Page 9 of Blitz
“You okay?” he asked, voice soft, as if he cared.
I didn’t answer. I turned my head and walked past him as if he hadn’t spoken.
We did the shoots. The first few were stiff, standard poses in front of the pool, holding the product, some fake smiles that probably looked like grimaces. Brody joined us for some, and his movie-star confidence made the whole thing feel like a luxury brand campaign.
Tom stood beside me and acted as if we were best friends, grinning like this was his year’s highlight. I stood there faking it, back-to-back with a man who radiated warmth and ease. He was relaxed, his body brushing mine occasionally as if he didn’t even notice. But I noticed—every single time. It sent a jolt through me, electric and unwelcome, heating my skin where we touched. It wasn’t only the contact. It was awareness. My jaw tightened, and my shoulders stiffened as if I could block it out. I hated how keyed in I was to every casual graze, every shift that brought him closer. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.
I felt his heat, and the clean and citrusy scent of his skin, like sunshine. Beyond us, I heard the thrum of the party, laughter, splashing, and kids and grown-ups blending into a summer soundtrack.
But all I could focus on was Tom. His presence, his quiet steadiness, his stupidly perfect smile. It made no sense that he kept drawing my attention without trying. I didn’t want to notice how he laughed, his body leaning just slightly toward mine, or how everything about him felt solid and warm. But I did. And it pissed me off—because I couldn’t figure out why I gave a damn.
FOUR
Tom
While I was sippingfruit punch from a paper cup, my attention stayed on Trick as he prowled the periphery of the party like a wary jungle cat. He never seemed to really interact with anyone, even his teammates, which I found perplexing. Yeah, it had to be tough to be jerked from one city to another. I got that. Sports. It happened all the time.
I’d been lucky enough to have spent my entire professional career in Philly. It was home. My dad, stepmom, and three stepbrothers lived in Manayunk. I’d moved from Fishtown at the age of ten when my mother died and spent years ten through eighteen with them in a small, chaotic, trendy rowhome, riding bikes along hilly streets and playing football every damn second of every damn day. The city was my heart, as were the fans who called it home. So yes, I was lucky I’d played in one city for eleven years. I would hate to uproot at my age.
Still, Trick seemed to be distancing himself on purpose. And what a pity that was because he looked so damn lonely. So, doing what I always did when I saw someone who needed something—typical older sibling—I grabbed Trick a cup of sickeningly sweet punch, then ambled over. He saw me coming, those dark browneyes flaring, then narrowing, as I approached, holding a cup out as a peace offering.
“You looked thirsty,” I opened with, placing the cup into his chest, then holding it there until he reluctantly took it. “Cheers.”
I slammed mine down. He took a sip, grimaced, then dumped the sugary drink into a nearby azalea. “Yeah, it’s for the kids. Didn’t know if you drank or not. So, you look like a man who needs?—”
He held up a hand. “You have no clue what I need so don’t even try to guess. Not that I’d expect a football player to be able to make a calculated prediction.”
“A round of putt-putt golf,” I finished after the snark he used as a shield—or a weapon if one had thin skin—bounced off my hide. Not that I didn’t feel mean words, I did, everyone does, but after spending my life charging through walls of massive men who weren’t exactly quoting love sonnets at you when you met head on, most taunts ricocheted away like an arrow off an iron chest plate. And yes, I had been called the F-word a few times, and they didn’t even know that I was, in fact, gay as a lark. Would it hurt more if they did know? I had no idea. Someday soon I’d find out, I was sure.
Trick blinked up at me, empty cup in hand. “Sorry. What did you just say?”
Four kids raced by, trampling through the flowerbed with wet feet. I gave them pats on the head as they thundered past, shouting and dripping water from soaking swimsuits. The smell of chlorine and the scent of peachy sunblock made me think of my brothers and the days we had spent in the city pool playing Marco Polo with the other inner-city hooligans we called buddies.
“Putt-putt golf.” I stepped closer, then rested my backside on the trunk of an old maple, one sandaled foot on the manicuredlawn the other resting on the tree. “I grew up with three younger brothers.”
“Congratulations.”
I snickered. “Thanks. Joey, Steve, and Larry. Joey is twenty-five and has a nursing job at Holy Mercy Hospital in King of Prussia. Stevie is twenty-three and in the army as a wheeled vehicle mechanic, stationed in Hawaii—the lucky shit. Larry is twenty-two and heading into his senior year at Bucknell on a baseball scholarship. He’s got one hell of an arm on him. His idol is Steve Carlton. You know who that is right? Won four Cy Young awards.”
Trick seemed confused. “Why are you here talking to me about all of this?”
“Because you look like you need a round of putt-putt. When Larry was little, whenever he would get overwhelmed, I would take him to a local putt-putt. When we were done, he was always lighter. So, yeah, want to play some golf?”
He now appeared to be utterly insulted. Was there something bad about playing putt-putt golf on a warm summer night?
“You honestly think I have nothing better to do than trudge around a stupid, rundown miniature golf course on a Saturday night?”
I shrugged and fell back on a sure tactic. “If you’ve never played before, I’ll let you win. I always used to let Larry win—just to boost his ego, you know. You know what having siblings is like? Wait, do you have siblings?”
He leveled a glance at me that would have killed a lesser man. “It’s none of your business whether I have siblings,” he snapped, although there was something in his expression that confused me —almost as if he was angry at that fact. “And I don’tneedyou to let me win a damn thing.” His growly voice was sexy.
“Ok. I’m just here until tomorrow, then I have to drive back to Philly. We’re in training camp now.” He was more than a bitmiffed. I could see it in the way he held his jaw. “It’s okay. I get it. I mean we all know that football players are much better at games of finesse than hockey players. I understand that you’re scared.”
If looks could kill, I’d have been six feet under. “That is utter bullshit.”
“Prove it, Trick.” I smiled, then winked.
A splash and a yelp filled the humid air as he chewed on his lip.
