Page 17 of Playing with My Heart

“Well, it’s obvious that they feel the same way about you,” I observed, noting how his eyes softened at the mention of his friends. It was a warmth that seemed to infuse his entire being, a contrast to his usual playful confidence.

He shrugged, but there was a shadow in his bright blue eyes that hinted at deeper scars. “We’ve been through hell and back together. Luckily, the good has far outweighed the bad, but still, that shit has a way of bonding people.”

The line moved up and I ordered us both coffees, something strong and bitter. As the barista worked the espresso machine, the whirr and hiss providing a backdrop to our talk, I found myself marveling at the man standing next to me. Travis, with his perpetual tan and ripped abs, hid layers beneath that athletic exterior.

“Family isn’t always blood, huh?” I mused aloud, accepting our drinks with a nod of thanks.

“Definitely not,” he agreed, a smile returning as he accepted his cup. “It’s the people who stick by you when the shit hits the fan—the ones who see you at your worst and still think you’re pretty okay.”

“You’ve got yourself a solid bunch,” I said, genuinely impressed.

“Solid as they come,” he affirmed, clinking his cup gently against mine in a quiet toast before we made our way back to the clinic.

As we walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Travis Brooks was an enigma—a tapestry woven with threads of playfulness and depth, loyalty and independence. And for reasons I couldn’t quite nail down, I found myself wanting to unravel more of his story, thread by tantalizing thread.

We sipped our coffee in comfortable silence, the afternoon sun casting shadows on the sidewalk. My thoughts churned, trying to bridge the gap between Travis’s history and my own. “You know, I had it pretty good growing up. Two loving parents, siblings to play with, a big backyard to run around in, all the typical Midwestern family stuff.”

“Sounds nice,” Travis replied, his blue eyes reflecting genuine interest.

“It was, but it was also Ohio. Not exactly a hotbed of progressive values.” I paused, the memories of feeling different bubbling up. “Being gay wasn’t… well, let’s just say it wasn’t celebrated.”

Travis nodded, his expression softening. “But you had your family.”

“Yeah. They were great—supportive, loving. But outside of our home? It was tough.” I exhaled, a little shakier than I intended. “David was the only other gay kid at school that I knew of. We clung to each other like lifelines.”

“High school sweethearts, huh?” He took a slow sip, then set his coffee down on a nearby bench.

“Something like that.” The blush crept up my neck, and I busied myself with adjusting the lid on my cup.

“Let me guess,” Travis said, leaning back, his athletic form casual but somehow still commanding. “He’s the only guy you’ve ever been with?”

The question hit me like a sudden gust of wind, unexpected and disarming. I met his gaze, feeling exposed, yet strangely safe. “Yes,” I confessed, feeling the heat in my cheeks now undeniable.

Travis whistled lowly, and I decided to turn the tables on him. “So, what about you? From what I gathered last night, you’ve got a rather colorful reputation. Given your—expertise,” I ventured, “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done, sexually?”

“You really want to know?” I nodded immediately. For a moment, he looked at me as if weighing the wisdom of sharing such an intimate detail. Then, with a mischievous smirk, he leaned in closer. “There was this one time with a married couple. She wanted to watch her husband with another man.”

His words sent a jolt through me, my imagination painting vivid pictures of Travis, all muscles and sweat, lost in passion. My body reacted instinctively, desire pooling low in my belly, an embarrassing hardness making itself known.

“That was a fun night for sure, but the thing is,” Travis continued, his voice dropping to a huskier tone, “those random hookups have started to feel empty. Pointless, even.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised by the confession.

“I blame my friends. They’re all in love and happy and they think everyone else should be too,” he grumbled.

“The nerve of them!” I retorted playfully. “But seriously, you’re a great guy. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Parker,” he said, a soft smile lighting on his lips.

The dim lighting in the quaint French restaurant cast a romantic glow over our table, but as David and I settled into our seats, our conversation naturally veered toward the familiar territory of work—the patients we’d seen, the challenges we’d faced.

“Did I tell you about the little boy who came in with abdominal pain?” he asked.

“The one that swallowed a tiny rubber ball? He’s lucky it didn’t get stuck on the way down,” I said, taking a sip of my wine. “How’d he do with the surgery?”

“Good, good. He’s recovering quite well,” David replied.

I nodded, but a part of me longed for a topic outside the walls of the clinic or hospital. We used to be able to talk about anything, but lately, all we ever talked about was work. “Enough,” I announced, reaching for his hand across the table. “No more talk about work. Tonight is supposed to be about romance, about us.”

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