, wide and worried. “I overreacted. Frankie can fight his own battles, and I should have let him fight this one. We should not have argued so severely over this. Not—not this . So, I am sorry, and yes, you can be a little sorry, too. We’ll both be sorry, and I hope we can both accept each other’s apologies.”

“I . . .” Can’t believe this. He’s apologizing? “Yes, yes. I mean, I accept if you do, and I—I—” My hands run wild across his torso as if I can possibly memorize the map of him even more than I already know it. It should be impossible. I know the heart-shaped freckle below his left nipple, know the tiny callus on his ring finger from holding a stylus for hours on end as he draws, know the smooth feel of his skin, the ripple of muscle beneath his biceps, the scent of sweet strawberries that lingers on every inch of him, the ever-present shimmer of glitter on his neck and shoulders. With surprise, I find there is one new addition. One I have yet to thoroughly explore as well as I’d like, our time previously having been cut short.

Now, I lunge forward to press a filthy, open-mouth kiss in the hollow of his throat, capturing the golden bunny pendant dangling from the delicate chain I’d bought and donned upon him last week.

“I can’t keep my hands off you,” I rasp as my fingers dig into his ribs so hard I know he’ll have bruises. I can’t help it. I need him. I missed him.

He squeezes me with his legs and fists my hair, pulling my mouth to his. “Then don’t,” he commands against my lips.

We’re all hands and teeth after that. Swollen lips. Sinful fingers and tongues. A martini glass shatters on the floor, crunches under my shoe as I carry Micah in the direction he points. The side zipper of his skirt is utterly destroyed by my fingers as we tumble onto the bed. Once we’re naked, it’s impossible to tell where I end and Micah begins. Our bare skin glides together, legs tangled, nipples rubbing, cocks dragging against hard abs.

His moans become my groans. My thrusts are his pleasure. Lust spirals into something stronger, something permanent. I need him engraved on my soul, his mark on my bones, his nails on my flesh.

“Micah, Micah,” I chant into his skin. “Bunny, my bunny.”

I know this is going to end. I know that after the sex, we’ll part ways. We won’t stay the night together, won’t wake lazily with the sunrise.

And yet, I can’t let go. Can’t call this to an end.

I’m trapped between heaven and hell, no way up and only one way down. I can’t take the plunge, though. Don’t want to. Never want to.

If this is the only way I can have him, at least I’ll have him. For now. For later. Hopefully, forever.

Maybe someday . . . Maybe we’ll be able to be more.

Oh, how I desperately wish to be more.

Even as we grow weary and exhausted, come-drunk and balls empty, I want, and I want, and I want . Hands, lips, cocks, bodies, souls. Want. Need. Always. Forever. And when the lust fades and the love remains, and we look at each other, and he makes a joke about makeup sex, and I stand to get a towel to clean him up, I continue to want and need. Even when I finally register the tall metal pole in an open area of the bedroom, and I point at it questioningly, and Micah sheepishly informs me Frankie bought it for him, and I joke that he should dance for me sometime, and then we laugh and cuddle and kiss some more . . .

Even then, I want and I need and I love.

And yet, I know I can’t have.