Page 28 of Studs Up
“I’m gay,” he threw up his hands.
“Okay,” I said.
“That’s it? Okay?” He huffed.
“Sure, whatever.” I didn’t care if he was gay or not.
“It’s’ not ‘sure whatever.’ It’s a big fucking deal.”
I wasn’t really following. What did any of that have to do with us right here?
He paced, and the smile on his face was furious disbelief.
“The league might tout their diversity initiatives, but they do nothing about the locker room. If I’m out, I’m fucking out. No more minutes. No more career. No more World Cup. My life would be over.”
And I’m a fucking idiot. Of course, that was the problem. I didn’t even think about that.
His arms wrapped around him, and he paled. Fear was not a good look on him. In fact, it was fucking awful, and I wanted to wipe it off his face. With a kiss, with a thumb across his lips, anything so he didn’t ever look like that again.
“I never should have kissed you. It was a big mistake, and I came here to ask that you not say anything.”
My heart twisted and squeezed. He was afraid. No, he was fucking terrified. And he was right. If he was outed, it was over for him. Not directly, they’d push him out. A slow and silent break up. His team wouldn’t engage with him. He would never be the player he was meant to be.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The begging in his eyes stabbed at me. Thousands of little pricks, each one a silent plea to keep my mouth shut.
“I’m not,” I said.
He blinked, and then he blinked again.
“What?”
“I’m not sorry you kissed me,” I said. I took careful steps toward him, and he backed up until he hit the wall. His eyes got bigger the closer I got until I was a mere inch from him. Close enough to feel his heat, smell his cologne, and feel his breath on my neck.
“You aren’t?” He sputtered.
“Nope.”
“But you’re straight.”
I took his wrist and placed his hand over my very hard and aching cock. I had been fighting an erection the entire match, and now that it was just us, there was no reason to hold back.
His fingers held my bulge, and his eyes looked down between us.
“Does that feel straight to you?” I asked.
“Um,” he licked his lips and squeezed slightly. That felt fucking amazing. “No.” After a moment, he withdrew his hand and looked away.
“You kissed me, and I have been hard as a rock ever since.”
With one finger, I turned his chin back so I could look into his eyes. A stormy grey, like the sound in the dead of winter. My favorite.
“I thought you were mad at me.”
“I’m more pissed you didn’t answer my texts.”
“That’s the part that bothered you?” He balked.
“Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t help but drag my finger along his jaw. The tiniest gasp escaped his lips. “I wanted to talk to you, and you were a dick.” When I reached his ear, I let my finger graze down his neck.
