Page 12 of Bro Code

Riley briefly shut his eyes. That rang a bell.

“I didn’t expect to run into you,” said Louis.

Riley held out the tablet. “Sorry about that.”

“Merci.” Louis took it. He was watching Riley suspiciously, like he suspected Riley didn’t recognize him. Riley racked his brain to remember who he was. He definitely wasn’t a player: he was so small he looked like he’d fall down in a stiff breeze.

“You, uh, work here?” said Riley.

“Oui. Performance analytics.”

That didn’t help. Where would he have met a performance analyst? An event, maybe? Charity thing? Louis had a slight accent, which was also familiar. It almost sounded Jamaican or something. Where would he have met a Jamaican? Olympics…? Bobsled team? Fuckfuckfuck…

Coming up empty, Riley said, dumbly, “Analytics. Which is computers.”

“Yep.”

The expression on Louis’ face indicated that Riley was doing a shit job playing it off like he remembered him. Riley went for a friendly smile and stooped to pick up his duffel bag, desperate to escape before he dug himself in any deeper.

“Well it was great to see you again,” he said. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

Louis’ pretty eyes hardened into a glare. He watched Riley heft on the bag. Riley dropped his gaze to fiddle with the strap, stalling for time while he had one more go at remembering who the fuck this guy was. Eventually, when he’d been fiddling for long enough that it was obvious he was stalling, he looked up.

“I’d better get out to my car,” he said.

Fury flashed through Louis’ eyes. He nodded tightly, touching his index knuckle to the corner of his glasses, and tucked the tablet under his arm.

“Well,” he said, stepping smartly around Riley and extending a willowy hand, “À bientôt.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Louis

“Àquoi t'attendais-tu? C'était il y a six mois et c'est l'un des joueurs de hockey les plus célèbres au monde. Évidemment qu'il ne se souvient pas de toi!”

Louis stalked down the corridor toward the elevators, muttering under his breath: What was he expecting? It had been six months and Riley was one of the most famous hockey players in the world. Of course he didn’t remember him!

He heard the door to the parking lot behind him as Riley went out. At the elevator he stabbed the button so hard he hurt his finger, then stood there scowling while he waited.

He didn’t want to be this mad. It was just a drunk hookup in a foreign country six months ago.

The elevator arrived and he stepped into it and stood with the iPad under his arm, watching the floors tick up as it went up to the offices.

It wasn’t that he was hung up on Riley – he’d hooked up with plenty of guys since. It was that Louis had always prided himself on being the kind of show-stopping fuck guys never forgot. And somehow, Riley had forgotten.

Louis didn’t like to be forgotten. Here, sure, in his corporate button down and dress shoes, he was forgettable by design. Work Louis. Professional. Neat. A spreadsheet nerd who wasn’t going to ruffle any feathers. Out there? In the world? The club? At the bar? Feathers were going to get ruffled. That was why he came to Montreal: to be queer as fuck. To be part of a culture that didn’t exist on the tiny Caribbean island he’d come from. To go to Pride, and see what a gay bar was, and wear outrageous leggings, and drink and fuck and dance. Take off the glasses and shake out the hair. He’d been doing “sexy librarian” for so long it had become core to his identity.

And now that identity had been casually swept aside and forgotten by a guy he was going to be bumping into in the lobby every other week.

The elevator dinged and glided to a halt. Louis sighed and waited for the doors.

“He never. Even. Called you,” he reminded himself as they opened, and stalked down the hall to his office.

Qu'est-ce que tu fais plus tard?

Louis glanced at his phone as it buzzed on the desk beside him and this text from Nic appeared. He glanced at it, then scoffed and turned back to his laptop. What are you doing later? Well, he was four hours deep in a dashboard build that he’d thought was going to take three hours and he was only halfway done. Everyone else had left for the day. What was he doing later? This.

The phone buzzed again: On soupe ensemble?