Page 80 of Beautifully Conflicted

“Don’t they get in a lot of fights?”

“Not like they used to. I meant do you know the rules?”

“Nope.” Damien takes a bite of his Reuben, getting a tiny glob of the special sauce they put on it stuck on his lip. I have the strangest urge to wipe it off myself, and force myself to take my own bite so I don’t reach for him.

Get a grip, Bennet. You’re two guys, who happen to fuck, taking in a game. Nothing more.

“You gonna explain it to me?” Damien’s tongue darts out to lick up the sauce, and my cock perks up in my pants, something it’s starting to do anytime he does… pretty much anything.

“Yeah.” I thump my chest to help the food go down my throat. “I’ll point things out during the game.”

Once the puck drops, things get chaotic. The crowd noise picks up, music blares over the speakers, and our heads swing back and forth as we try to keep up with all the passing and shooting.

I point out what the calls are each time the whistle blows, and by the mid-point of the first period, Damien knows all about icing, hooking, and holding, since we have a similar penalty in football. He’s less clear on offsides, which I find hard to follow myself since the game moves so fast, but even without knowing all the details, I can tell he’s having the time of his life. His eyes shine from beneath blond wisps of hair, and it’s not helping my cock situation one bit.

Why that damn hat affectsme so much I’ll never know.

When the Bulldogs score, we high-five the fans sitting around us, and when they get called for a penalty we boo. All of us in the crowd complain about the refs, who really aren’t that bad, but when in Rome… We spend half of the game marveling the rookie phenom who’s almost more of a brick wall than the goalie. The dude even scores a goal to start the second period.

It’s an incredible game, but I’m not sure which I spend more time watching, the game or the man beside me.

How did I ever convince myself that he was an egotistical jerk?

Yes, he’s confident. Yes, he speaks whatever his mind conjures without thinking, but I’ve come to realize nothing he says is intended to be malicious.

He’s just impulsive. And sure, his mind works in ways I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand, but put it all together and you get someone real. There’s no pretense with him, no faking anything. No secrets, except the one I’m forcing him to keep.

There’s just Damien.

And all the sexual exploration aside, I enjoy hanging out with him. I admire his ability to justbe.

At the start of the third period, his mind is still on overdrive, absorbing every tiny detail. But the game still moves way too fast for two football players who are used to a hefty pause between every play.

“How do they even see that little thing on the ice?” Damien’s head swivels left and right with dizzying speed. “It’s so damn tiny, and it ricochets all over the place. I thought by now I’d get used to it, but I’m still looking in the wrong spot half the time.”

“I know, right? I sometimes lose the football in the sun, and that’s gotta be ten times the size of those pucks. I’d never make it as a hockey player.”

“Fuck the size of the ball, I don’t think I could stand on skates.”

“You did trip and sprain your ankle on the trail.” I elbow his arm with a smirk.

“That had nothing to do with balance. We were flirting and I got distracted.”

“We were arguing.”

“That’s how we flirt.” He arches a brow at me, a silent dare to contradict him. Which I can’t do, seeing as he’s right.

I wouldn’t have said so at the time. I was too busy trying to hate him, but I’ve always had a visceral reaction to our back and forth. It didn’t occur to me it could be considered anything other than anger until he grabbed my dick. Even then, I didn’twantto admit it could be.

Part of me still doesn’t. It’s a mind fuck to go from hating to craving someone, like meeting yourself for the first time. Then again, this version of me was always there, just buried deep. Fighting Damien at every turn was my way of trying to keep that person buried. It’s clear to me now that side of me wanted to come out, at least for him.

Maybe our fighting was driven by interest rather than anger…

“Think it was always flirting?” I ask, picking at an imaginary crumb on my jeans so I can’t see his face while he answers. Not that I don’t want to, I just don’t think I can without reading into whatever he says. I’ve got my hands full trying to understand my own subconscious, trying to decipher his on top of that would take more bandwidth than I’ve got right now.

“Yes. Although, I was conscious of it, and you were in denial.”

“Maybe.”

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