Page 128 of Play Along

I remember the day Isaiah found out about my failed engagement. I hadn’t been wearing that gaudy ring for months at that point, but he didn’t realize until one Sunday afternoon in the training room.

He startled me while I was working on his body, grabbing my left hand to inspect the bare finger. He quickly asked if I was okay, and once I told him I was, this guy’s face lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

I didn’t know then what I know now, that he completely changed his ways—or reverted to the old Isaiah, according to what his brother told me tonight.

Because of me.

Because he wants me.

Because he wants me to want him.

I’ve never been so comfortable. Never been so drawn to someone the way I am to him. I’ve never wanted to touch someone the way I touch him. Never wanted someone to touch me the way he so naturally does. Never wanted to be around someone the way I feel pulled into his orbit.

What the fuck am I doing?

It’s as if all this time together, I’ve been practicing to be good enough for someone to want me, and he’s been here all along, waiting.

My eyes may have been closed for a long time, but they’re not anymore.

I see him.

Lifting his bowed head, he exhales a hard-earned breath. “I need a minute. Don’t follow me,” he says before turning down a side corridor, but I know exactly where he’s going.

Chapter 23

Kennedy

When I push open the door to the women’s restroom where we first met, I find Isaiah with his hands braced on the sink counter, tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

He’s looking at his reflection as if he can’t recognize the person looking back. Then his attention swings to me.

“I’m pissed off right now, Kenny, and I don’t want to talk to you.”

I try to ignore the sting of his words. He’s upset. He’s having a bad day and doesn’t believe he’s allowed to have them.

“Good.” I lock the door behind me. “Be mad at me. I’m not going anywhere. You being pissed off doesn’t scare me.”

His brown eyes flash with confusion.

I slide into the space between him and the sink, reaching up to slip his tie over his head, tossing it to the side before my fingers find the still clasped buttons on his dress shirt.

“That’s fine if you don’t want to talk,” I continue, undoing his shirt until it falls open. “I don’t need to use words to show you that I want you.”

He stills in confusion, as if he doesn’t believe the words I said. And that’s my fault. I confused him. I never let him believe there was a chance with us.

Because I never let myself realize he was there.

So, I do something I didn’t know I would ever do in front of him—I begin to drop to my knees.

He sucks in an audible breath at the sight, but I keep my eyes locked on his, waiting for permission, hands on my knees as I lower myself.

I’m waiting for his resolve to wash away. For his anger to fade, but it doesn’t.

“Stop,” he says harshly, taking a step back and forcing me to stay on my feet.

My stomach sinks with embarrassment at his command.

As much as I was trying to fake it, I’m in no way comfortable doing this. But I wanted to, for him. This is my worst fear, after all, letting myself want someone only for them to realize they’re good without me. It’s why I never have.