The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

7. Attention Seeker

7

ATTENTION SEEKER

Maddox

Bryan throws open my front door at six-thirty the next morning, triumphantly holding a carton of oat milk, framed by the rising sun.

“I’m a little past the twelve-hour deadline,” he says as he comes in, “but in my defense, I finished the last one at five-thirty yesterday, right before you demanded I show up at the baseball game. And besides, I’m just in time for your morning Joe.”

Sipping my post-workout fuel, I say tonelessly, “I don’t put oat milk in my coffee.”

He kicks off his work boots, and strides across the hardwood into the open-floor-plan kitchen. “Because you’re so manly you drink it black,” he says, adopting a deeper voice.

“Yes, how I take my coffee defines me,” I deadpan.

He lifts a brow as he stands in front of the counter. “I notice you didn’t dispute that you demanded I show up at the game.”

I stare dead-eyed at him. “I’m refuting your points one at a time. Regarding the alleged demand—you like baseball, and the seats were awesome.” Then with my best courtroom swagger, I add, “As you can see, your honor, Bryan was pleased to attend.”

“But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant did not, in fact, dispute that the invitation was also a demand,” he says.

He’s teasing, maybe because he’s started to ferret out why I wanted company. But I’m not ready to tackle that topic, so I leave his last comment alone and take another drink.

Bryan strides across the kitchen, yanks open the fridge door grandly, then sets the carton on the shelf.

“Thank you,” I say, sincerely. Bryan’s a good houseguest, and I’m happy to help him as he settles in Los Angeles. “How’s everything going with the new biz?”

“Good. Really good. And crazy busy, hence the oat milk delay,” he says.

Bryan renovates beautiful old homes, and he built a best-in-class rep with his one-man shop in New York. Recently, he moved to Los Angeles to join forces with a firm and establish roots in the market here.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say. “I’m psyched to see what you do on the West Coast.”

“Thanks, me too.” He leans against the counter, meeting my eyes with curiosity in his. “So, you and Zane? When did that start up?”

He’s a goddamn mind reader.

“What do you mean?” I ask, buying time.

“You heard me, buddy,” he says, giving me sympathy now instead of a hard time. He asks because he cares.

I sigh, then turn away to rinse my cup and set it in the dishwasher. “What gave it away?” I ask roughly. Denial is pointless. I just can’t believe he figured it out so quickly.

“Oh, just, you know, the way he curled his hand around your shoulder when you introduced us,” he says.

If he only knew how sexual Zane was when he touched me later in the dark of the cabana.

“Also, the way he ribbed you,” Bryan adds. “He was so on point. It’s like he was dying to poke fun at you in front of me.”

I fight off a smile. “And that made it obvious?” I ask, turning around, genuinely curious.

“A little. It’s like he’s…proud of you? Know what I mean? He just seems like the kind of guy who’s a little?—”

“Possessive,” I say quietly, finishing for him.

“Yeah. But in a good way,” he adds.

But if others noticed what Bryan saw, that could be a problem. “Is it obvious to everyone?”

“I don’t know,” he says, turning the question around with a friendly shrug. “Is it, Maddox?”

Zane was cautious at the dinner with Vance when we met. He played it professional in front of Gunnar last night. He only showed his hand in front of Bryan. Like Zane told me in the car last night—he wants my friend to know the score.

“No,” I say, settling that brief debate. “And nothing is going on with us. Not really. But I guess he wants you to know there’s some kind of vibe with us because he sees you as…safe.”

Bryan smiles. “And he also wants someone to know he sees you as his.”

A velvety warmth spreads through me at Bryan’s conclusion, but I can’t give in to it. “Probably, but nothing more is going to happen,” I say, resolute. Last night was already too dangerous. “I can’t take the chance.”

“I hear ya,” he says, but then his brow knits with concern. “Just want to make sure you’re not into his he’s mine vibe because it’s the opposite of Wesley.”

I flinch at the mention of my ex but keep an impassive face. “Not even remotely related,” I say, tensely.

Bryan scrubs a hand over his jaw, nodding a few times. “I get it. And you know I’m just looking out for you. Can’t help it—I’m an older brother to a T. Ask Milo about when he met his girlfriend,” he says, mentioning his little brother with an I can’t help it smile.

I lighten up. “We’re the same age, and you can’t resist big brothering me. I suppose that’s my fate as an only child.”

But it’s my fate too, as a guy who trusted the wrong person. When I met Wesley, he came on strong, the way I like it, the way I want it, but several months of exclusivity later, he asked me to move into an “ethically non-monogamous relationship.”

I have plenty of queer friends in that type of situation, and it works great for them. More power to them, especially the ethical part.

I like one-on-one attention. A lot of it, to be honest.

And I dislike being blindsided.

But my likes and dislikes don’t matter. I can’t act on them with Zane.

Still, I appreciate my long-time friend playing the role he plays best, like he did when he took me out for tequila to drown out the misery of Wesley’s request, then listened to all my stories of what had gone wrong.

“I’ll be careful,” I say, patting his shoulder.

“I didn’t tell you to be careful,” Bryan corrects.

“I know. I’m the one who needs the reminder.” And I need it badly.

I take off for my tee time with Braxton, glad to go to work—where I can make things happen.

The guy with the golden foot stares down the fifth hole with textbook intensity. His dark eyes travel from the hole ten feet away to the white ball inches from him.

Then, he takes a swing, taps the ball lightly, and sends it the rest of the way.

“Nice one,” I say after it lands with a plink.

Braxton laughs, something he only does when he finishes each hole. “Easy for you to say. You’re ahead of me by, what, twenty strokes?” he asks, grabbing the ball.

“Hardly,” I say, as we head to the path weaving through the course.

“Yeah, right. You’re a secret golf pro,” he teases. Pro athletes usually love a good challenge on the links. I never go easy on them. They’d consider it rude.

“Nah. My father just wanted me to learn the game, so I practically grew up with a golf club in my hand,” I say, downplaying my golf skills.

More like my dad insisted I learn the sport, claimed it was vital for business. That is, until he decided golf courses were among his many enemies.

“Sounds like my dad too. With a football, that is,” Braxton says as we move aside for a pair of silver-haired golfers in a cart.

“Your dad’s one of the reasons you visit here so often, right?”

“Definitely.” Braxton smiles sheepishly. “Is it weird I miss my family? I should be a swinging single dude out there, loving the party life at age twenty-seven. And yet, I miss the ’rents.”

I smile. “That’s a good thing.” It doesn’t resonate with me, but it doesn’t have to. My job, if he says yes to CTM, is to make him happy. “The Mercenaries could use a new kicker. One who’s eminently dependable.” Their current kicker is pretty hit or miss, but I don’t say that out loud. Don’t want to be dissing other athletes in front of one I’m courting.

Braxton’s eyes twinkle. “You think so? That’d be goals, man, to play here with the Mercenaries.”

“The trick with that team, though, is getting them to keep their good players. They traded away a terrific quarterback a couple years ago,” I shake my head, still amazed at that bone-headed front office decision. They gave up one of the best signal callers in the league. Then again, that spelled opportunity for me to fill that void with another client of mine. “But now they have Drew Adams and he had a great season. He’s one of my clients and I think you’d like playing with him,” I say, musing on the progress that football team has made lately and the deals I’ve inked for my guys. “And of course San Diego isn’t far and has good team management.”

“I like San Diego,” Braxton says, upbeat, but then his expression shifts, and he looks me in the eye. “But the thing is, I don’t want to get lost at CTM. You know I’m talking to other agencies, right? Like your last one.”

“And you should,” I say evenly. I’m not going to tell the guy not to check out the competition. That’s a surefire way to sink your chances.

“I’ve been with a big agency,” he continues. “Didn’t love it, to be honest.”

“I’ve worked with both a big agency now and a small one. At CTM, we bring a boutique touch with the support of a large company.” I gesture to the two of us here on the course. Boutique touch, and all.

“Cool,” he says, but we’ve arrived at the sixth hole, and Braxton is back to the business of the day. “All right, golf pro. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I let my club do the talking as I finish in three strokes to his four.

As suspected, I don’t sign him by the last hole. Braxton will take some time, but he’ll be worth it. He’s a good guy with a solid head on his shoulders and a big heart.

As we leave the clubhouse, the free agent kicker shakes my hand. “Thanks again for your time. I like your style. I like attention,” he says.

Do I ever understand him. “I’ll make sure you get it if you sign with us,” I say.

He’s quiet for a few beats. “I’ll think about it. And thanks for meeting so early. I’m an early riser,” he says, then checks his wristwatch. “This digital watch is like my best friend. I never miss a tee time.”

“I’m an early riser too. Which means feel free to call me any hour of the day.” I figure that’ll help my case with Braxton—I’m almost always available for my clients, or I can be quickly.

A small smile shifts his lips. “Appreciate that. See you soon.”

We go our separate ways, and as I drive to the office, listening to the Friday morning market news, I review the day ahead. Contracts, phone calls, and drinks with the goalie for the women’s soccer team to celebrate the deal Adriana and I struck for her with a yoga clothes maker.

Then, a glimpse of the ballpark intrudes on my day planning.

Ah, hell. I nearly forgot I passed the damn field on the way to work from the course.

I try to focus on my weekend schedule rather than the guy who’ll be fielding on that diamond later. Let’s see…My aunt’s coming to town tonight, so she’ll entice me to play pickleball sometime tomorrow. I’m seeing a play Saturday night with Bryan and some local friends. On Sunday, I’ll indulge in a long run in the hills.

Am I past the ballpark yet?

Almost.

Then on Sunday night I’ll…

But as the road curves closer, I spot the Jumbotron flashing Bandits versus Dragons at 1:10.

Like a rubber band, my mind snaps away from the weekend to right here, right now. Is Zane already at the ballpark, just a few hundred feet away? Or maybe working out inside the facility? Or heading to the diamond for batting practice?

Of course he is.

That’s his fucking job, and he’s doing it.

Keep doing yours.