Page 44 of Overtime Goal
I groaned as I pushed to my feet and stretched. “Probably. After that, would you like to swim or head down to Positano and explore?”
He pressed his lips together while he thought about it. “Let’s swim and hang around here this afternoon. Then we can go down for dinner.”
I put a hand on his back. “It’s a plan. Let’s go lug those suitcases inside.”
18/
riley
That evening,we wound our way down to Viale Pasitea, a narrow street twisting along the cliffside. Cobblestones shifted under our feet, and centuries-old buildings leaned in from either side. Every few steps, we passed a restaurant with a chalkboard menu in loopy Italian, or a boutique selling handmade sandals and overpriced linen. Once, we stopped at a shop window packed with hand-painted ceramic lemons. Most were normal enough, but a few had faces. One was winking and wearing a smirk.
“That one knows too much,” I said, pointing at the grinning lemon.
Logan snorted. “And he’s not telling a soul. Think he’s judging us?”
“You, maybe.”
He gave me a sidelong glance and a slight grin. “One of them definitely has your eyebrows.”
We laughed as we continued walking. The smells of garlic, wood smoke, tomato sauce, and seafood filled the air, and it wasn’t long before my stomach growled loudly enough to echo off the stones. Logan smiled but said nothing.
“You hungry?” I asked.
His mouth pulled into a crooked grin that made my brain short-circuit. We’d spent the afternoon in and out of the pool, where I’d gotten hard from studying the curve of his shoulder and how water dripped down his chest. This wasn’t just messing with my head; it hit at a much deeper level. I couldn’t remember a woman ever having this effect on me.
“Can we wait another hour?” he asked, then pointed at me and laughed. “You should see your face. I’m hungry, and the last place we passed smelled amazing. Let’s go there.”
We ordered pasta, wine, and the sea bass the server recommended. While we ate, I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the warm air and gentle wash of the waves nearby. Logan mentioned something one of his nephews had done at Christmas. He’d told the story a few times before, but since he was crazy about his nephews, I let him talk.
I tried to listen, but my focus drifted and then landed elsewhere. A few tables over, seated with two other people, was a woman so hot it was borderline rude. Dark wavy hair cascaded down her back, her olive skin glowed, and her eyes were so sharp she should probably register them as weapons. Her sundress barely covered her tits, and she was sitting sideways in her chair with her legs crossed. Just then, she laughed. When I noticed the tilt of her head and the way her hair moved, I knew exactly how she’d look gasping underneath me.
She caught me watching and smiled. It wasn’t quite an invitation, but she sure as hell wasn’t telling me to fuck off, either. My thoughts took off in ten directions, all of them tangled. She was a stunner, and she’d given me an opening. Would I fuck her? Yes. But did I want to? Not really. I’d come to Positano with Logan, and I wanted to be with him.
What the fuck? I’m supposed to be Riley the Man-Slut, the guy who jumps at any female. Instead, I’m one giant contradiction.
Truthfully, I’d never been quite the womanizer everyone made me out to be, but I let them think I was. Hell, I worked hard to maintain that image. Ever since juniors, when I arrived in Oshawa and pulled on a Paladins jersey, I’d developed the persona of cocky, confident Riley, the guy women couldn’t get enough of.
I’d felt like it was the only part of my identity I could control. I grew up in a chaotic version of hell where my folks treated me like I was nobody. When I figured out girls liked me, it became something to hold on to. So, big talk, wild stories, and locker room bravado became a way of life. I talked about sex more than I had it, but most guys did. They just didn’t make it their entire personality the way I had.
My teammates in Oshawa were great, but I never got too close to any of them. As soon as I got to Buffalo, I’d been drawn to Logan, but it was an emotional attraction. Sexually, I doubled down on the bachelor routine, the strip clubs, and the parade of women. Holky and I turned it into a lifestyle, two dudes determined to fuck every female in Western New York. We probably looked ridiculous to our teammates, but no one could ever say we weren’t straight.
It had floored all of us when Holky met Mad Dog and changed overnight. One minute, Holky was my partner in crime, the king of straight-guy antics, and the next, he was looking at Dog like the sun rose out of his jockstrap. It didn’t take long to realize they’d found the real thing. Seeing it made me wonder if I’d ever find mine.
Since I became a Warrior, I’d been closer to Logan than to anyone else in my life. He kept me grounded, made me feel special, and called me on my shit without putting me on the defensive. He was my best friend. Since I was straight, it was nothing more than that.
So why the hell was I drawn to him like a moth to a fucking flame? Before the team went to LA, I’d thought about him in ways I didn’t want to admit, wondering what it would feel like to touch him and have his big hands on me. In the dark of night, I’d fantasize about all kinds of things and then do my best to forget them the next morning.
I was a fucking wreck by the time we’d made it to LA, stunned by how much I wanted Logan even though I was straight. The walk on the beach changed everything. We kissed, we had sex, and I panicked. But even when I flipped out, he didn’t walk away.
Now we were in Positano, and I was pretending everything was fine even though nothing felt fine. Was I losing my mind? I glanced at Logan, mid-story about his nephews, and knew there was no one else like him. Then I looked back at the woman. She caught my eye and gave me another maybe-yes, maybe-no smile. She was gorgeous, but I wasn’t interested. My heart was wrapped up in Logan.
Holy fucking shit. What does that make me?
Logan cleared his throat, and the sharp sound cut through the noise in my mind. I snapped my head around to look at him.
“Want me to ask if she’d like to switch tables?” His mouth was set in a firm line, and he’d clenched his fingers around his wineglass. When our eyes met, he tilted his head.
“What?” I asked.
