Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
He’s tenting the jockstrap. It is a teepee. A white jock teepee.
I gape. “Holy shit.”
“Fucking knock!” shouts Ryan, grabbing something off the bed to shield his tented crotch from my view, despite my having already clearly seen it.
The thing he grabbed is a pair of baseball pants, which does not make the what-the-fuckness of this situation any better.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Uh …”
“Get out of my room, dude!”
“Your, uh … front door was unlocked.”
“Get out!”
I grant his wish and close his door, moving back to the living room and chewing on my lip, a handful of thoughts racing across my brain about what I just saw.
Literally zero explanations come to mind as to why he was half dressed in baseball gear. He was obviously caught and trying to get out of the gear as fast as possible.
Zero ideas. Nada. Totally blank.
I pull off my cap and run a hand through my hair, wondering what the hell I should do. When I spot his phone sitting on the kitchen counter, I realize now why he never answered. Of course I assumed that if he was by his phone and saw me calling, he would have picked up right away.
I don’t think it’s arrogant to presume that. I just know.
So I figured I’d pay his house a visit and make my little proposal before I lost my nerve. I know it’s asking a lot of him, but really, I’m a bit out of options here. Parker’s married with twins on the way, and I don’t want to impose myself on his family when I’m trying to help them renovate a bathroom. None of the other guys live here anymore, or else I’ve lost contact with them since high school. I can’t trust myself at a hotel with a bar on the first floor, and it’s going to be a quick money-drainer to live in a hotel for however long before I figure out a more permanent living situation. I’m basically sitting out here all on my own with no one to count on.
Except Ryan Caulfield, who magically reappeared in my life last night.
I’m not a big believer in fate, but really, when the fates drop you a bomb in the form of your former childhood best friend, you have to at least perk an ear.
We were so close as kids, it would have been nothing to just drop by his house at any hour and burst into his room, even if he was in the middle of changing, or sleeping, or even jerking off.
Yeah, I’ve caught him doing that. Twice.
I hear movement near his bedroom door, so I just turn toward it and wait for him to sheepishly stumble out, red-faced, and ask what the hell I’m doing here. If I’m lucky, I’ll get his signature scowl he loves making. I almost look forward to it.
The door pops open. He steps out in the same clothes he was wearing this morning: a pair of baggy jeans and a blue polo that looks like it’s been through a couple circles of Hell.
Instead of coming up to me, Ryan stops by the kitchen to grab his phone from the counter. He glances down at it, then nods and, still not looking my way, mumbles, “Two missed calls.”
“And a text.” I shove my hands in my pockets and watch him carefully. “Figured you would have answered if—”
“I was busy,” he cuts me off, his voice low and his face tense.
I nod. “Sure. Yeah.” I glance back at his bedroom, then return my gaze to him. I try to make conversation. After all, I have to be friendly with Ryan if I plan to smooth things over. “Doing a little baseball photo shoot or some shit?”
He shuts his eyes, looking mortified. “Stefan …”
Really, though. What the hell was he doing? The more I think about it, the less it makes sense. “You put on the uniform every now and then and drive to the batting cages for old times’ sake?”
“Stop.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just stop.”
“I thought you were through with baseball.” My words carry an edge to them—an eight-year-old, unfinished-business edge. “You mean you still got all your baseball things? You got bats and balls and a catcher’s mitt in the garage, too?”
“No. I donated it all to charity. Bats, balls, everything.”
I smirk at him. “Well, except your uniform, obviously.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “Stefan …”
“I kinda worried whether you donated your actual balls, too.”
He faces me, his hazel eyes flashing with annoyance. “Why are you even here, Stefan? What do you want?”
The way he stands there looking stiff and bothered and ready to pick a fight, it puts me in a headspace that’s too much like the very one I was escaping at my house. He’s itching for a fight because I clearly interrupted his private little baseball role play—or whatever the hell that was.