Page 37 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

Zeke

Now

Now that I know the only thing keeping Micah from being mine is some secret he’s too scared to tell me, I’m relentless in my pursuit of the truth. I know if I figure it out on my own—since he clearly won’t tell me—then I can go to him, tell him I know, and inform him I don’t care. Whatever it is, it isn’t worth us not being together. I know that much for certain.

A few carefully worded texts confirm Micah’s dad has no idea what secret he could be hiding, so I turn to my next source.

Hendrix.

First, I ask Tahegin because he’s much nicer than Rix, but Gin is clueless, too. Hendrix, though . . . He knows something that he won’t tell me, and he won’t tell Tahegin either. I harass him day and night to try and get the answers I seek, and it goes on so long that Gin becomes upset by Rix’s silence. Tension grows between them, drawing tight and getting ready to snap, so I abandon my pursuit of Hendrix, not wanting their relationship to strain because of me, and move on to the next person.

The first night I show up at Mischief looking for Frankie, I pay the cover charge—with Chris at my side for support—only to be told it’s a bachelorette night and that most of the smaller dancers have taken the night off, leaving the club in the hands of the more masculine dancers. Chris was all too happy with the turn of events.

The next night, I’m harassed by Dream, unable to search the dancers wandering through the club due to Dream’s territorial insistence that I watch only him.

The next, Brax informs me Frankie isn’t working.

Then, finally, luck is on my side. It’s a busy Saturday night, Frankie is working, and when I pay my cover, Dream is busy onstage.

“Brax,” I greet the familiar bouncer with a pleading tone. “I need your help.”

He eyes me skeptically.

“I need to talk to Frankie, but Dream is constantly all over me,” I explain. “Is there a . . . a trick to dodging him? It’s like he knows when I’m here, and he comes right to me every time.”

Brax makes a face like he isn’t sure if he should intervene or not.

I slip him a hundred for his time.

“He’s got some of the security guys keeping an eye out for his high rollers,” Brax reveals as he pockets the bribe. “As far as moving his focus elsewhere . . . Well, Dream never turns down a dance.” Ever so slightly, he rubs his fingers against the pad of his thumb.

His cryptic hint gives me pause, and I mull it over for a moment before understanding. “Ah.” I tap the desk in acknowledgment. “Thanks, bro. I appreciate the assist. Shoot me a message on Insta sometime if you want game tickets. I’ll hook you up.”

“Hell yeah.” He grins. “Good luck.”

Inside the club, I quickly locate the largest group of guys I can find, which happens to be a bachelor party at a VIP booth with a personal stage and pole. Perfect. I approach them with my charming celebrity grin and hope one of them at least knows who I am. This will go a lot smoother if they recognize me as a pro athlete. “Hey, man. Congrats.” I offer the guy wearing the bachelor sash a fist bump, but it’s the man to his right whose eyes widen.

“Holy shit. You’re Ezekiel Aleks.”

“Hi.” I waggle my fingers in a semblance of a wave. “What’s up? Can I buy you guys’ next round?”

A chorus of whoops and hell yeahs ring out, and I flag down a waitress to take their orders, handing her a wad of cash. I turn back to the group. “So listen, guys. I was wondering if I could buy all of you a dance tonight, but the dances do have to be from a specific dancer.”

Bachelor Sash raises a curious eyebrow. “Which one?”

I point to the stage, where Dream is scooping up loose bills after his performance.

Thankfully, the majority of their group is satisfied by the choice, and I pass them more money than I’ve ever spent in one visit. I can only hope it will be worth it.

“Holy shit, guys. That was Ezekiel Aleks,” the one who’d spoken earlier says in disbelief as I walk away. His starstruck stare follows me to the back corner of the club, where I hide in the dimness until Dream enters in a new outfit and is swept up by the bachelor party. Then, I return to the VIP booth—one without a stage and pole—that I’d reserved when I came in, and I wait.

It’s a busy weekend, and dancers come and go in flurries of glitter and perfume. The digital artwork at the front of the club features something like thirty dancers—I haven’t stopped to count all of them—and it seems as if every single one is working tonight. Dancers I’ve never seen before pass me in waves, some stopping to ask if I want a dance, but I keep a vigilant eye out for the blond I’m looking for. Brax told me Frankie is here. I just have to wait him out.

Another blond passes my booth, and while it isn’t Frankie, I recognize the platinum color, big tawny eyes, and pumpkin spice scent. “Karma,” I call to get his attention.

He pivots, gaze searching the nearby booths until it lands on me. “Oh. I remember you.” He smiles as he approaches me. “Hi. Did you want a dance?”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone specific,” I confess distractedly, still peering into the crowded club before realizing how rude I’m being. “Sorry. Can I, uh—” I recall Dream’s deal from my first visit when I wanted to buy Chris a dance. “If I buy a dance from you, will you let Frankie know I’m here and that I’d like to speak to him? Please. I’ve been looking, but it’s packed in here tonight. I’ll double your rate?—”

His raised hand cuts me off and halts my retrieval of my wallet. “You don’t have to buy a dance from me for that. Frankie’s in the back. I’ll pass the message along. What’s your name?”

“It’s Ezekiel, but at least let me pay you for your time,” I insist.

Karma doesn’t protest that, so I slip him some cash, and he disappears into the back. Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long.

Frankie enters like a model on a runway, strutting straight toward me. He’s done up in a cute burgundy one-piece that exposes his flat stomach and bronze legs. Dark makeup circles his eyes and paints his full lips, which purse as he stops at my booth. “Karma isn’t a messenger pigeon.”

“I know. I told him I’d buy a dance at double the rate, but he refused. I tipped him, though. And I know you’re working, so I can buy a dance if you prefer. I don’t want to take up your time unnecessarily.”

“What do you need?” Frankie asks, crossing his arms and cocking his hip. The abrasiveness is unusual, and I wonder what all Micah has confided in him. If he told him my past mistakes regarding his profession here at Mischief, the hostility makes sense.

“I just want to talk.”

“You could have texted me.”

“I wanted to talk in person.”

He huffs. “We could have met for coffee.”

“Oh.” I guess he has a point there. Why hadn’t I just contacted him outside of the club? It would have been easier, that’s for sure . . . “I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.” I’ve never directly messaged him before. In the past, we’d only exchanged numbers because I’d often met up with him and Micah at Gemini.

Rolling his eyes—more playful than annoyed—Frankie uncrosses his arms and steps closer. “Buy a dance.”

I take my wallet out yet again. “Okay.”

“Just enjoy the dance and say whatever comes to your mind. Tell me why you stalked me at the club when my number is saved in your phone.” He steps forward, straddling my lap and sensually rolling his body over mine in time with the music thrumming throughout the club. “Did you want a dance from me? Have you been thinking about it since you found out I work in a strip club?”

“No, I—I . . .” Clearing my throat, I swallow my pride and tell him what’s been bothering me since Micah yelled at me on the cruise ship. “Look, I’ll be honest. When I recognized you here, I made the egregious assumption that you were in some kind of trouble and might need help. I respect the dancers here, and I should have been more open-minded about you working here because you like it. I—I’m sorry.” My spiel ends on a stutter when he abruptly turns and twerks in my face.

Damn. I’ve watched him and Micah dance at nightclubs before, but I had no idea Frankie could move like this . If I wasn’t already obsessed with Micah, I might actually enjoy a dance from Frankie.

“So you haven’t been imagining getting a dance from me?” he asks over his shoulder.

That . . . feels like a trick question. “Um, no?”

“What, you don’t like to think about someone you know being a stripper?”

“It’s not that,” I assure him all too quickly, my mind going to that time I watched Micah give my teammate a lap dance at a party. I hadn’t disliked that in the slightest. “It’s Micah. I can’t imagine thinking about anyone doing anything unless it’s him. No one has turned my head or caught my eye since I met him.”

Without warning, Frankie drops into my lap, making me release an unsuspecting “oof,” and rolls his hips. “Hm. That explains why you aren’t even a little hard. Usually by now, guys are giving me a blue jean salute and trying to grope my ass.”

“Sorry?” I ask, unsure if he’s offended because I’m not horny and all over him.

He sighs and gets off my lap to take a seat beside me. “Okay. You’ve apologized for assuming shit about me—” He waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Forgiven. Now, why are you really here?”

Right. Moving on to the more important stuff.

The most important thing.

Micah.

“So, you’re Micah’s friend,” I begin, and Frankie nods as if this is old news. “I’m wondering if . . . Well, I guess I should say he let it slip that there’s a secret he’s keeping from me, and that’s why we can’t be a serious couple. He wouldn’t tell me what it is, but I know it can’t be as bad as he seems to think it is. If I can figure it out, I can tell him I know and that it isn’t a big deal, and maybe he’ll finally agree to be with me for real. His parents don’t know, Hendrix won’t say, and Micah doesn’t appear inclined to tell me. You’re my last hope, Frankie.”

His dark eyes study me hard, almost like he’s trying to read my mind. “What if it is a big deal? What if you can’t handle it?”

Hope swells in my chest when he doesn’t immediately tell me he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “You know what it is, then?”

“I know,” he confirms. “I also know he’s scared out of his mind that you’ll leave once you find out.”

“I won’t. I promise. I can’t . I love him, Frankie. He could be a serial killer, and I swear I’d visit him every day in prison.”

Frankie holds up his hands. “Woah. It’s nothing like that.”

“Please. Just tell me. I’ll do anything.”

He takes a minute to consider, thinking hard. “Anything?”

I have to squeeze my hands together to keep from grabbing him in anticipation. Is this it? Will he really tell me? I could have the answer to all my problems if he agrees. “I swear to God.”

Nodding slowly, he stands and holds out a hand. “Okay, but not here. Buy a private dance, and I’ll give you what you need.”

I jump from my seat, ready to buy the whole damn club if it means I’m one step closer to calling Micah mine, but a hand on my chest gives me pause.

“If you freak out and abandon him,” Frankie growls in my face, leaning close like he isn’t six inches shorter than me, even in his ridiculously high heels, “I’ll make sure you regret it. I know men who eat guys like you for breakfast, and I’ll tell them to ensure you never step foot on a football field again.”

“Deal,” I agree without a second thought. It doesn’t matter. If, for some insane reason, I can’t handle the truth and lose Micah, I won’t need any help giving up football. I’ll throw out everything I’ve ever cared about along with my heart.

Frankie takes my hand, leads me across the room, and through a thick, heavy curtain to a hallway lined with private rooms. He greets a bouncer as we pass. The first few rooms have their curtains drawn closed across the doorway, but we stop at the next one that’s open. It’s vacant inside, only a small stage with a pole and a couch facing it as the furniture. It’s dim, with soft lights angled at the stage to highlight the dancer.

“Five hundred,” Frankie tells me as we stand just outside the room, his palm out expectantly.

“That’s steep,” I respond but give him the cash anyway. It will be worth it by the end of the night.

“You can afford it, and I’m going to need it after that.” He tucks the money in the breast of his one-piece. “Get inside and wait. I have to go to the back for a minute.”

I send him a teasing look. “Costume change?”

The only response I receive is a wink before he saunters away, hips swaying, so I go inside the room to wait.

As soon as the curtain closes behind me, the music from the main area of the club is barely audible, and I settle on the couch, knee bouncing anxiously.

So close. I’m so close to being able to call Micah mine. All of him.

For real this time.