Page 77 of I'm Your Guy
Jersey, you rock! Rigo is so pumped! He says to say thank you. And he also says that he and Buck think Newgate is the hottest Cougar.
Beside me, Newgate bursts out laughing. “So at least I’ll still have two fans when this is all over.”
“Aw, buddy,” I tease. “You’ll have three. I’ll still be your fan.”
He punches me in the arm. “Hey, do you think those guys would want a ticket to our game against Brooklyn? I’m not using my comp seats that night.”
“Of course they would.” I pull into the carport. “But why aren’t Gavin and your daughter sitting in your seats?”
“Gavin doesn’t want her face televised, so they’re sitting up in the owner’s box for privacy.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah.” Newgate does some neck rolls, as if in pain. “It’s been fun thinking about all these little details. Like—will some batshit homophobe post our nine-year-old’s picture on Twitter?”
“Jesus.” The idea makes my stomach cramp. “I’d like a few minutes alone with anyone who’d do that to you.”
“Let’s hope you won’t need them.” He gets out of the car and grabs his bag. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Anytime!” And I actually mean it.
Then I grab my own gear and hurry inside. But I’m sad to find that Carter isn’t there. There’s a note on the coffee table.
Out looking at apartments. I made a whole lot of chili. And there’s toppings. Dive right in.
And while you’re eating, please look at the pages I marked in this catalog. It’s deck furniture.
It won’t hurt a bit.
—C
He’s right, it doesn’t hurt a bit, since I’m also enjoying a kickass bowl of chili with diced onions, cheese, and sour cream. It’s harder to hate furniture when someone has fed me a hot meal.
Honestly, though, all the deck furniture looks the same. I end up scribbling on one of the sticky notes he’s left inside the catalog to mark the pages. Pick whichever kind will last forever without any help from me.
That night it’s Volkov’s birthday party, so I have to go out with the team, even if I’m not in the mood. The house is quiet when I get home.
The new curtains in my room shield me from the sunlight at dawn. But at seven thirty, I roll over, and just the thought of Carter here, under my roof, makes me wake fully.
That’s all it takes. I’m up and showering and dressing for the day.
When I make it down to the kitchen, the guestroom door is closed. I make myself a cup of coffee, and by the time I’m contemplating breakfast, he stumbles in wearing boxers and an old T-shirt, his hair standing on end. He blinks sleepily. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I’m cataloguing all the little details, like the muscles in his calves, and the reddish-brown dusting of hair on his legs. “Sleep okay?”
He rubs his eyes and yawns. “I slept great. It’s like I’m making up for all those cramped nights on Rigo’s couch.”
My chest swells a little, as if I’ve done something good for the world.
“I’m gonna shower,” Carter says, shuffling toward the bathroom.
While he’s in there, I put some bacon in the oven and stir together another batch of strawberry waffles, because he liked them so much last time.
“Oh wow,” he sighs when he sees the plate I’ve made him. “Unbelievable.”
I’m no good at taking compliments, so I don’t reply. I set a glass of juice and a mug of coffee in front of him. “Milk?” I offer him the carton.
He doctors his coffee, and after he carries the carton back to the refrigerator, we sit down together at the table. His hair is dark from his shower, and the freckles seem to stand out against his skin.
