Page 62 of Tight End

I almost wish he’d say he never gave a shit. It’d be so much easier to hear that than to hear absolutely fucking nothing in response.

He’s jealous of Jack, but more importantly, jealous of Jack and me.

His nasty looks and scathing comments make that clear as a freshly washed window.

But he can’t admit it, not to me and probably not to himself.

And that makes him so much more dangerous than a regular fuckboy.

Fuckboys want sex, nothing more. No emotions, no strings, no commitment. That’s the deal.

But this chemistry lingering in the air is explosive enough to capture us both in a fireball and incinerate us. At some point within the past twenty-four hours, our fake relationship got very fucking scary real. Something binds us, forcing us to keep coming back to each other, and it’s well beyond great sex.

Great, mind-scrambling, bone-melting sex.

Even now, I should walk away, tell him to handle his PR mess on his own.

I can’t.

The pull is too strong, even with all of my rage battling against it.

“So you’re back together with your ex.” It’s a statement more than a question, but it lands like a lead brick against my chest. “How’s that going to look to your precious fans?”

“Well, they loved us together the first time, so…” My voice trails off and I love the stricken look he shoots back at me.

“I meant since we’re supposed to be together,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I’m sure you saw the pictures online of me leaving your hotel. Pretty damn convincing. Looks like we’re Donesville.” Ifold my arms over my chest. “People may have things to say for a while but I’m sure our publicists will sweep up all the broken pieces.”

He nods stiffly. “Guess so.”

“Why did you even come here today?” I ask in a gruff voice. “Did you finally decide to give a shit about your future after you almost destroyed it yesterday?”

My chest tightens at the wordfuture.

Once upon a time, not too long ago, I’d foolishly thought his future might actually entwine with mine.

What a dumbass I was for even giving that thought airtime.

Instead we collided into one devastating crash after another.

At some point, it’s time to put on a damn seat belt to avoid more carnage.

The guarded look is back in force.

“Let’s just say I had a wake-up call or two. Finally figured out what I needed to do.” He shifts in his sneakers and rubs the back of his neck the way I’ve noticed he does when he’s searching for words but can’t seem to find them.

I nod, casting a quick glance over Brixton’s shoulder in time to see Jack eyeing us through the Plexiglass surrounding the ice rink. “Well, don’t be intimidated about the sports thing. They’re excited because it’s you, not because of what you can teach them on a football field or basketball court.”

Brixton clears his throat. “Well, I, ah, ran into this kid outside. His dad dropped him off, seemed like a real douche canoe. The kid’s not into sports. He likes music but his dad can’t afford lessons. Said his mom died when he was younger. She used to play and was teaching him until she got sick.” He toys with the hem of his t-shirt. “Kid thinks his dad takes out alot of shit on him because his playing reminds him of his dead wife.”

I swallow hard at the dark shadow seeping into his features, almost as if his own words haunt him.

Then he looks up at me with a shrug, his lips lifting the slightest bit.

My heart hammers at the sight.

I’ll be a son of a gun.

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