Page 8 of Blitz
“Trick? A word.”
My stomach fell as Layton Foxx found me. Of course he’d be here, and when I turned to face him, a bright-eyed grinning football superstar stood next to him. Of course, he’d brought Tom with him.
Tom looked ridiculous. Gorgeous, yes—obscenely so. Fitted jeans clung to his thick thighs, and he wore a BoltFuel shirt stretched tight across his chest like he was personally tryingto sell product with those damn shoulders. He was taking marketing way too far, but apparently, being unfairly beautiful was part of his charm. My breath caught for half a second, just enough to piss me off because Harrington men couldn’t be queer.It’s not right. It’s not right.They didn’t like other men in that way. They didn’t want dark, desperate kisses or the weight of another man pinning them to the bed, because that went against the word of God.
I clenched my jaw and forced my gaze away, but the image of Tom stayed sharp behind my eyes.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
“It’s my day off,” I said, raising the beer I’d found but hadn’t drunk.
“This way,” Layton ordered, and while Tom scampered after him—as much as a six-foot-something, wall-of-muscle football player could scamper—I followed more sedately and attempted to stop the panic rising in my chest.
Layton gestured us into an office lined with photos of motorsport glory days—clearly Brody’s domain, a shrine to his speed-fueled career, a place to retreat from Noah’s relentless golden retriever energy. But tucked between the F1 action shots and framed champagne-soaked podium wins, I spotted a few hockey pics. A few Railers moments, a youth league trophy, and one of Noah mid-celebration at some youth hockey game.
“It’s my day off,” I repeated.
Layton held up his phone. “You’re not answering my calls, and if you did, then you’d know that Brody Vance is one of BoltFuel’s investors; there are people booked to take shots of you and Tom in an informal setting, aka a team barbecue, aka today.”
Figures. “On our day off?” I asked, incredulous.
“I’m happy to get it done,” Tom said.
“Can we have the room a moment?” Layton asked, and I realized he was asking Tom.
Tom glanced at me with concern, as if he were unsure if I was about to get benched, fired, or eaten alive, and then, he backed out of the office without a word.
Which left me and Layton alone.
What did I do now?
“Do you know who I’m married to?” Layton asked without preamble, arms crossed, brow raised.
I searched my brain. Adler Lockhart. Former pro hockey player. Defenseman. Intimidating as hell on the ice. Queer. “Lockhart.”
Layton nodded. “He’s the most annoying, exasperating, opinionated, bull-headed idiot I’ve ever met. Still is. But I love him. He’s my forever. My always. No one gets to tell me I can’t love him because he can be an idiot. After all, I do—completely.”
I blinked, unsure where this was going. “Um, okay.”
“Ignore that last bit.” Layton sighed, then leaned against the edge of the desk and pinned me with a stare. “Look, even at his absolute worst, Adler was never as difficult to manage as you. This party is for you to get to know the team, but you’re coming over as rude and dismissive with a massive fucking chip on your shoulder. Hell, you want people to believe you’re an asshole. Congrats, it’s working.”
“Layton—”
“That’s Mr. Foxx to you, kid,” Layton snapped. “Now, I’ve handled egos, Trick. I’ve managed chaos. And I’ve never seen someone work so hard to make themselves unlovable.”
Ouch.
“You’re part of a team now, Trick. That means showing up, even when you don’t feel like it. You signed the contract—my contract—which gives me every right to drag your sulking assinto the spotlight until people stop seeing you as a liability and start seeing you as a human being.”
“Wait a minute?—”
“So, you will go out there, and you will stand beside Tom with your camera-ready smile. You will play nice with him and pretend being here isn’t the worst thing in your universe. You will push BoltFuel like it’s the nectar of the gods. And you will start acting like someone the Railers family can rely on. Or so help me, Trick, I swear, I will have you smiling next to a schnauzer wearing a team jersey and selling organic gourmet dog biscuits. Don’t test me.” His rant ended abruptly as he opened the door. “By the pool house.”
I opened my mouth to snap back, defend myself, say something cutting or clever or anything at all—but then, I saw his expression. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just tired. Done. And suddenly, all the heat behind my ribs twisted into a knot I couldn’t untangle. I shut my mouth. I was too angry, too bruised, too goddamn raw to form words that didn’t sound like another excuse.
“On it, Mr. Foxx,” I said instead with sugar-coated sarcasm, then left before he exploded again.
I headed toward the pool house where Tom was already waiting, lounging as if it was another Sunday afternoon instead of a PR stunt. A waiting assistant handed me a BoltFuel T-shirt, and I stared at it for a beat too long before slipping it over my head in the slowest way possible. Stretch. Tug. Adjust. I didn’t mean to flex, but old habits die hard—and when I caught Tom watching me with wide eyes, something twisted in my chest. It was a flare of heat; a rush I hated recognizing. His gaze lingered a second too long, and instead of turning away, I shifted slightly, letting the shirt pull tighter across my shoulders. Not because I cared—except I did. I liked the way he looked at me. I hated that I liked it. But I didn’t stop.
