Page 41 of Everywhere You Look

ROOM FOR ONE MORE

Dean

One of the more difficult parts of being a pro-athlete—for me, at least—is all the damn photoshoots you have to do.

Don’t get me wrong, the camera loves me. I could’ve had a very successful career as an underwear model if I didn’t have such an aversion to long days spent posing in front of linen backdrops.

I’m standing under the hottest fluorescent light known to man while a group of beautiful women rub baby oil over my chest and spritz my face with mineral water. But it’s not the strange hands roaming over my chest or the low hum of electrical wires that has my nerves standing on end.

Nope, it's the view of the man standing rightacross the room for me getting the same baby oil treatment. I’ve never been happier to be wearing football pants, thanks to the—ahem…discretion—provided by the built-in jockstrap and cup.The woman applying the oil to Luke’s chest slips over his nipple, and I watch as he shudders and jumps, clearly ticklish.

Oh fucking hell on wheels, my husband has sensitive nipples.

I absolutely love sensitive nipples.

My mouth waters as I watch Luke and the woman laugh. He slicks a hand back through his hair, his shiny abs rippling with each chuckle, and I’m this damn close to crossing the room and begging him to let me touch him. To let me suck one of those nipples into my mouth while I slide my hand into his pants and feel him grow harder with each flick of my tongue.

“Adriana, can I get some water, please? Now?” I practically growl at my agent, who is propped up on the couch next to me, tapping away on her phone. I don’t make it a habit to act like a diva. My dads and good old-fashioned common sense taught me that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. But I need to channel this energy somewhere before I somersault across the room and strategically land with my face in Luke’s crotch.

“Someone’s moody today,” Adriana tsks as she reaches into the mini fridge next to the couch and pulls out a bottle of water. She tosses it to me and I crack it open, downing half the bottle in one go. Of course I’m fucking moody. I was halfway to asking my husband on a date last week when I was interrupted by the mother load of childhood trauma and now we’ve barely spoken outside of childcare and the practiced answers to softball questions lobbed at us by a journalist hand-selected by our public relations teams earlier in the week.

The icy prick of resentment skitters up my spine, directed at the cowardly younger version of myself who never said a damn thing to Luke about this undeniable attraction. Maybe if I’d opened my fucking mouth, if I hadn’t taken Luke’s off-handed comment about a disinterest in dating to heart, we’d be in a different place. Maybe we’d be together for real. We wouldn’t have to fake a marriage because we would already be a united front for our family and a united front in our hearts.

Even as the thought crosses my mind, I know I’m being delusional. If I’d asked Luke out back when we were in our twenties, he probably would have shot me down and then we wouldn’t have the friendship we have and I wouldn’t be living with him and raising kids with him.

But still, it’s easier to direct my mental anguish at the past than anywhere else.

“Is all of this really necessary?” I grumble as I toss the half-empty bottle back to her.

“I already told you that it is,” she says without looking up at me. And she has, multiple times. When I told Adriana about Luke and I getting married, she was pissed at first. God forbid everything in my life doesn’t go through the PR machine first. But once she realized that we were serious about staying together, she realized that our marriage of convenience was also going to be extremely convenient for her bottom line. Adriana hopped on the phone with Luke’s agent, Mara, and the two of them got to work booking a Sports Illustrated exclusive look into our wedded bliss. It’s the first phase of showing the public that Luke and I lead a quiet, loving, safe-for-children lifestyle.

Not that I mind the publicity stunt aspect. I’ve been in the public eye for my entire life, so having strangers feel entitled to my private business is old news to me. And the more Luke and I are seen together as a happy and well-rounded family unit, the more his public reputation improves and the better chance we have of burying his parents in court.

Earlier this week, we spent a morning being toted around San Francisco taking romantic photos beinginterviewed by one of the senior journalists at ESPN about our surprise love story. We held hands, frolicked through fields, and posed for the photographer with our lips close enough to touch for hours, all the while being interviewed about our friends-to-lovers whirlwind romance and the family we’re working on building together.

I did most of the talking, and Luke did most of the “looking sexy as hell in his jeans and button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows”.

The questions were incredibly basic and straightforward, which was both boring and a blessing, since it allowed me to speak from my heart while also playing up the ‘hopelessly in love newlyweds’ angle.

“How did you guys meet?”

We ran in the same circles, but we really got close when Luke warmed the bench for the Crushers during his rookie year.

“What was your first impression of each other?”

I can’t speak for Luke, but I was awestruck. I didn’t think it was possible for one person to be so devastatingly handsome. Our coach introduced us, and I couldn’t stop looking at him. Couldn’t tear my eyes away from his jaw and his lips and the way he looked sliding his pads over his head.

What was your first date?

We went to a movie. Luke had said somethingabout not wanting to date, especially not anyone in the league, but I didn’t care. We saw a comedy, some SNL alumni feature, and every time Luke laughed, my hands itched to grab his. My knees were knocking together and I was shaking for two hours because all I wanted to do was yawn and wrap an arm around his shoulder. I kept my hands to myself, but I knew then. I knew I’d do anything to make Luke Cannon mine.

And every single answer I gave was the honest truth, even if Luke thought I was embellishing for the interviewer’s sake.

That was the easy part. Being affectionate with Luke and talking to people about how much I care for him and his nieces has never been the problem.

The problem is that the moment I feel the urge to break through my own emotional barriers and have a conversation with Luke about my feelings, the universe throws a bunch of shit in my way and makes it feel impossible.

Now, in this studio a few blocks south of Market Street, we’re being photographed for a local San Francisco queer online outlet for a “Luke Cannon and Dean McKenna After Dark” piece. Hence the football pants and the baby oil. Things are about to get real soft-core pornographic, real fast.

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