Page 7 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

SIX

Zeke

Now

“Zeke, it is 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday. Why are you calling me?”

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

Micah sighs, but I can tell it’s one of his sighs that means he’s in a good mood and willing to put up with my antics. “I wasn’t asleep. What is it? Are you okay?” He’s alert and attentive, more so than he was five seconds ago.

A weight presses against my ribs, and it’s the same one I always get whenever I’m talking to Micah. Or texting him. Or thinking about him. Or anything involving him, really. Despite the months since our agreement to break up yet remain friends with benefits, the feelings I have for him haven’t faded. They’re deep and intense, nearly all-consuming. We spent months as friends, though we flirted way more than I’ve ever flirted with Tahegin, then another few months sleeping together. We spent nearly every day at my place, hanging out, getting to know each other. Our feelings grew, and we decided to give a relationship a shot, and then . . .

It didn’t work.

There was always something . . . off. I never could put my finger on it, and God knows I’m bad at talking about serious shit. We both could feel that barricade between us, keeping us from fully committing to the relationship, and ultimately, upon his suggestion, we’d gone back to the way things were before. For a while after, I was sure I’d be able to convince him to give us another shot, but he’s only seemed to drift further away.

I always thought that maybe it was the whole kissing thing. He never told me to stop, but I’d felt like I needed to. We were in a relationship, therefore I shouldn’t be kissing fans, right? When I stopped, I felt as if a part of myself had been taken away. I could have dealt with that, I guess, if the media hadn’t caught on. After only seven days without posting a kissing picture, everyone online was speculating. Once again, my love life was the center of attention, and I had no idea what to do about it.

When Micah proposed the split, I was heartbroken but also relieved. I could go back to kissing strangers, and the press would leave me the fuck alone.

Now, I don’t know what we’re doing. We text to hook up. We call to ask each other to do things that friends would do, even though I still wish we were more. We hang out, both with our best friends—which at times feels like a double date—or just the two of us, almost like how we used to be.

It hurts to be so close to him, but it’s agony to be apart.

We used to text all the time. We spent a day or a night together, totally comfortable in each other’s presence. It’s never been awkward or difficult between us, not even the night we first hooked up. We were both drunk off our asses, he was ready to spew beer at any second, and I had a diaper rash from my Halloween costume, and yet . . .

That was one of the best nights of my life, and every one after that has only gotten better.

I can tell Micah has been trying to put distance between us. He doesn’t text me first nearly as often as he used to. I don’t get to hear about his day or cuddle him in my bed. When we schedule a hookup, he shows up at my door already prepped, as if only boyfriends enjoy fingering each other open. He doesn’t even shower at my place anymore.

I know what he’s doing, but I can’t help it. He’s the one I want to text. To sleep beside. To date. To cook for. To cuddle. To go to the zoo with . . .

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “There’s just a new exhibit at the zoo that’s opened, and I need someone to come with me.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then, “Tahegin won’t go with you?”

I swallow down the hurt in my chest, familiar with his routine of trying to get out of doing something with me. “He said Hendrix is still asleep and doesn’t like the sun, so even if he woke him up to ask, Rix would say no. They’re, like, attached at the hip now, you know. Plus, they’re trying to stay away from cameras since they’re all hot gossip after announcing their relationship.”

“Okay, I get it,” Micah cuts me off. “I’m sorry for not realizing you’ve clearly asked everyone possible before me?—”

“I didn’t,” I cut him off, frowning to myself at his phrasing. First, he’s trying to get me to take someone else; then he’s mad he wasn’t the only one I asked. How am I supposed to know which is the correct answer? Talk about mixed signals. “I’m asking the people I want to go with. Even if he’d said yes, I would have still called you. I thought we were friends, Micah?”

He sucks in a sharp breath at the low blow I know tugs on his already-so-sensitive heartstrings. “You’re right. We are. Give me an hour, and I’ll be ready.”

An hour to put on clothes for the zoo? Seems like a lot, but okay. “I’ll wait for you out front of your apartment.”

“I’d say you could come up, but I know you won’t,” he teases.

“Get an apartment that isn’t a million stories in the air, and I will,” I fire back. “You’d never be able to get me out.”

He falls silent at the revelation, and I mentally curse my lack of filter.

“See you soon!” I yell unnecessarily loud into the phone and disconnect the call. Then, I spend the entire time getting dressed and driving to his place telling myself not to be such a dumbass.

? ? ?

Ho-ly.

Shit.

When Micah exits his apartment building and heads directly to my car, it’s like my dick forgets we just hooked up five days ago. The early morning sun casts a golden glow on his lavender hair and tan shoulders, something sparkly shimmering across them.

Fuck, whenever he dyes his hair that color, all I can think of is the way he looked at that Halloween party—all lavender hair and sexy bunny costume.

He’s dressed for the warming weather in a bronze cross-back athletic top tucked into a white tennis skirt that is doing all kinds of things to me. My mouth waters at the sight of his long, tan legs and the glimpse of upper thigh with every step.

God, I just want to throw him over my shoulder, haul ass to his apartment, ruck up that skirt, and have him screaming my name. I want to watch that artfully messy bun atop his head bounce until the hair tie falls out and sends a curtain of lavender around us.

Monday night wasn’t enough. Two years of sex with Micah hasn’t been enough.

The five months since we broke up haven’t dulled my desire for him. It grows every day.

Just like my dick is growing at the sight of him walking, hips swaying and skirt swishing, to my car.

I jerk out of my stupor when he’s close enough for me to see the glossy sheen across his lips, and I know I need to get a taste. Jumping out of the car, thankful I went with the convertible today as I don’t think I can handle a door in this state, I round the front bumper and wrap him in my arms.

“Hey, you—oh!” His cheerful greeting is cut off by my mouth slamming against his, slipping against the strawberry-flavored gloss he always wears. I greedily lick and suck his lips, like a junky getting their next fix, until there isn’t a hint of the sweet berry flavor remaining, and he’ll have to reapply before we reach the zoo. My hands find his ass and squeeze hard enough he gasps. He ends up pinned between me and the car. We’re touching from chests to hips to thighs. He’s so short, his cute tan tennis shoes perfect for a day of walking but not making him any taller, and I love the feel of his petite body against mine. I’m average-sized, if not a little leaner, than the standard quarterback, but Micah makes me feel big and strong, like I could protect him from anything. On the field, I’m the one who needs bigger guys to keep me safe, but here, in the real world, I get to be the protector—not that Micah has ever needed me to be. Just feeling it and knowing I could is enough to make my inner caveman puff out his chest.

With a gasp that yearns for oxygen, he turns his face away, breathless and panting. “We’re in the street.”

My voice is rough when I respond with an explanatory, “You’re in a skirt,” as if that justifies my rabid attack upon him. I dive tongue-first for his exposed neck, which, of course, also tastes like strawberries. He smells like them all the time, tastes like them each time my mouth touches him, too. It’s become my favorite flavor.

“You’ve seen me in a skirt,” he states, half melting into me even as he half-heartedly pushes me away.

I lick the hollow of his throat and nip the apple just above. An uninhibited moan escapes him. “And do you remember what happened last time?”

The purr he releases tells me exactly what he remembers, but then a firm push to my stomach has me drawing back. “Zeke?—”

“I’ve missed you,” I blurt, too honest for my own good. Too sincere for our friends-with-benefits situation.

His artfully arched brows pinch at my confession, though his gaze remains distractedly on something slightly behind me. “That’s not— I— There’s someone taking pictures of us,” he stammers. He’s not surprised by the presence of an interested audience. We’ve been at this long enough to know what a camera angled at us means.

I’ll need to post my own picture before one of us making out without it looking posed gets out. “My phone is in the car.”

“Let’s take it at the zoo,” he suggests. “We can post a link to donate to a local wildlife rescue.”

God, I love you .

Micah waits for me to open his door for him, completely oblivious to the three words bouncing off every crease inside my brain. My motions are stiff and guided by muscle memory alone as I close his door, round the car, and vault into the driver’s seat.

I love him , I think as I drive with half my attention on him reapplying pink-tinted lip gloss from a clear tube. The way he circles his plump lips is nearly entrancing, and I have to force myself to focus on the road.

He knows how I feel. I tried to tell him, once. The night we broke up.

I never got the chance to tell him why I love him.

I never told him how he makes me feel seen as a person—instead of an athletic and promiscuous gay celebrity—with no shame about who I kiss. Never told him how his suggestions to post links to charities and organizations with my pictures make it to where the media impact on my life does good for someone else. He doesn’t complain about the people who gawk at me when we’re out together. He wears his difference with pride—his smooth legs exposed by his skirt, his colorful nails, his coated or sometimes painted lips. Being with him makes me feel like I can do anything, be anything, and when he slips his hand in mine, I feel like we can do anything. Post a picture of us kissing at a local shelter with a link to their donation page? We raised ten thousand dollars in one day. He brings out the best in me . . . but only when I don’t have to worry about upsetting him or making sure I do everything perfectly within the bounds of a relationship.

Not that it matters because Micah doesn’t want a relationship with me anyway.

Was it my fault we didn’t work out? Was it the kissing—my nickname’s sake and brand ?

Who knows? Certainly not me. I’ll never have the guts to ask, and it doesn’t matter anymore. I lost my chance. He slipped through my fingers.

“Oh! Let’s do it here beside this statue,” Micha declares as we walk toward the entrance of the zoo. There’s a beautiful sculpture by a local artist in honor of the new lion exhibit, and Micah situates us perfectly in place before asking a stranger to take a picture of us kissing. Only a few moments later, there’s a line of fans looking for autographs.

“I have a cold sore,” I announce apologetically to the eager crowd, which “aw”s and disperses.

Micah raises a brow at me in silent question.

“No, of course I don’t,” I assure him. “I’m in perfect health. Never even had mono. My doctor checks frequently.” Kissing strangers can be risky business, so the doc has me on a ton of preventatives and immune boosters. It’s a hard life out here for the serial kissers, man.

“I know you don’t have a cold sore or mono.” Micah rolls his eyes at the absurd insinuation that he wouldn’t know if I had come down with something. “You wouldn’t put anyone, or me, at risk like that. I was just curious why you turned them down.”

Widening my eyes, I gesture emphatically at the entry gates with both hands. Can’t he tell? “The animals are waiting, and I want to make it to as many of the scheduled encounters as possible.”

“Should have known.” He shoots me a fond smile, slips on a pair of glamorous sunglasses I totally adore, and accepts my proffered elbow. His hand fits perfectly in the crook of my arm as I escort him like we’re royalty through the gates and into the throng of other zoo-goers excited to see the new lions.