Page 51 of Studs Up
That was something I could understand. The hours and work that went into getting to the professional level was insane. A lifetime built on one goal and little else.
I had taken the same path, met the same professional challenges, and done it all without the burden of my sexuality. Even now, not understanding my sexuality didn’t come with the same weight and pressure.
What did, was watching him fray at the seams desperate to keep himself together. I was willing to do anything to absorb that pain and make it easier for him to breathe.
“I have worked so hard to get here, literally here. I have had to sacrifice everything. Everything, Nolan. The national team, a World Cup. All of it could be snatched away at any moment if the wrong person found out.”
The fear was something he held for so long it was written all over him. It’s what held him back all these years. The freedom to be himself would make him one of the best stars in the league, but being himself would be the thing that takes it all away.
The need to protect him was primal and powerful. It came from a place so deep inside me it had been carved into my bones. The mere thought of anyone violating his privacy put me on the cusp of rage.
“There are people out there that know, and at any moment, any one of them could decide to get their fifteen minutes of fame and ruin me.”
His eyes shone; even in the dark, I could see him well up with tears. He let me reach for him. I cupped his cheek, and he turned into it. He was so tired, so strung out.
“Who knows about this?” I asked. “The nightmares.”
He looked away. The answer was clear. No one.
“Not even Alex?”
He shook his head. “He sleeps with an eye mask and headphones.”
Of course, he does, the perfect prince.
“I’m not the wrong person,” I said. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Thank you,” he said and stepped back.
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.”
“You should get some sleep. You only have a few hours,” he said.
I humphed. First, he should know better than to tell me what to do, and second, like I was going to leave him like this and go to sleep as if nothing happened.
I got back into my bed and threw back my covers. And then I gave him a pointed look. His brows furrowed, but he didn’t move.
“Get in the fucking bed, Monroe.”
“What?” His confused face was adorable.
“I’m not going to say it again. Either you come willingly, or I drag you in. Your choice.”
We stared at each other. A short war of wills was waged, and I won and shifted to make room. Holden was stiff as he got into bed with me, laying perfectly still. I rolled my eyes, threw the covers back over us, and then pulled him to my chest.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
“It’s called cuddling,” I said.
“Nolan Reed doesn’t cuddle,” he snorted.
“It’s a proven calming technique. Raises your oxytocin and lowers your cortisol.”
“Why do you think I need to be calmed?” He was offended. I rested my hand over his heart and felt the pounding gallup in his chest.
