Chapter 2 #2
“Show me your social media,” I add, still a bit defensive. “It’s going to tell me exactly what I’m spitting back at you.”
Maybe I follow him, but that doesn’t single me out as a stalker. The point of a public profile is to put yourself out there. Making your status or stature or sensitivities accessible.
“I also know you date Chandler Bressler.” Where the heck is she tonight?
“Dated. We broke up.” He lifts his glass and swallows the entire pour once again.
I’m not interested in watching him get drunk, nor do I intend to be a rebound for him. Safe in believing I wouldn’t be, I’m still not willing to be part of his pity party.
Nevertheless, I say, “I’m sorry.” They each have high profile lifestyles, albeit she’s fifteen years younger than him.
He’s another forty-something man chasing after a much younger woman, and I wonder what the issue is.
Sure, she’s beautiful, and has youth on her side, but is he trying to reclaim a part of himself by being with her?
The question leaves me a little disappointed.
“Don’t you have other people waiting on you?” What is he doing here with me? “Other coaches? Players, maybe, whom you can drown your sorrows with?”
“Am I drowning?” He glances up, eyes flaring the brightest blue I’ve ever seen.
“You look like a man who can hardly tread water.”
Silence falls between us before he huffs and reaches for the bottle.
I scoot forward and catch his forearm. “If you want to drink your night away, I can’t stop you, but I don’t think alcohol is the answer.”
He glances at my slim, short fingers on his forearm. “Want to know a secret?”
I release his arm, and he watches my hand retreat.
“I needed that win.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs and sets down the empty glass, shifting to prop himself against the headboard. His head tips back. His eyes momentarily close. “They’re going to fire me.”
“The Flash?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Failure to perform.”
“How did you fail?”
His head pops forward, eyes flashing like lightning. “I just lost the fucking Series.”
“Your team lost the Series, on a double play that couldn’t have been predicted. Most plays can’t. A bat hits a ball and there’s a bit of hope and a large prayer it goes where you intend. But the object of the game is for the opponent to try and catch that ball. And tonight, someone did.”
“He sure fucking did.” Ross’s sandpaper voice rises.
I don’t flinch but my skin pebbles. He isn’t frightening. He’s sadly angry or angrily sad but, most of all, from the set of his shoulders and the cinch of his brows, he looks defeated. Plus, his eyes are stormy, his mouth tight.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, placing his hand on my forearm and absentmindedly rubbing up and down the hairs standing erect on my skin.
Twisting, he grabs the bottle on the stand, and one-handedly pours himself another sliver.
“Want to know a secret about me?” Leveling the playing field might ease some of the tension around him.
He finishes his pour but doesn’t drink. He simply holds the glass in his hand. His eyes brighten a smidge. Intrigued. Possibly eager to know something about me.
“I’m an author.” He doesn’t need to know I’m currently struggling with writer’s block. Or that I’m on a deadline that looms closer every day. Or that I haven’t published in over six months.
He stares blankly at me which is exactly the reaction I expected. People don’t know how to respond to such a declaration.
“What do you write?” he asks.
While again a typical response, Ross tips up his chin, his voice full of intrigue, and I’m thrown off by the genuine curiosity in his tone. His eyes are focused again on me, not glazing over as some people’s do.
“I write romance.” Here I brace myself for a detached huh and wait on the inevitable question of whether I write something similar to Fifty Shades of Grey, as if that book is the only example of romance on the market. God bless the author.
“Anything I’ve heard of?”
“Do you read romance?” I tilt my head. Color me purple if he does.
“No.”
I laugh. “Then no. It would be nothing you’ve heard of.”
He sets down his newest glass of alcohol, without taking a sip, and gazes at me. “Tell me more about what you write.” With his legs stretched outward, he crosses his ankles and clasps his hands in his lap like he’s settling in to listen.
I only told him this piece of me because he told me his secret. I anticipated that being the end of our truth sharing session, but Ross continues to surprise me. I can’t get a read on this unpredictable man. And I’m not certain what details to share about my career.
“Come on. Tell me. Give me the ten-second explanation.”
“Like an elevator pitch?”
He nods toward the hallway and a soft chuckle leaves his lips. “Is that what they call it? Feels appropriate.”
I swallow before I begin. “Currently, I’m toying with writing about a woman who enjoys two men. At once.”
Ross reaches for his glass again and gulps down the contents, then sets the empty container on the nightstand with a heavy thunk. “Is that what you want?”
“My character wants two men.”
“At the same time?”
“Something like that.”
“And you want two men to share you.”
I clear my throat. “My character wants two men to love her.”
“Love?” He scoffs. “You’re not talking about love.”
“Okay, maybe not,” I defend. “Maybe she just wants pleasure. Maybe she wants to feel desired . . . by two men at the same time. Maybe she wants to feel so irresistible that she can’t make a choice and doesn’t have to. They both want her, and they are willing to share her.”
“And that’s what you write . . . because that’s what you want.” An accusation rests in his rugged tone, one almost patronizing and pitying.
I don’t need his judgement. I didn’t follow him to his room. I didn’t invite him over to mine.
Plus, I only said I was toying with the idea, not actually certain I would write such a thing. Not that I’m against a polyamorous story, I’m just not convinced I could write it.
Regardless, Ross Davis might be pretty on the outside but maybe he’s just as shallow, bitter, and judgmental as any other man voicing an opinion about what woman should or should not want.
If I wanted two men at once, who is he to say different?
And how dare he judge me when he doesn’t know me.
We aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about a fictional character.
Maybe some women want two men at once, but in reality, I could hardly handle one when I had him.
“And what do you want in life, Ross?”
“I want to manage Chicago.”
His honesty stumps me. His answer doesn’t compare to the judgment he was placing on me.
“Not that the Flash guys aren’t great men and my coaching staff exceptional, but I want to go home.”
Rawness exists in his wish. A yearning for something more.
“Then go home, Ross.” My voice softens but it’s also a command. He needs to leave my room. He needs to get on a plane, petition Chicago for a coaching position, or however that works, and do what makes him happy.
Frustrated and concerned, I exhale. “What are you even doing in my room?”
His eyes widen, meeting mine with a dullness I unfortunately recognize. A withering look of exhaustion. A hollow haze of loneliness. “I just want to talk.”
My shoulders fall and I reach out for his hand, wrapping my fingers around the edge of his.
“Then talk.”