Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I show him a draft of a post. Having breakfast with my favorite person. I add a heart emoji.
That should get the point across. “Are you good with this?”
“Very,” he says.
I click post.
Xavier was right. I don’t wake up the next morning to a feed full of rainbow flags and thumbs up.
But there are plenty of those, and they make me smile as I check my social media while I work out on the StairMaster. My boyfriend is on the treadmill a row away, peeling off miles. As I climb another floor, I scroll through more comments, my heart squeezing as I read the ones from queer teens and queer athletes, thanking us for being out and proud. I spread smiley-face emojis all over those, as well as the ones from sports reporters congratulating us. I hide the comments from dickhead bloggers who say nasty shit, whether it’s about us sharing playbooks or sharing beds. Fuck them. I don’t need that in my life.
But I do pay extra attention to the ones from passionate fans like Hawks14forever, who writes So cute, but this won’t affect how you play against the Renegades? Or from HawksOrBust, who says You two are adorbs, but you better not help each other win!
I figured that would be a concern from some fans, though I don’t know how to reassure them without sounding like I’m dismissing them. As I read on, though, it turns out that most of the negative comments on my feed are from hardcore fans . . . of my boyfriend.
I give the finger to such gems as You still suck, McKay, and Whatever, just play the game, and How does it feel to be second best to your boyfriend? Renegades Repeat is coming to town!
When we finish our workout and leave the gym, I wiggle the phone at him. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you came to San Francisco and stole my fans,” I say.
He snorts. “Darling, let me make this clear. I’ve always had more fans.”
“You wish, you whippersnapper.”
Beck smirks. “When you’re good, you’re good.”
“So young, so cocky,” I say as we near Doctor Insomnia’s.
He points to the shop. “Want a Good Luck Morning Mango Smoothie? I hear it helps you perform at the top.”
I snarl at him. “I’ll take my magic blueberries, thank you very much.”
We go inside, and he orders. As we wait, I click over to my email next to get the lay of the land there. There’s a note from Cheyenne and Mitch, who won me in the auction, and I show it to Beck.
This is Cheyenne! You’re still my favorite, Jason! We can’t wait to take you out whenever it’s good for you. I know you’re busy with playoffs starting soon and your new boyfriend. Mitch and I are so thrilled you and Beck are together.
“Aww. That’s cute,” Beck says. “They probably understand falling for your rival too, since they’re a house divided.”
“Mitch loves you, and Cheyenne loves me.” That sparks an idea. “Any chance you’d want to get boba and play pinball with Cheyenne, Mitch, and me? You can say no and that’s cool. But they seemed really into both of us.”
Beck takes a beat before he answers, and I’ve learned this is part of his new skills. He likes to run through scenarios in his head. “I’m good with that,” he says as the barista slides us our drinks.
We thank him and grab our drinks. Then as we walk back to my place, I open the email from Reese: Try not to be shocked, but we have about 5,765 press requests.
I groan, read it aloud, then look to my guy. “I don’t know that I want to talk to the press about us.”
“So don’t. That’s my strategy.”
I furrow my brow. “Really?”
He takes a sip of his coffee. “If I’m good at anything—well, besides football and sucking you off—”
“I taught you the latter, whippersnapper.”
“And you taught me well. Anyway, I’m really good at saying no. Rosemary has helped me with that. But you can also just ignore it. I’m the king of ignoring stuff I don’t need to see or hear. That’s why I’m not on social media.”
“Stop being so smart,” I grumble, then sip my smoothie.
He bumps his shoulder to mine. “You know I’m right.”
“I know you have enough time before you see your shrink to jack me off in the shower in, oh, say, about fifteen minutes.”
He laughs as we turn onto Jackson Street. “And you know I’m right.”
“You’ll probably even give me a combo blow job and handy J.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I may even add a little something extra. But just say it, Jason.”
I stop, press my lips to his, and whisper against his mouth, “You’re right.”
But I’m right too. He takes me apart in the shower, so I don’t mind that he knows best sometimes.