Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
That was Jackson’s cue to step forward, his hand raised for a high five. “Hey, Noah, this is Stef. Stef, Noah.”
“We’ve met,” I replied with a tight smile, smacking his hand, though his contribution to our win was negligible at best.
“Cool.” He straightened to his full height of five foot five and slicked his hand through his golden locks. “Stef and I are in a new series called Penalty Shot. It’s premiering this summer. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s on billboards all over LA. You must have noticed.” Jackson huffed incredulously when I shrugged.
“I must have missed those.”
“Well, it’s gonna be awesome,” he assured me before addressing Stefan. “I need to grab my bag, and then we’ll join the guys for a beer.”
I waited till Jackson was out of earshot. “So…you’re with him now?”
Stefan smiled. “It’s casual.”
“I see.”
“No, really. We’re mostly friends. You know, he mentioned that he played on a rec team to prep for this role and…your name came up.”
“And that’s why you texted me?”
“Well, yeah. It’s an awkward coincidence, and I didn’t want to blindside you. I was hoping we could talk, too.”
“About what?”
He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Life. I wanted to make sure you were doing all right. You look great, but—”
“I’m doing well.” I held up a hand and dropped it. “Thanks for asking, and good luck on your show. No offense, but I’m not interested in rehashing the past.”
“What if we just talked soccer?” He put his hand on my elbow and stepped into my space. There was a time I’d yearned for close public proximity with this man.
Those days were long gone.
“No, thanks.”
He barreled on when I pulled out of his hold. “Noah, listen. I’m doing a lot of promotion for the new series. They want to do a few Pride pieces to release this summer…about me. Obviously, my story is linked with yours. I don’t have to name you, but it would be a nice touch. If you’re okay with it.”
What the fuck?
I furrowed my brow so hard I almost dislodged my sunglasses. I pulled them off and fixed him with a fierce stare. “Let me get this straight. You’ve made a special appearance to let me know you’re screwing my teammate and would like permission to screw me for the sake of publicity. No, thanks.”
“Noah, it’s not like that at all. I know it’s not an easy topic, but…will you at least think about it? LGBTQ youths need to see more visibility in sports, you know. It’s important to acknowledge the past.”
“Is it, though?” My cell vibrated in my bag. Thank God. I pulled it out and waved it like a white flag. “Sorry. I gotta take this. Just…break a leg and all that.”
He nodded sharply. Ex-boyfriend contact complete, on to the next chore. “Thanks. Hey, I’m gonna tag along with Jackson to the pizza joint. Let’s catch up over a beer.”
So much for a relaxing evening with my teammates. Screw pizza and beer. Screw Stefan. Now I just wanted to go home and hide under the covers with a pint of ice cream and Edith Piaf blasting in the background. Or something else fabulous and French that spoke to me, even though I didn’t understand a word.
I slapped high fives on my way to my SUV, tossed my bag in the passenger side seat, shoved my key in the ignition, and—
Buzz buzz.
I glanced at my phone, expecting my local UPS office to lambaste me for not picking up my bead order. But the flurry of text messages was from… Oh.
Hello, this is Thomas Hartwell. We met the other day when you cut my hair and stepped on my glasses.
And repaired them. Thank you for that.
You mentioned that you could help me with a fashion issue or two. I’d be happy to compensate you for your time to…
The message cut off and three dots danced across the screen. I waited for what felt like forever, my heart pounding in my chest. My curiosity was piqued, but my fight-or-flight instincts were on high. I wanted to get away from Stefan and the past he’d dredged up. And this was the call I’d been waiting for.
…
But he was taking his sweet time. I stared at those dots till my vision blurred, then pressed his phone info from his text message, and pushed Send.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Professor. Your timing couldn’t be better.”
Thomas cleared his throat on the line. “Oh. Um…good. Hello, Noah. If your offer to help me still stands, I’d—”
“Yes, I’d be happy to help,” I interrupted. “What are you doing now?”
“Now? Well, I’m grading papers, and I don’t think any shops will be open now.”
He was right. Damn it.
Edith Piaf it is. “Sunday is my day off. We can meet in WeHo…if that works for you.”
Please say yes.
One second, two seconds, three…
“Yes.”
5
TOMMY
I wasn’t going to call Noah. Or text him. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone about what had transpired between us, but my new haircut and cracked lenses begged for a story, and I had to say something. So…I told the truth.