Page 181 of Scoring the Player
“They don’t even know about your big, pierced dick.”
“Blue—”
“Of course they know. You reek of big, pierced-dick energy.”
“Blue—”
“Do you pen handwritten thank-you notes on the back of thirst-trap postcards of you and Simba?”
“Blue—”
“Wait until they find out how you bake, or cook, or look at night.”
“Blue!” He practically shouts to get my attention.
“What?”
“I want to hold you. Can we go to bed?”
“What?”
“Can we go up? I want to undress you and hold you.”
His eyes are shadowless. The clearest hue of sincerity.
Yet, I still hear the warning—the siren song.
If I surrender to this, us, and he changes his mind…
But, god, is it becoming easier to ignore.
“I meant to ask you in Milwaukee, your last home game against Portland…”
He nods.
“…seven minutes and thirteen seconds into the third quarter, you were headed back to the bench. And I don’t know…You looked off. Kinda sad.”
He blinks and rubs his stubble. “That’s a really specific timestamp.”
“Just answer the question.”
“You didn’t ask one.”
“Was it because of Denzel?”
“Yeah, most likely.”
“You’d tell me if something else was bothering you, right?”
He fixes his gaze on the floor.
Now, those are shadows.
He rubs soothing circles along my back. “Yeah. I’d tell you.”
CHAPTER 42
SALEM
