Page 122 of Scoring the Player
“Stuff with Carter. And weird dreams of him hurting people I…care about.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah, my psychiatrist doesn’t think I need to adjust my meds, just recommended I bump up therapy.”
“Have you?”
He looks away.
“Blue.”
“I know. I wanted to see if it would stop on its own.”
“And has it?”
“I start two sessions per week the week after next.”
“Good. Really good. I’m proud of you.”
He looks away again, but not before I catch the soft way my words land.
“I want to know what happens to you. A headache, a sore throat…”
“Why?”
“Because I care about you.” I press my forehead against his as he wraps his legs around my waist, the backs of his heels pressing into my ass.
“Promise me.” I separate his towel and wrap my palm around our cocks. The touch makes him shiver.
“Tell me you promise.” I start stroking us, the heat from the shower still on our skin.
He moans.
My lips lower to his ear. “I don’t want to lose you. Promise me, baby.”
“Yes,” he gasps.
“Immediately. Not weeks later. You call me as soon as you can.” I pump us faster. “Yes?”
He nods, his mouth falling open on a choked gasp.
The idea of losing him to the ocean or fate terrifies me. I shut the thought out and get lost in his cries of pleasure.
After,when we’re tangled around each other, and he’s caressing my scalp in soft strokes, he asks, “You think Simba would like me?”
“You?” I grin. “One hundred percent.”
He rolls his eyes. “I would have believed you if you said, like, 55 percent.”
“It’s true,” I say. “All his besties are feral.”
He laughs. “What’re your mom and dad like?”
I think about it. “They’re chill. It never felt like being parents just happened to them.”
“What do you mean?”
“It always felt like me and Denzel were intentional, like they had been waiting for us. I remember asking my mom if she regretted not having a daughter, and she said something like, ‘Regret? I prayed for you and your brother.’”
