Page 127 of The Stud

With that the person we’re here to visit releases a contemplative hum that’s followed by him investigating, “What happens if he gets traded?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Tanner swiftly declares.

“Let’s say it does,” Becks casually argues. “Afterall, itistrade season. We know rebuilds for playoffs are in motion.” He lets his attention cut back to me. “Would you go with him?” The question catches me off guard as much as my boyfriend. “Would you move to Florida? Michigan? New York? Highland?”

Uncertainty begins to spread through my chest.

“Would you be willing to give up your job? Your house? Your dog?”

“Bear goes where I go.”

“Would you be willing to give upyour friends…” the discomfort slowly expands to my limbs, “your existence…” my fingers, “all you have…” my toes, “to followhimaround wherever he’s dropped in the league?” Suddenly immobilized byuneasiness, I find myself incapable of even breathing. “Would you trade it all injustto be with him?”

Chapter 21

Arden

I aggressively drop the hot cookie pan on top of the island counter space beside the cooling rack and glare at the male across from me. “This is all your fault.”

Becks crinkles his nose in confusion. “How isyouburning cookiesmyfault?”

“Because I can’t get my head in the game!”

“And…” he leans a little closer to examine the latest batch to barely escape a crispy catastrophe, “how is that my fault?”

“Because of your little verbal breakaway at rehab last week-”

“Week before.”

“Our whole dating playbook has just gone out the fucking window!”

“It’s a metaphorical playbook, aye?” He picks one of the loose raisins off the pan. “Not like…an actual one?”

“Ever since you decided to cross-check us-”

“Stick taps for all the hockey references.”

“-I have no idea what we’re doing or which way we’re going or what period we’re in because I’ve barely fucking seen him!”

“Moi non plus.”

“That’s because every spare minute he has he’s training to minimalize his risk of being traded!”

“Hennington’s not gonna trade him.”

“I know that! But you…” wagging the spatula near his face is attached to my voice lowering, “yougot under his bucket and in his head to the point he’s too tired to even sneak into my room on the road for a blowie!”

I pop him in his t-shirt covered arm. “Ou!”

“And he hasn’t stayed over at my placeoncesince your little stunt!”

Another swat lands on top of the first. “Ou!”

“Which means I haven’t had good lunch,” a third, “or dinner,” a fourth, “or been dessert in like two,” a fifth, “weeks!”

“Fuckkkk!” Becks grumbles, scooting the stool away from the island. “Were you in the MLB in your previous life?!”

“You’re aboutthis close,” my fingers demonstrate a tiny gap, “to finding out what you’ll be in your next one.” Becks comically cringes in what can only be described as a genuine fear pushing me to whine, “Why did you instigate? Why did you get in his head? My head? Have me start looking at sports communication jobs in other cities?!”

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