Page 38 of Stumped

They thank me again as I head back to my office and settle behind my desk. I often leave my phone behind during meetings, to show I’m present and professional. It’s rare I have too many notifications waiting for me. But ever since I met Elias, that’s not the case.

He’s a prolific and speedy texter and I’m always playing catch up. I’ve also discovered he likes to unload his thoughts into our conversation, so most days I’m reading inner monologues.

Superstar

I also fucking hate PT. I know it’s good for me and it’ll help me get back onto the field, but this is fucking ridiculous. I’m pretty sure Doc is trying to break my arm while attempting to fix it. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

When I said that to Doc, he rolled his eyes and continued torturing me. I prefer your kind of torture, this isn’t fun.

Coming home in two days, if you’ve got some time for me, I’d like your brand of torture to counter this unpleasant one.

Just got an email that says you’re actually “chronicling my life”?

Ever since I found out he’s a benched player because of his rotator cuff injury, I’ve done some of my own research. I can only imagine how painful the recovery might be and what physiotherapy is doing for him. His frustrations with the team are clear in every text and I know he hates being sidelined. I might not follow the sport anymore, but I did look Elias up and every article, video and pundit only has the best things to say about him. Plus, I did watch some of his highlight reels and the man is very talented.

Which is why his insistence he isn’t good enough or didn’t deserve me was confusing. I’ve met a lot of people in my life that were half the man Elias is. When he’s on the pitch, he carries himself with confidence and strength. But the person I’ve met isn’t the same one in those videos. I wonder if his spirit has been crushed because he’s not playing or if there’s more to it. I might have assured him that he’s more than enough, but it feels like an issue rooted deeper in his soul. And I don’t know how to help him. Especially since we’re only supposed to be fucking and this seeps intofeelingsterritory.

Superstar

I miss you.

I groan at the last text and drop my head to my desk. I know he wasn’t joking when he said he wanted more, but I don’t want to blur the lines. Turning my phone over, I ignore it as I spend the next few hours finishing up for the day—replying to emails, accepting and declining meetings, reviewing work lists and paperwork from my board members.

Only when I’m done do I acknowledge the device again. Standing in front of the tall windows looking out onto the city, I take a few minutes to gather my thoughts and type out my response.

Think about how much faster you’ll be back on the field if you suffer through the PT. And how much faster you can toss me around once you’re fully healed. Also, we’re not chronicling your life, sounds so dramatic. I’m being paid to stalk you.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, knowing I have to acknowledge his last message in some way. “Just say something.Anything,” I grumble.

I’m looking forward to you being home.

Superstar

See you in two days, beautiful.

Home.

“I gotta know,is it the sex or is his dick beautiful?”

My cousin-slash-best friend was waiting for me when I got home. Born six months apart, we’ve been inseparable since we were kids. She lost her parents at a very young age and my mother—who lost her sister that same day—took Tamara in even though she had a house full of kids. Between my mother and our grandmother, Tamara was always surrounded by love. Our relationship is further proof of that.

Our jobs are incredibly demanding—she’s an interior architect and works with a very famous firm in the city—but we make sure that we see each other at least once a week, if not more.

Once I let her in, we changed into ourStar Trekthemed onesies and have been lounging while the television playsBrooklyn Nine-Nine.

“Seriously, what does this guy have the others don’t?”

“Everything,” I mumble into my glass of wine, because that’s the truth. My emotional quota seems to be filled with this man. Two nights spent fucking and talking, and he’s got me thinking about him even when we’re miles apart.

“So, it’s the sex, the dick and the man itself.”

“I don’t know, Tam. He’s…different.”

She snorts. “He’s a dude. We’ve met and fucked enough of them to know they’re more or less the same.”

“True.But…”

“How good is the sex on a scale of one to ten?”

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