Page 47 of Interference

The camera shifted to the reporter, a petite Black woman in a suit, with Simon beside her against a team mural. He’d taken off his helmet and jersey, revealing the chest and shoulder pads as well as his sweaty, mussed blond hair. He was seriously attractive too, if not nearly as much as his boyfriend. Because I was biased and thought he was kind of dick? Maybe.

He was also all smiles, answering the reporter’s questions thoroughly and professionally. I didn’t understand most of it—something about letting the game come to them and building off their momentum, not letting the defense get behind them, whatever all of that meant. Mostly I was just watching Simon and trying to reconcile this man with the one who could walk into the house and make the temperature drop twenty degrees.

Anthony seemed seriously stressed about fixing their relationship, and I got that. I felt for him, honestly. But I had to admit, there was a small part of me that was quietly grateful I was here during a period where Simon was living someplace else. Staying in the same building as him didn’t sound comfortable at all.

In fact, if they were still living together, Anthony might not have brought me home at all.

I shivered and reached down to pet my dog’s back. I didn’t wish misery or unhappiness on Anthony—or even Simon, for that matter—but if the two of them were going to hit the skids, I was grateful they were doing it now.

And Anthony deserves better than him anyway.

My own catty thought startled me, but… not really. I didn’t like Simon. Maybe he was a perfectly nice guy when everything was fine between him and Anthony, but the version of him I’d seen was a jackass, and I wasn’t sorry for hoping Anthony found someone better. I mean, Anthony was stressed and miserable, and he was still civil to Simon and kind to me. Simon… Well, he’d been a dick every time I’d been in his company. So, fuck him.

The intermission wound down and the game started again. In the third period, Simon scored, pushing the team’s lead to three. He hugged Anthony just like he did his other teammates who were on the ice, and they all skated toward the bench for fist bumps. There didn’t seem to be much animosity between the two of them tonight. Maybe they’d talked some things through. Then again, when I’d watched the last two games, they hadn’t struck sparks off each other, at least not in any way I could see. And hadn’t Anthony said they had to keep their issues out of everyone’s sight?

Man, that sounded exhausting. My Army buddies and I hadn’t exactly been the type to sit down and talk about feelings, but when someone came in after a fight with his girlfriend or when someone had hit the skids with his wife, it was noticeable. There was a certain sleepless look that said he and the missus had gone to bed angry. Another vibe that screamed “I’m running on about thirty seconds of sleep and I’m also freaked the fuck out” and usually heralded a shotgun wedding on the horizon. It hadn’t taken a psychic to recognize the snappishness that meant Davis had busted her husband drinking himself stupid again, or the outright volatility that announced McEnroe’s wife had taken the kids and left. We never knew exactly what the cause was until they told us, but there was no hiding when trouble was brewing.

Then again, Cortes had managed to keep it under his hat that his wife was getting physically abusive until there’d finally been an injury he couldn’t hide. He’d admitted to me later that he didn’t know which was worse, putting up with the abuse or keeping it quiet. Panganiban hadn’t been in an abusive situation, but he’d been quietly enduring a deteriorating marriage for almost two years before he and his wife had shocked everyone by divorcing. And there were soldiers whose demons quietly got the best of them right under our noses.

So… it wasn’t impossible to hide the really heavy shit.

Did Simon and Anthony’s teammates know? Anthony thought they didn’t, but had they caught the scent of trouble in paradise? Because even with the people who did hide it, there were signs that made sense in retrospect. Cortes had blamed some marks on his dog scratching him. When someone really pressed, he’d smirked and said he’d explain it, but he didn’t kiss and tell, leading us all to rib him for months about being kinky (man, did those jokes make me cringe after I learned the truth). Panganiban had days where he just couldn’t focus or he seemed super tired. He’d always blame it on one of the kids being up all night again. It was a year before someone realized he and his wife always bragged about how quickly their kids had started sleeping through the night and how rarely they woke up unless they were sick.

As for the soldiers who’d lost the fight with their trauma or their depression, those signs were harder to see sometimes, even in hindsight. A lot of us drank to self-medicate or just because it was fun, and it wasn’t always obvious whose drinking was a red flag until it was too late.

The signs, even if we hadn’t recognized them, had been right there in front of us. We just hadn’t known what they were pointing to until much, much later. We’d all been horrified to realize our friends were suffering in silence right in front of us, whether because they were on the brink of a breakup, a breakdown, or something a whole lot darker.

I swallowed, watching the camera pan across the Bobcats bench.

Do any of you know your teammate is going through hell?

Not long after the game, I started heading for bed. I gave Lily her medicine, then gave the cats their treats per Anthony’s instructions. The cats took off upstairs and I went into the guest room with Lily. By the time I’d finished going through my nightly routine, she was already passed out on the bed.

I smiled down at her. It was good to see her this relaxed and comfortable. I just tried not to think about how temporary it was.

I tamped those thoughts down. Time to get some sleep while I still had a safe, warm place to do it. I took off my prosthetic and liner, then switched off the light and settled into bed.

But sleep? Not happening.

My mind just kept going back to the game. To the footage of Anthony out on the ice and on the bench. To the way my nerve endings all seemed to light up whenever I saw him skating or smiling.

Squirming beneath the covers, I closed my eyes. I hadn’t had so much as an erotic thought in the last couple of years. Hunger, fear, and my desperate situation just didn’t leave room for anything that wasn’t basic survival.

But now I was safe, warm, fed… and painfully attracted to the man who was housing me.

I couldn’t even pretend I was just being drawn to him because he’d pulled me off the streets. Yes, that was endearing, but the bottom line was that Anthony was hot. His eyes could completely derail my train of thought, and when he walked around the house in those clingy track pants? Holy fuck. Then there was that moment yesterday when I’d caught a glimpse of him walking down to the laundry room without a shirt on. I’d served with some guys who were fit as hell, but even they hadn’t been ripped like Anthony was. The things I would do if I could get my hands—or mouth—on that gorgeous six-pack…

I squirmed beneath the covers as my dick started getting hard. It didn’t help when tonight’s game flashed through my mind again. His gear made him looking bigger and broader than he actually was, but he was still undeniably him, and he had no business being that sexy. Those stunning brown eyes behind a sweat-sprinkled visor. The way he moved—fast and agile. How he’d take what looked like a painful check into the boards, but recover immediately and continue playing. And oh, hell, when a teammate scored… that smile.

Biting my lip, I shifted some more. I was rock hard now, and I was going to have to do something about it, wasn’t I? That was a bit of an alien feeling. Even if I’d been able to think about someone being attractive, one thing I definitely hadn’t done since I’d been evicted was jerk off. I’d never been comfortable enough, physical or mentally, to get it up, never mind do anything with it. And none of that had really mattered anyway because there’d been no real privacy.

Not like there was right now.

I wasn’t about to do this with Lily right here, though, and she’d probably wake up if I tried. She wouldn’t alert—she knew the difference between being distressed and not—but she’d be awake, and that would be weird. So I got up, leaned on various pieces of furniture as I hopped across the room, and went into the bathroom.

I missed the days of standing in the shower, an arm braced against the wall as water pounded on my back and I jerked myself into oblivion. This wasn’t half bad, though—sitting on the bench, leaning back on one hand while I stroked my dick for the first time in ages. I went slow this time, too. As much as I wanted to get right to the fun part, I hadn’t touched myself at all in far too long, and God knew when I’d want to again. Might as well enjoy it.

And it wasn’t difficult to enjoy when I was turned on by someone in particular. Stroking myself, I imagined that lean, athletic body over mine, muscles tense and quivering as he rode my dick. Just the thought of staring at that beautiful face—watching his pleasure play out in his eyes and the part of his lips—had me teetering on the edge, and I had to take some slow breaths to pull myself back. Not yet. I needed this fantasy to linger just a little longer. Crystallize in my mind so I could call back to it next time I wanted to get off.

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