Page 8 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Micah

Now

I should have known going to the zoo with Zeke would be an experience unlike any time I’ve been before.

I’ve never been with someone so determined to make every animal encounter scheduled for the day. We hold snakes, let spiders crawl on us, feed stingrays, and carry birdseed and peanut butter–covered sticks through an aviary. One bird even lands atop my head, mussing my bun that was already windswept by Zeke’s convertible. We watch the new lions pounce on meaty carcasses, which is pretty wild, no pun intended, then stop to eat at the restaurant strategically placed within the depths of the zoo.

Zeke, the messy eater he is, spills ketchup on his pullover, so he removes it after we throw our trash away. I’m left trying not to openly gawk at his bulging biceps, toned chest, or peaked nipples straining against his compression shirt. It’s a difficult endeavor, and I’m not sure if I hate or love the tight white fabric practically painted on his upper body.

As we head toward the cute little petting zoo, I reapply a layer of lip gloss since it wore off during lunch. I’m trying to stick the tube back in the waistband of my skirt right beside my phone—sending a mournful prayer to Theresa that she’s at least happy wherever she ended up—when Zeke sticks out his hand in front of me, palm facing upward.

“I can put it in my pocket,” he offers.

“Oh.” I blink in surprise at the thoughtful gesture. “Sure. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, really. How come you don’t have your cute little purse to carry it in?”

I shrug and kick a stray rock with my toe, trying not to make it sound as big of a deal as I’ve thought it to be. “This lady was either hungover or had morning sickness. She was a second away from using her kid’s diaper bag, and I didn’t even think about it. Just dumped out my wallet and phone and handed the purse to her. I tossed it in the next trash bin I passed.”

“Poor Theresa,” he sympathizes, and the fact that he remembers my purse’s name tugs on my heartstrings.

Damn it! No. I’m supposed to be trying to get over him.

Our breakup was entirely my fault—I couldn’t confess to him the one secret I had left. A huge one. One he probably would have left me over anyway. I was too weak to call all of it off, though, so now I walk a fine line between friends and benefits without drifting into more .

I try, I do. Physically, I keep things either friendly or sexual, going as far as to prep before our hookups to avoid any intimacy. I don’t stay the night or shower at his place. It’s all very business professional. Emotionally? I’m a wreck. Plain and simple. My feelings for him have only gotten stronger since our breakup, and I’ve found myself trying to avoid being alone with him during friend-oriented outings such as this trip to the zoo. And I don’t even want to think about the vacation coming up in a few weeks.

Being at the zoo with him feels too much like a date, and I hate that after all this time, I still wish it was.

But, no. This is what I wanted. This is what I get.

He agreed to the arrangement. He’s fine with us doing this, plus we don’t have to have an awkward conversation about how, if we were together, I would want him to keep kissing strangers or teammates. I want him to have his life, his brand, without being weighed down by the rules of a relationship. He does so much good through his posts I wouldn’t ever ask him to stop. Sounds fucked-up, right? That’s why I never brought it up.

We’re in an open-style barn admiring a bundle of cute bunnies—Zeke making teasing comments about the Halloween I dressed as a bunny—when I hear them.

“Shit, dude. Look who it is,” some guy says in a poor attempt at a whisper. People have been recognizing Zeke all day, and we’ve heard some variation of that exact comment countless times. Something is different this go around, though. Almost like the man is in shock but doesn’t want to say who it is he spotted.

Which is weird. Usually, people are name-dropping Zeke from five exhibits away.

Beside me, Zeke releases a heavy breath and mutters, “Here we go.”

Except the name that is hesitantly whisper-shouted next isn’t his.

It’s mine.

“ Mickey !”

Oh, fuck. It’s my stage name.

Zeke shifts as if to turn and face the person, and I know I have to intervene. Holding his arm tight to keep him from looking, I make a show of peering over. “Oh,” I feign surprise. “It’s some regulars from a bar I used to work at. I’ll go say hi real quick. Why don’t you stay here before they start calling your name, too?”

He frowns slightly but reluctantly agrees. “All right. I’ll be here.”

I slip away and head toward the two middle-aged guys who look like they never grew out of their frat-boy personalities. The way they carry themselves and the clothes they wear say they never left college, but the sagging biceps and fluffy bellies scream middle-aged dad. They’re leaning against the exterior of the large goat pen full of kids and parents petting the animals. Each one has a diaper bag slung over their shoulder, empty strollers parked beside them, and their phones are out with the cameras pointed at something, more like someone, inside the pen.

I recognize them. They’re regulars, all right. Just not at a bar.

They frequent Mischief.

“Hey, boys,” I greet them familiarly, though lacking the usual sultry tone I use at the club.

“Don’t call us that here!” one of the men—I call him Chad One in my head for lack of a legitimate name—hisses. His hand balls into a fist on the wooden railing. A silver ring glints on his third finger. “This is a family establishment.”

I quirk a brow. “You guys are the ones who called me over here and interrupted my day,” I remind them.

“Yeah, to tell you to leave,” the other one, promptly dubbed Chad Two, speaks up.

“There are kids here.” Chad gestures toward the pen where I assume their children are. And their wives. “They don’t need to have this —” He waves a hand at all of me. “—forced in their faces. Save the skirts and makeup for the pole, yeah?”

Over their shoulders, I can see Zeke casting me a concerned glance, so I paste a smile on my face, voice sugary sweet as I try to diffuse the situation. Even if I want nothing more than to slap some sense into their closeted, washed-out frat boy heads. “It’s a free world, and I’m not forcing anything on anyone. My friend and I were minding our own business over there when you two?—”

“There’s another stripper with you?” Chad Two demands, whipping around to look. When he realizes my companion isn’t Dream or Frankie—his personal favorites—I swear his shoulders drop in disappointment. He doesn’t even recognize the NFL player he’s locked eyes with, that’s how eager he was to get a glimpse of either of his paramours. And a dude-bro like these guys? They definitely should have noticed Ezekiel Aleks. “Oh, it’s just a guy.”

Chad One narrows his eyes, lips pursed as he thinks real hard about something. “Your boyfriend know what you do for a living?”

My smile almost falters, but I hold it in place through sheer spite alone. These guys are always too handsy at the club, pushing the no-touching limits while tipping any and every dancer they can get their hands on. The pair are known to get drunk and rowdy and yell terrible come-ons to us dancers while grabbing their unimpressive erections through their jeans. Honestly, I feel sorry for their wives—and yes, I know they’re married to women because they have family portraits in their wallets, which I see every time they open it to throw money my way. “Do your wives know that your salary gets withdrawn into dollar bills that you shove in my G-string every weekend? Do they know you like pretty boys purring in your ear while grinding on your lap? I can give them some pointers if you guys want.” Chad Two has the decency to at least go pale at the cheerily veiled threat. I keep my smile wide and brilliant for a nosey Zeke’s sake. And to seem that much more menacing to the Chads. “Now, you two better hope I don’t see either of you at the club again, or I’ll have Chicago drag your asses out. Better yet, maybe the bartender can just call your emergency contacts for a ride because you seem too intoxicated to drive yourselves home.”

Their eyes go wide at the mention of Mischief’s most intimidating security guy, and then even Chad One’s face drains of color at the bartender comment (not that any of our staff would actually call on behalf of a customer unless asked by them).

“Your boss is going to be hearing from us,” Chad One fumes, pointing an angrily trembling finger at me. “He won’t appreciate one of his strippers threatening his customers.”

I raise my chin in a silent I dare you . “I’ll let Mr. Santiago know to expect to hear from you. I think he’s at a red carpet tonight, but you can probably mail him a letter. I’m sure he’ll get right on it.” The owner of Mischief, Benjamin Santiago, also owns nearly every other club in LA. He’s passionate about his clubs and treats each place like he has a personal stake in it despite his wealth and fame. His natural charm and charisma have earned him a name amongst the stars and celebrities, hence the red-carpet attendance. On top of all that, he’s nearly impossible to be reached unless you’re employed by him. Everyone at the club has his personal number, and he makes it known we can call or text him for anything, anytime. He knows our names, which shouldn’t be a big deal, but compared to the owner of Neverending Designs, who I’ve never met, it means something to me.

Though I’ve never tested Mr. Santiago’s loyalty to his employees, I know without a doubt he’d have my back in this. He’s a strong advocate for the LGBTQIA+ community and encourages all of us to be ourselves both inside the club and out in the real world.

The Chads and I maintain eye contact, silently testing the other’s resolve, and I don’t even realize my smile has turned into a scowl until a hand on my lower back makes me jump. Standing at my side, Zeke also casts a glare at the men before us.

“Problem, bunny?” he asks without looking away from them. His stance is tall and broad, like he’s puffed himself up to appear bigger, and yeah. If it came to a pissing contest, this professional athlete would doubtlessly win.

“Just some disgruntled customers upset about being banned,” I tell him with a menacing glance at the Chads. “I was just telling them they’ll have to take it up with the owner.”

“Right,” Chad One agrees after a beat, voice tight.

The macho men don’t seem like they’ll be breaking their staring contest anytime soon, and as much as I love seeing the fierce expression on Zeke’s handsome face, self-preservation has me trying to find any reason to get far, far away from these guys.

“Oh, Zeke, look! A peacock!” I point to the far end of the petting zoo, where a flashy male peacock is brandishing his tall, bright feathers.

It does the trick. With an excited sound, Zeke grabs my hand and sprints for the huge bird.

In the wake of our departure, I hear a feminine voice ask, “Chad, do you know those guys?”

Oh my God! His name really is Chad!

My laughter echoes, earning me a crooked grin from Zeke as he chases the peacock around the pen, arms outstretched, and I don’t know who or what I’m laughing at more—the surprisingly accurate name or Zeke’s ridiculous attempt at catching a wild fowl.

All I know is my heart skips a beat when Zeke and the peacock go dangerously toe to toe, and when he emerges victorious with the bird in his hands, I cheer, not caring who looks our way . . .

Because Zeke is smiling and laughing, an excited but nervous expression on his face as the bird squirms in his hold, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters. Like this moment, right here and now, in this crowded-as-hell zoo—this moment is meant for us.

And now I hate Saturdays.

Not because I worked all night last night, haven’t slept yet, and have to do it all over again tonight.

Not because those guys nearly outed me to Zeke.

But because I’m reminded again of the amazing man I let slip through my fingers.

The peacock shits on my shoe.

I hate Saturdays.