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)
Taking a deep breath. Letting it go. Picturing myself giving intelligent comments to the listeners.
When I open my eyes, my body is relaxed, and I almost believe I’ll ace this interview, even with my sexy rival sitting across from me.
I hop out of the chair. My Lyft will be here any minute. I spot my landlady in the yard on my way out, refilling the birdseed in a mini red barn feeder.
“Hi, Portia. I think the birds had a concert this morning.”
“Because they’re Renegades fans too, and the Tarot was right,” she calls out.
“Hope the wine and cheese was good,” I say with a smile as I lock the door.
“It was delicious. And thank you for the lovely candle. That was so sweet.”
“Glad you liked it,” I say, then head to the waiting Lyft, idling at the curb.
After a quick drive through the city, the car pulls over on Market Street outside a looming skyscraper. I say goodbye to the driver as I exit the vehicle. The sidewalk is bustling with Monday morning nine-to-fivers. As promised, Ian waits outside by the burnished gold revolving doors of the building.
I close the distance. “Hey, Ian. Hope the kids got to bed easily last night.”
His smile brightens. “They sure did. Thanks for asking. Now, I’ve got a quick debrief for you.” He then shares some tips for the show, wrapping up with: “Just remember—all you have to do is talk about the game yesterday and break down the plays. Are you ready?”
That’s an excellent question.
Thanks to meditation, I’m more than ready for the interview.
But I’m also ready to take another page from Ian’s playbook. Be low-key, be casual. Like he was last night. “I’m definitely ready.” As we head into the building, I draw one more breath, and when I let it out, I out myself too. “Also, I’m bisexual. Just wanted you to know. No big deal.”
And wow.
That wasn’t tough at all. Since he’s queer, it’s easier to tell him than it was to tell my teammates.
But I did both, which puts me one step closer to my goal. Finishing the task of coming out to my new city.
“Thanks for sharing that. I’m glad you knew you could tell me,” Ian says. “Do your teammates know, or would you prefer they didn’t?”
Love the way he asks it—making it clear that being out is my choice and mine only. “I went out with a bunch of the guys last night, and it came up. But I’ll need to tell others, and I’m not on social,” I say before I lose momentum. “I don’t want to get on social either.”
I shudder at the thought. Ian smiles sympathetically but waits for me to keep talking.
“But I can say something to the media,” I say. “I think that would be a good idea.”
If telling my teammates was completing a touchdown pass, then telling the media—and by extension, the fans—will be the extra point.
Ian stops me in the lobby, his eyes serious. “Are you saying you want to mention it right now on Monday Morning Quarterback? No problem if you do. I just want to make sure I understand so I can help you.”
But I’m already shaking my head. No way. If I say it in the same room with Jason, I’ll feel like I’m doing it for him.
And I’m not.
“No. But can we talk after the interview?”
“Let’s grab a cup of joe when you’re done. I’ll have some ideas for you.”
“It’s a plan,” I say.
We’re due upstairs at the studio in a few minutes, so we march to the elevator and shoot up to the twelfth floor.
Down the hall is the podcast studio. A green light above the door signals that it’s safe to go in because no one’s recording. Jason seems like an on-time sort of guy. Is he inside the studio already?
My skin tingles as I picture him. Then I flush as I think about last night and the things I imagined doing to him.
When we’re a few feet away, Ian asks if I need anything.
“I’m good,” I say, but a mask to hide my desire would be great if he could locate one.
“Republic of Caffeine is on the corner. Meet you there at ten- thirty,” he says, then heads the other way.
I open the door and step into a tiny green room.
Jason’s parked on a small couch, scrolling on his phone and looking like he owns the place, legs spread slightly. He stops, looks up, and smiles.
Can he tell I jacked off to visions of blowing him last night? That I pictured him in this exact position?
Heat rushes to my cheeks. My flush is probably giving me away.
“Good game yesterday, McKay,” I tell him. I watched the recap this morning while I was making breakfast.
Talking shop should erase my filthy thoughts of Jason McKay, and my late-night peek at his window.