Page 32 of The Call-Up
Brandon
Ryan’s idea of raiding the mini bar is less about cracking open tiny bottles of booze and more like calling room service and ordering an overly expensive bottle of red wine, two steaks, and a large platter of mashed potatoes for us to share. Now I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about dating. But what I do know is that if I was to ever go on a date with someone, this is exactly the kind of thing I would want.
Not that this is a date. It isn’t, of course. It’s pure coincidence that this is just my dream scenario. Including the company.
“We can catch up with the rest of the guys in a bit,” Ryan says while cutting into his steak. He eagerly brings the chunk to his mouth and groans his satisfaction. It’s torture. After he swallows, he continues, “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
“Me neither.” I take a sip of my wine to quench my thirst. It doesn’t work. I probably know less about wine than I do about dating. I guess this is what people mean when they describe it as dry. How can a liquid be this useless at wetting my mouth? It does complement the steak well, though, so I’m not complaining.
“So…” Ryan looks at me from across the table. There’s an intensity radiating from him that’s not usual. What is he about to say? “You got awfully red in the face down there earlier.”
Oh. “Which time?” I ask with a roll of my eyes. Because let’s be real, I’m always red in the face lately.
Ryan grins. “When Danton called you Baby in front of everybody.”
“Again,” I laugh around a mouthful of food, “which time?”
Ryan’s eyebrow rises to accompany his grin. “The time where everyone at the bar who wasn’t a Mule assumed that you and Danton were dating.”
“As if I’d ever date Danton,” I say before I can stop myself. But this time, instead of my face turning red, I feel all the color drain out of me and run through the floor, taking my stomach with it.
Ryan keeps his eyes on me as he sits back in his chair and takesa sip of his wine. He swallows then wipes his lips with his napkin. “I get it,” he says. “He’s not my type either.”
My heart rate picks up. I can’t breathe. My mind is stuttering. Did he just confirm what I’ve been thinking? There is literally no way. Except…
“I can hear the hamster spinning the wheel that runs your brain, Brandon.” He leans forward again and cuts himself another piece of his steak. He licks his lips before he eats it, then after swallowing, with a deep, sultry voice, he says, “You can tell it to slow down before it falls off and you crash out. I’m gay. Just as I suspect you are.”
Taking a deep breath, I nod my head to confirm his suspicions.
“Now that we’ve got that out of the way—” he cuts into his steak again and this time he drags the slice through the buttery mashed potatoes and eats it all together, “—you want to fuck?”
I choke on my wine again.
My brain hamster starts running at full speed again. Because like, holy shit… yes. It’s been my fantasy for eight fucking years. But also, like, no. That’s a terrible fucking idea.
“I’m kidding.” He laughs, though I catch an edge in it.
I expect relief to course through me, but instead what I feel is rejection. “Right,” I say. “I’m not your type.”
He eyes me again and that damn grin is back. “Oh, you’re definitely my type,” he says, reaching across the table. With his hand he smooths my hair down and tucks it behind my ears, then sits back again. “But us fucking is not a good idea.”
Again, I should feel relieved. But instead it’s more of the acute sting of rejection.
Ryan
Shit. I never should have said that. Brandon looks completely crestfallen. He thinks he’s hiding it, but he’s not. But it’s not what he thinks. It’s not because I’m not attracted to him. I am wildly into him.
So what’s the problem? The problem is he’s my teammate. And as much as I’d like to explore this, to see if having sex with him could get these conflicting feelings I’m having to become clearer, he’s still my teammate. Screwing a teammate is a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
But then again, Gavin and Connor did it, and look how that turned out. Sure, one of the oldest franchises in the league completely imploded, but the two of them seem happy. Not that they advertise it. They certainly don’t seem miserable, that’s for sure. But I can’t run that risk with the Mules. We’re finally taking huge strides towards being a team the league takes seriously. The last thing we need is a big gay controversy to derail all our progress.
“Look,” I say, gently. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to. But we can’t, you know…”
“Risk it,” he finishes for me.
“Exactly. I mean, if we make the playoffs, there’s still a lot of season left.”
“And I only just got here.”
