Page 63 of From Coast to Coast

“Hurry up,” I hiss at Zolkov in the locker room, nudging him with my foot as he takes an ungodly amount of time to tie the laces on his dress shoes. I’m ten seconds away from kneeling down and doing it for him, like a damn kindergarten teacher.

He sends me a withering glare and shoves me backward. But he does finish with his shoes and stands, rolling his eyes at my obvious eagerness to leave. When we get to his car, he waits until we’re pulling out of the lot before he brings it up.

“So. You are excited to go home?”

“Sure am,” I agree, tapping my fingerson the tops of my thighs, and trying to look anywhere but at the dashboard clock.

“Gray is excited, too,” he says slyly, ignoring the alarmed blaring of the horn after he cuts off the vehicle behind us. “He tells me he is going on vacation.”

I glance over at him, biting the inside of my cheek. There’s really no need to hide it from him. The man went to a gay nightclub with me, after all. He’s not an idiot.

“Gray’s staying with me in Cali for the break. But I’d appreciate it if that stayed between us.”

The look he gives me is acidic. “I will not tell. There is nobody but these fucking assholes,” he says, taking a hand off the wheel and waving it to encompass our teammates.

“Thanks, Z.”

“I am gay magnet, I think,” he says suddenly, shaking his head in bemusement. Laughing, I reach over to shove his shoulder before thinking better of it and dropping my hand back into my lap. Zolkov’s driving isn’t great on his best day—probably don’t need to add wrestling into the mix.

“I’m not gay.” He glances over at me, looking as incredulous as it’s possible for a person to look. The car slowly veers over the center line. “I mean, I’m a little bit gay, I guess. For Grayson. It’s like a spectrum, though. On one side are the super straight people, and on the other are the people like Gray who only like men and always have.” I hold my hands parallel to each other, illustrating the spectrum even though he’s focusing on driving. “And I fall somewhere in the middle.”

I drop my hands, feeling pretty good with that explanation. I’ve been conducting an obscene amount of research, searching the internet for answers to vague questions likehow do I understand my sexuality? My obsession with findinga label that fits is like a rash I’m not supposed to scratch—I can’t leave it alone. So far, the one that feels the best is demisexual, since Grayson-sexual apparently isn’t an option.

“Okay,” Zolkov responds, not sounding like it matters one way or the other to him.

When we get to the airport, he has his door open before the car is even in park. Before I’ve got my seat belt off, he’s out and circling to get my suitcase from the back.

“Here,” he says, rolling it toward me and slamming the rear door. “Hurry.”

I shout a thank-you over my shoulder and hustle into the airport. Security is a mess, of course, and by the time I get to my gate, they’re already nearly done boarding. There’s no time to change out of my game-day suit, but I can’t bring myself to care. As long as I’m on the plane and it takes off on time, that’s all that matters.

Grayson, here I come.

I don’t jogthrough the airport. Idon’t.But obviously everyone here moves at the pace of a sloth, because I’m darting through the crowd like I’m in a race.Seriously, if everyone who wants to walk slowly could just move to one side.

I check my phone as I’m speed-walking toward the baggage claim, but there are no messages from Grayson. I know his flight landed, though, because I checked while my plane was taxiing to the gate. He’s here, I just have to find him.

Of course, because he’s head and shoulders taller than every single person here, the moment I round the corner to the baggage carousels, I see him. He’s standing against theback wall and wearing a nondescript black hoodie and joggers. With his equally dark hair, he looks mysterious and so fucking sexy I could cry. My feet carry me toward him unconsciously, caught in the undertow that is Grayson. I’m halfway across the room when his eyes track over and lock with mine, a smile tugging on his lips.

When I’m close enough to see the way his hair curls around his ears, I drop my backpack on the floor and keep walking until I’m directly in front of him.

“Remy—”

Hand on the back of his neck, I rise upward onto my toes as I pull him down. I’ve got both arms around his neck and shoulders, and it takes him only a moment to wrap his own around my waist. Squeezing my eyes closed, I bury my face into his neck and relax for the first time all evening. He’s here.

“People are staring,” he murmurs, and maybe I should worry that either one of us could be recognized and photographed, but I just can’t.

“Screw them,” I whisper back. If I want to hug my friend and maybe-partner for a ridiculously long amount of time in the middle of a crowded airport, that’s damn well what I’m going to do. “I missed you so much.”

The sharp inhalation from Grayson is accompanied by a tightening of his arms. He kisses my neck and I’m suddenly desperate to see his face. Breaking our embrace, I lower back down to my heels and rest my hands on his shoulders. I’m so happy to see him, I feel faintly sick with it.

“Thanks for coming.” I slide my hands down his arms, searching for his body beneath the hoodie, greedy for the feel of him even in a crowded room. When I reach his wrists, I let him go, but he catches my left hand in a loose grip.

“I missed you, too,” he says. I tighten my fingers around his, wanting him to know I have no qualms about holding his hand in public. Not anymore. I know what I want, now, and I’m not going to hide it.

While we wait for my bag in comfortable silence, I look my fill of him. The slope of his muscled shoulders and thighs beneath the dark clothing has me swallowing roughly around my suddenly dry throat. He sees me staring and squeezes my hand.

“What?”

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