Page 134 of Bone Deep
Ryan
I told Spence I wasn't going to hide. I meant it. Doesn't mean I'm not nervous to leave the sanctuary of his condo and face the public. I still haven't had a crash-out moment, and I'm not sure that I'm going to. It's funny, the way our brains can play out worst case scenarios on an endless fucking loop, yet, most of the time, when that thing you've feared the most comes to be, it’s not nearly as catastrophic as you convinced yourself it would be.
Don’t get me wrong. Coming out is hard, whether you’re pushed out or not. And even though I was accidentally outed—by a cat—I know I’m privileged in a lot of ways. I have options others don’t. I see it every time I work with the kids at THRIVE.
Mostly, what I feel is free—like someone cut every string tethering me down, and suddenly I’m weightless, drifting somewhere above the clouds. My father’s threats and ignorant posts don’t hold power over me anymore. And while playing for Arizona has been, overall, a positive chapter of my life, the league still isn’t there yet. As Carlton Smith, the only player to come out while actively playing will tell you, it all but starts the clock ticking to your final season, and he wasn’t a high-profile player.
I was ready for the next chapter of my life, anyway. Team management was trying to get Anthony to talk me into keeping my contract, continuing PT through the season, and seeing if I would be field-ready by next season, but I reaffirmed to Anthony that I wanted out. After this little incident, I'm guessing they'll negotiate the exit I want quickly. Ticket sales are king, after all.
Honestly? I just want to make a second career focused on cooking. I want to spend the rest of my time at THRIVE with the kids, visiting The Bettys, and staring at the man standing in front of me right now while we ride the elevator down to the parking garage.
Fuck, Spencer Stark knows how to wear clothes.
We’re just going to the grocery store, but he’s dressed like he stepped out of a luxury ad campaign. Black designer jeans molded to those thick thighs, a pale blue cable-knit sweater that makes his eyes pop, and fancy loafers in the same shade. And he smells incredible. Clean and expensive and distractingly good.
I want to lick him.
Meanwhile, I look like I jumped into a clearance bin and came out wearing the first things I could find.
Baggy sweats. Dingy runners. A giant hoodie that saysI LOVE MY KITTYacross the front—the greatest impulse purchase I’ve ever made after F-Bomb decided we were soulmates. My hat is pulled low enough to practically cover my eyes.
Spence looks up from his phone, which he's been madly typing into since he got home, and says, “What?” when he catches me staring at him.
I shrug, “Nothing. You look nice is all. Your butt in those jeans is going to give the bakery a run for its money, Perfect.”
He sighs like I’m exhausting, but then he casually pivots so he’s facing the elevator doors instead of me, giving me a perfect side profile of that lethal curve.
Most people wouldn’t catch it. But I know him now.
That tiny shift? That’s a mile of give for Spencer. And every single time he does, my stomach flips like a damn gymnast. Makes me instantly start thinking about how to draw a little more out of him.
The elevator dings and we briskly make our way to Spence's Merc S-Class. No one knows where Spence lives or that I'm here, but we're quick about it anyway. If anyone tries to follow us home from the market, we'll have to lose them before getting back.
Fuck. Now I'm nervous. I don’t want to make Spence's life a living hell. “Maybe we should just order groceries. What if people follow us back here?”
Spence fires up the engine and shoots me a look. “Let them try. Would you want to deal with a super pissed version of me?”
I cringe. “Fuck no.”
His smile meets his eyes, and I laugh because only he would find joy in that. “Then buckle-up, buttercup,” he commands, “Like you said. No hiding.” Then he looks me up and down. “Though, I kind of want to hide with whatever that is you're wearing.”
I pull down on the hem of my sweatshirt and pout, “Hey. I love my shirt.”
Spence throws the car in reverse, turns his head to look out the back window, and slides his right hand behind my headrest as he navigates out of the parking spot. God, that's such a sexy move. I squirm in my seat a little and his lips twitch. Fucker knows shit like that makes me horny.
We manage to park and get into the store and so far, so good. A few nods, a couple smiles. The usual. To be fair, it's the middle of the day on a Monday, not a big crowd.
There was one muscle bro that approached and gave me a fist bump and said, “Respect” then eyed me shamelessly. That pulled a loud rumble out of Spence.
“What are you going to make?” Spence asks as we head for the produce section.
“I'm thinking filets with a black garlic butter, handmade wild mushroom ravioli with brown butter sauce, and rainbowcarrots.” Spence's eyes widen and I snap my fingers, “Ooh. I think I'll make a roasted shallot bordelaise sauce for the steaks too.”
“Damn,” he says. “You're making me hungry.” Then he licks his lips and I want to jump him right here in front of the potato bin. Everyone's seen us go at it anyway.
We make our way through the store grabbing the items we need. I'm grabbing the last item on my list, heavy cream, when the sweetest looking old lady approaches with her cart as we stand in front of the dairy case. I brace myself. This could go a number of ways ranging from she has no idea who I am to Spence getting arrested for geriatric assault.
“Excuse me, young man?”
