Page 34 of Rocking the Receiver
Dropping my food, I freeze. My sudden panic has nothing to do with Rupert’s presence. It’s linked to my inevitable reaction to the way he sings. My breath catches in my throat as I will myself to behave.
I remind myself how different his voice sounds when shouting my name in pleasure. My dick thickens in approval. I squirm in my seat.
Fuck! Sporting a semi while listening to a live performance won’t help my case either. At least, it’s hidden under the table.
Every fiber of my being wants to look at the stage. To be on stage next to him. To kiss him senseless in front of the entire audience. My lover. My boyfriend. My secret.
Eventually noticing I’ve gone quiet while the others are joking around and talking shit, Chris mouths, “You okay over there?” His words barely register until he reaches across the table and taps my elbow. His simple gesture rips me from my stupefaction. Chris frowns. I worry my lower lip. We engage in a silent conversation like we do on the field.
His deep brown eyes search for an answer that I obviously can’t voice. I mumble that live music does this to me sometimes, then work on my breathing to recover as quickly as possible.I couldn’t be more thankful that Nathan Price taught Rupert valuable tools in what he called “the art of breathing.” Pompous but effective.
In the blink of an eye, I’m able to enjoy the music. That is until our kicker Dillard, who’s sitting towards the edge of the booth, bursts out, “Holy shit, that’s Rupert Smith!”
“Who?” someone from the other booth asks, but they’ve all shut up and are listening to the performance.
“Smith, the guitarist from The Whiskey Barrels,” he clues them in. “They’re one of my favorite country bands. Nothing like the whiny country songs about trucks, religion and other shit.” I chuckle at Dillard’s words, knowing full well how Rupert came to enjoy these specific themes when he met Hardy, who introduced him to country music. Oh, well, to each their own, and it’s not like I’m gonna share that piece of info anyway. “The Barrels are more modern. I’ve seen them in Tulsa and in Bear Creek several times.”
The mention of Tulsa makes me think of Chris; we’re so close. It pains me that there are so many things we don’t share, and I’m the one at fault here. Didn’t he once say he was from Oklahoma? I make a mental note to ask later. Keeping my mouth shut about my personal life taught me to ask others questions, but keep a distance… Otherwise, they might stick their nose where it doesn’t belong without even realizing it. Thanks, but no thanks.
“The guy’s freakin’ talented,” Dillard continues, hyping the team. “He’s been working with Dante Reyes lately.” They all seem to know who Reyes is; I’m more of a classic rock enthusiast, thanks to my mom’s influence. Rupert and Tim have both mentioned Reyes on separate occasions, which is the only reason that I recognize the name.
“Come on, guys! We gotta watch his performance from up there.”
Most of the conversations have ceased, patrons apparently too absorbed by the live performance. So are we, standing behind the cabaret tables, entranced by the artist who’s playing the acoustic guitar along with two other musicians.
And then, Davis’s big mouth strikes again as he glances in my direction and snorts out a laugh. “Hey, Lefevre!” What now? He can’t possibly know what’s going on, right? His amused tone rubs me the wrong way. “You never told me you had a twin brother!”
“Ha-ha.” I roll my eyes, then look at Chris helplessly; what’s wrong with this guy anyway? Rupert and I look nothing alike. He’s lankier, which makes him look taller. Then, I realize what he sees before he voices it. The ginger hair. The alabaster skin. The freckled face.
These damn freckles that speak right to my dick while his beautiful green eyes always spoke to my soul. This man… Somehow, he helped me become my own person.
I watch Davis scroll on his phone, gawk, and show the screen to Jones, whose jaw drops so low it’s comical. “Holy shit!” I’m torn between annoyance—because their attention isn’t on the music—and curiosity—because what could possibly be so fascinating—but I’m sure Coach will have something to say about their choice of words.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the opportunity to intervene before Davis explains, “Just checked out the guy’s profile. Look at this!” He turns the screen for everyone to see. “There’s a bunch of pics of a smoking hot babe in his arms.” My heartlurches at the thought, remembering how Sally’s sudden death affected Rupert. But Davis’s next words brighten my mood. “The fucker has good taste.”
“You’re right, he totally does,” I can’t help but reply, doing my best to keep a straight face.
“Yup, the guy’s banging a sweet piece of ass.”More like the other way around, Davis, because Rupert Smith’s ass is the most gorgeous, lickable, and bitable ass I’ve ever encountered.But I wish he’d bang me; a boy can dream…
“Bet he has fun in the sack,” Jones adds, snorting stupidly while glancing at Coach, who’s frowning and telling them to knock it off.
As misplaced as their assumptions are, I’m having too much fun to stop myself. My mischievous gaze goes unnoticed in the dim light anyway.
“For sure!”
FOURTH QUARTER
- The Touchdown -
CHAPTER 17
GOOD LOOKING
Rupert
Tim’s handsuddenly claws my tense shoulder, jolting me back to the present. To the stadium. To the cheering crowd. My heart races as the two-minute warning approaches. “Are you following the action or do you need me to clue you in?” He takes a bite of his pretzel, then licks the salt from his fingers. “Sorry, it’s about time I ask.” His offer is endearing, considering his knowledge of football is minimal, slightly better than mine was prior to dating Elliot. “I’m so hyped to see Elliot play that I got sucked in right off the bat.”
Today is Elliot’s third pro game. His first home game. Against Carolina.
