Page 92 of Bombshells
Anton hitches a little closer to me and puts an arm around me. “I hope so. He tries really hard.”
“You are a softie, you know that?” I put my head on his shoulder, and he kisses it.
“Don’t tell anybody. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“You and your reputation.”
He chuckles. “You’re coming back to my place, right? For lunch?”
“I haven’t decided. What are we having for lunch?” I tease.
“Mmm.” He makes a sexy noise and kisses my neck. “We’re having all of my favorite dishes. I’m going to savor each one of them. Slowly.”
Okay, that’s the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard. But it doesn’t matter at all. I’m already glancing out the window, hoping we’re almost back to our own neighborhood. This wouldn’t be the first time we race inside his apartment and chuck all our clothes on the floor in a mad dash to his bed.
He’d jokingly referred to it as our “pornado.” And that’s not a bad description for our hasty trip into ambitious, athletic, all-consuming sex.
There’s a block left before we arrive, so I lift my chin and kiss him squarely on the mouth. He tastes like chlorine and sex, and I am here for this.
Anton leans in for more until I’m breathless. Then he pushes a twenty through the slot to the driver and bids me to get out of the cab at the rear door of his building.
We’re still sneaking around, as it happens. I wish he’d just call up Bryce and say, “Man, I have to tell you something.” But he hasn’t.
In his defense, Bryce’s injury has kept him away from practice, and he’s missed several games. “I haven’t exactly been swimming in opportunities to talk to him,” Anton has pointed out.
It’s true. Although I worry that Anton just doesn’t want to do it. Maybe he thinks that our fling will run its course, and that telling Bryce about it would only create a problem where none was necessary.
Anton opens the back door for me, and we head for the elevators. None of his teammates appear during our short stay at the elevator bank, so we sneak in undetected.
In the elevator, Anton pulls me into a hug, and holds me close. And then he leads me into his place, pushes me up against the wall, and kisses me silly again. “Should I order now?” he asks in a strained voice. “Are you hungry?”
“It can wait,” I breathe.
That’s the answer I’m always going to give him. Because everything pales in importance to more of his attention and more of his love.
I’m such a goner already. Someone pass me the manual for how to have a casual fling, because I have not figured it out yet.
I doubt I ever will.
Thirty
Your Shot, Baby Bayer
ANTON
Christmas comes and goes. We only get a couple of days off, but Sylvie gets more, so she meets her dad in Montreal for a weekend to visit some relatives.
I stay in the city, a little lonely and a little bored. I have Eric and my teammates, and a visit from my Mom. But things just aren’t the same when Sylvie is out of town.
And, wow, I don’t know what’s happened to me. Because I’m the one who insists I’m not boyfriend material. I’m Mr. Casual. But I miss Sylvie like a lost limb, and she’s only out of town for seventy-two hours.
When she comes back, I’m all over her like a Doberman on a T-bone. I take her out to a terrific sushi lunch, and then we spend many perfect hours in my bed. And in my shower.
As always, she has to go to an evening practice. But when she asks if I want to come over later, I say that I can’t. I’m having trouble making sense of how I feel about her. And I don’t want to misrepresent my intentions.
On the Wednesday night between Christmas and New Year’s, there’s a rare evening where my team is neither playing nor traveling. So naturally quite a few of us are at the Tavern. It’s Crikey’s birthday. By ten o’clock, we’ve toasted him thoroughly, and I’ve had to stretch a light beer further than it was ever meant to. The Bombshells are playing their last December game before a New Year’s break. I would have gone to watch, but Sylvie wasn’t playing tonight. I checked with her before I came over here. If she’d gotten a chance to start a home game, nothing could keep me away.
Since I can’t drink, I’m playing pool, which is easier when you’re sober. Who knew? But as the evening wears on, I start watching the door.
