Page 76 of Studs Up
That was worse. It was definitely worse.
Call Nolan, no matter what time it is.
The soft ache in my heart missed him so much. The distance felt much further than three hours. It had been phone calls and texts for weeks, and what was supposed to be just sex was turning into friendship, and that friendship had dipped its toe over a line that I shouldn’t cross. I did it anyway.
I had to. I needed to. All my justification for not doing this evaporated the moment he answered.
“What?” He was gruff and grumbly, and it was only four in the afternoon.
“Do you answer the phone like that with anyone else?” I walked into my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
“No, you’re special,” he said dryly.
“You have a bye this weekend?” I stared at the paper. His handwriting, the message, I absorbed it.
“Yeah, it’s the Champions League final.” I knew that. He knew I knew that, and I rolled my eyes.
“Got a couple of days off?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to come down?”
He was silent for a moment. And then that moment stretched on. I heard rustling in the background.
“Nolan?”
“I’m on my way.”
Nolan
I didn’t even think twice. I started stuffing clothes in my carry on and grabbed my keys. It was already prepared with toiletries and shit I needed on the road. Why unpack that stuff when there are seventeen away games in a season? And bonus, it was incredibly convenient when the man I wanted asked to spend the weekend.
The entire drive I cursed the three hours it took to get to a suburb of Portland. The neighborhood was old, with tidy little houses along a grid of streets. They were all craftsmen with detailing and solid construction you didn’t see anymore. It took me a little by surprise.
I thought I would end up in a swanky, upper class mini mansion neighborhood. Not a cutesy little patchwork of hundred-year-old lovingly maintained homes.
I would have known which one was his even if I didn’t have the address. It was the one with a yard full of plants.
Two porch lights framed the doorway and flickered on when I stepped on the porch. Holden opened the door before I could even knock.
“Hey,” he smiled. All the tension he had been holding in drained from his body. I couldn’t help but smile back, seeing clear evidence of what I did to him just by showing up. He stepped aside.
His arms slid around me and hugged me. God yes. I loved that he called and wanted me to come down. I loved the bantering and the late-night calls, but this was much better.
I kissed him, and he hummed happily. Yup, the three hour drive was one hundred percent worth it. It felt so good to have his body pressed to mine, and I realized how much I had missed him.
“Fucking shit,” I breathed.
“What?” He looked around at his home, concerned something was wrong.
I have been in a lot of soccer players’ homes. The bigger the ego, the bigger the house. So Holden’s quaint little home, with its warm lights and soft decor with squishy couches and many blankets, was not what I expected. It made me love him a little more. This was the real Holden Monroe, and the real Holden was mine.
“It’s you,” I said. Antique watercolor paintings, blurred landscapes, and dusky floral arrangements hung on the walls. The warm lamp light accented the gentle cream walls. And plants fucking everywhere. They were on shelves and tables and hung from his ceiling. All kinds. Some had big broad leaves, some had dainty little ones, and some looked like tiny green balls on a string.
“What?”
“This is you,” I waved my hand around. “The real you. All colorful and cozy. Not a fucking sharp corner in sight.”
