Page 28 of I'm Your Guy
It’s literally the story of my life. Me at twelve, trying to get in and out of the locker room before my cousin can make rude, sexualized comments about my skinny body. I was playing up a league, which meant I was always the smallest.
Me at thirteen, as Marco grabs me by the neck and pushes my face into his crotch, while the other boys jeer. That’s what you’re really after, isn’t it? Tell the truth, little homo.
And hearing my uncle’s echoing laughter afterwards.
By fifteen, I’m working out like crazy. Drinking protein shakes like water to bulk up and fight back. And trying not to react whenever he invents a new nickname for me, each one worse than the last.
Teenage nights lying in bed, sleepless as their abuse echoes through my head. And knowing, deep down in my soul, that Marco sees something true about me when he squints at me through those soulless eyes.
The shame of wondering how he spotted it before I did.
“I can live without endorsements,” I tell Bess now. “What I can’t live with is smiling for a picture with two of the worst assholes in hockey.”
“Okay,” she says quietly. “If this is important to you, I won’t question your convictions.”
“Thank you. I mean it.” Bess is widely known to be a fantastic agent. She’s smart, and she listens to her clients. That’s why I hired her after my old agent (a former teammate of my uncle’s) fired me.
“Still, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t explain all the angles to you. Tate is trying to do right by you, even if you can’t get on board.”
“Uh-huh. I do realize that.”
“So how about this—I’ll be the bad guy. I’ll tell him you’re not doing the shoot.”
I cut the engine to my car and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. The only reason I haven’t given Tate a firm no is that my mother would appreciate the gesture of me doing the shoot. It’s got to be stressful to have her brother and her son at odds.
“Let me think about it some more,” I tell Bess.
“Sure, boss. Just say the word. And good luck shopping. You’re gonna need it.”
“Truer words. Later!”
We hang up, and I walk out of the garage and straight into retail mayhem. Carter says that the Cherry Creek part of Denver is thick with furniture stores. “If we can’t find your couch in one, we’ll just walk to another.”
Like that’s a selling point.
I locate the correct store and push through the double doors. “Can I help you, sir?” A young woman asks immediately.
That’s a good sign, I guess. “Thanks, but I’m meeting a designer. Oh. Found him…”
A flash of ginger has drawn my eye toward the top of the escalator, where I see Carter waving to me. When I catch his eye, he smiles.
Now I’m like a fish swimming toward a shiny lure. My stupid feet point themselves right to that escalator, and thirty seconds after that, I join him in a vast sea of sofas, chairs, and tables.
Christ.
“Don’t panic,” he says firmly.
I notice he’s wearing a plum-colored shirt again. And it’s hard not to stare at the tantalizing V of bare skin above the first button. So I avert my gaze.
“You look like a feral cat who’s about to bolt.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Yup. That wild look in your eye. Which I do not understand, because shopping for furniture is my favorite thing ever.”
“Huh. As my mama says—there’s no accounting for taste.”
He rolls his stormy blue eyes and then pats a clipboard in his hand. “Calm down. I’ve already spent two hours looking at everything in the store. I’ve taken notes, and now I’m going to show you a few things that I think you’ll like. It won’t hurt a bit.”
