Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Grayson
There is something seriously wrong about the way my heart leapt with excitement when Remy said he’s the one I’ve been chatting with. Remy with his saltwater and sun-bleached hair; smooth, tan skin; hazel eyes and crooked smile. He’s exactly the sort of guy I picture when I allow myself to fantasize about the future. He’s also my teammate, roommate, and friend who apparently, just recently, got divorced and is wanting to experiment. Fuck.
“I wouldn’t mess with you on this, believe me,” he says, eyes wide with distress and mouth pinched as he raises his hands up. I believe him. He looks too panicked to be saying anything but the truth.
Trying to give myself another second or two, I look down at Remy’s phone screen which is a terrible fucking idea. He’s still got that damn photo pulled up—the same lightly muscled abdomen that’s standing in front of me right now, complete with a very nice and very erect cock. I close my eyes. I jacked off to a naked picture of Remy Stone and had the best orgasm I’ve had in months. Way to fucking go, Gray, you goddamn idiot.
“This is a little bit humiliating,” I say, opening my eyes and meeting his.
“I know,” he answers, an apologetic twist to his mouth. “More for me than you, though. I’m the idiot who didn’t figure out it was you even though you used your real name. I’m sorry, Grayson.”
“I…I’m sorry about your divorce,” I say, feeling the lines between our real and our internet selves dissecting.
“Thanks. I was too, at the beginning. But now…” He trails off, biting the side of his lip and looking up at me. “Now I’m feeling okay about it. It was the right call. So was that”—he points to his phone—“for the record. I really enjoyed talking to you and stuff, and that doesn’t change now that I know it’s you .”
Christ, I wish he would put a shirt on. I reach out and click the lock button on the side of his phone so that his dick isn’t staring me in the face any longer. My eyes track to the slim, white surgical scar on his stomach because that’s an appropriate place to rest my gaze. Feeling the burn of embarrassment deep in my chest, I stare resolutely at the wall above his left shoulder.
“I hope I didn’t offend you, or anything,” he says slowly. “With the whole straight-guy-wanting-to-experiment-with-dudes thing. I thought a dating app would be the safest place to do that, but…”
“But then you matched with the only gay guy you already know in Canada?” I ask wryly, and Remy laughs. “You didn’t offend me.”
Honestly, offended was the very last thing I felt when he told me he wanted to experiment with guys. The thought of teaching him and showing him all of those firsts had been enticing. Offended—definitely not. It had been a turn-on. Fuck, how am I supposed to live with the guy now that I’ve been using him to get off for the past couple of weeks?
The thought makes me laugh. A strangled, slightly manic sound that bubbles up from my stomach and breaks the silence between us. Remy, as though waiting for this exact thing, laughs too. He leans forward, elbows on the island and palms over his eyes, as he chuckles softly. Staring down at him, I watch the fluid motion of his shoulder muscles. He’s got something of a swimmer’s build: broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist, not overtly muscular but more beautifully so. He looks like a work of art.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say, when my fingers start buzzing with the desire to trace the line of his spine. He looks up at me.
“What?”
I indicate the space between us with my pointer finger. “This. Living together and working together…it’s not going to work. Not now that I know you’re the one I’ve been?—"
“Why?” He stands up, placing his palms flat on the island and leaning toward me. He looks genuinely curious, like he really cannot fathom why this clusterfuck is the precursor to disaster.
“Why? Because I’ve been fantasizing about fucking that man”—I point to his phone—“ever since he sent me that first picture. I can’t just go back to living with you and treating you like my roommate—I haven’t got that level of self-control. Not when you walk around like that.”
I wave a hand at him, trying to encompass the raw sex appeal of grey sweatpants and a bare chest. He looks down at himself as though needing a reminder of what he’s wearing. Or not wearing, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have underwear on. He runs a hand through his hair and grins.
“I can put a shirt on,” he offers, and I scowl at him. His smile kicks up another notch. “I’ve had a few fantasies myself.”
Oh, dear god. He rakes his eyes over me, lingering on my chest before trailing slowly downward. I’m fully dressed, but might as well be naked with how that look makes me feel.
“This isn’t going to work,” I repeat.
“Grayson,” he says, and takes a step around the counter toward me. “Let’s just…can we just have a conversation about this? It’s not a big deal.”
“Listen,” I start, swallowing around the knot in my throat. “We play together, and we live together, and I’m already a fucking pariah on this team. I’m not bringing you into that shit, Remy, I’m not going to do it. Besides, nothing’s happened yet. We can chalk this up to an embarrassing coincidence and move on.”
“I like you, though,” he says, and I hold back a frustrated groan.
“You can find someone else.” I push his phone back across the counter to him, but he doesn’t make a move to pick it up or look away from me.
“Here’s the thing—I don’t think I want anyone else.” He gestures between us. “This is obviously new to me. I like talking to you though, and I’ve got to be honest—I was starting to…notice you, before I figured out you were Brody. I figured I was just seeing you in a different way because I’d been exploring that side of myself, but, Gray…I don’t think that’s it. I think I just like you .”
I inhale a breath that feels like knives in the lungs. He’s looking at me steadily, chest rising and falling with each slow breath. I really wish he’d gone back and put a shirt on. It’s nearly impossible to make an informed, levelheaded decision when he’s half-naked and telling me he likes me.
“So…what? You do actually want to go out on Wednesday?” I ask, laughing incredulously. “Hold hands? Kiss goodnight before going to our separate bedrooms? Come out to the team and let HR know we’re together?”
I make sure to inject the appropriate level of disbelief into my tone. Judging by the way Remy’s eyebrows have climbed his forehead, he hears me loud and clear.
“Damn, Grayson, I never took you for a cynic.”
“Listen…I thought I was picking up a random stranger. Us being teammates is a big fucking hurdle to clear, okay? Not to mention, this is your first experience with men, right? If anything happens between us, it could fuck our friendship up in ways that can’t be repaired.”
He sighs and looks away from me, scrubbing a hand over the bottom of his jaw. He looks disappointed and my first instinct is to walk back what I said. But I can’t, because I’m fucking right . Screwing around with a teammate is a bad idea, and him being a baby bi makes the situation even more precarious. I don’t know him well enough to trust him implicitly—he could cause me a world of trouble with management by complaining about me. I’ve got enough trouble with this team as it is. I don’t need to go looking for more.
“You’re right.” He sighs again, but his mouth slants into another small grin so I know he’s not too mad. “I’m not going to lie though. I was hoping you’d be into a friends-with-benefits situation.”
Blood pools in my pelvis and I’m glad for the counter blocking the lower half of my body from view. I am into a friends-with-benefits situation. But—unfortunately for me—I’m also not an idiot, and getting involved in a sexual relationship with Remy Stone would be the pinnacle of stupidity. I’ve already done the closeted, secret hookup life. I’ve come out not only to a select few people, but the world. Remy, for all his talk about liking me, is so new to this world he hasn’t even gotten started.
“Listen, maybe I can still help you out. We can go out to a gay bar or something. I’ll be your wingman,” I offer. His mouth quirks up in another half-smile.
“Yeah?” he asks hopefully.
“Sure. We’ll have to go to some obscure-ass place though. We don’t want anybody recognizing us.”
“Mm. Secret gay club. I bet we can find one.” He perks up a little bit, swiping his phone off of the counter and tapping away as though he’s searching for gay clubs right now. He glances back up at me. “So, Wednesday?”
“Sure,” I agree. “Wednesday.”
I have quite a few regrets in my life, but right now the biggest one is inviting Zolkov to join Remy and me at the club tonight. He thinks we’re going for me and not Remy, which is fine, but also means he’s likely going to be throwing men my way all night. And, frankly, I’m not interested. After finding out Ree was actually Remy, I’ve had a hard time keeping myself firmly on the “he’s off-limits” path.
Remy is there—right fucking there, all the fucking time. I see him in the morning when he comes out of his bedroom wearing nothing but silky basketball shorts and morning scruff. I see him at video review, practice, and games. I see him at dinner when he sits at the island and watches me cook. Did he do all of these things before? Absolutely. But he’s no longer my straight roommate and friend—he’s my bi-curious roommate and friend who has jacked off to a picture of me.
He’s been the star of a disturbing number of fantasies and dreams, as though my subconscious has decided he is the one and only man for me. To say things have been stressful the past couple of days is an understatement.
“You are driving, yes?” Zolkov asks, tugging his shirt down over his chest and grinning at me. I roll my eyes.
“Yes, Z, I’ll pick you up. Why are all of my friends freeloaders?”
“Hey,” Remy protests from my other side. “I don’t even have a car here. He does.”
Ignoring him, I continue addressing Zolkov. “You don’t have to come tonight, you know. I don’t think a gay club is really going to be your scene.”
I keep my voice pitched low so that nobody else in the room can hear the words “gay club” and have their masculinity threatened. My friend looks at me incredulously.
“Of course I am coming,” he says. “I will not miss seeing Grayson in a club. Dancing.”
“I’m not going to dance,” I protest, but Zolkov only shrugs and knocks into my shoulder on his way past me to the exit.
“Pick me up at eight, yes?”
The way he practically shouts this across the locker room has several heads swiveling in our direction. Petterson shakes his head, grimacing, and exchanges a look with someone across the room from him. God, fuck these guys .
“Sure, Z,” I respond in an even tone that completely disguises the fact that I am starting to hate everybody in this room and on this team.
As usual, I’m changed and ready to go faster than Remy is, so I sit down in front of my stall, tuck my chin, and pretend to find my cell phone riveting. Really, though, I sit and stew about the fact that there is nothing I can do to help my current situation. No amount of work on my part will convince my teammates that being gay doesn’t mean I’m attracted to every dick I see. These people knew me before I came out, and still can’t work beyond their prejudices, so nothing I can say at this point will change that.
“You guys going out tonight?” Gordon asks from across the room, projecting in a way that makes my skin prickle with the awareness that he’s talking to me. I look up, meeting his eyes.
“Yeah,” I answer, but leave it at that even though he’s smiling at me and is one of the few guys here who hasn’t changed how he treats me. I’m hyperaware of everyone in the room listening in.
“Nice,” he says, standing up and slinging his bag over one shoulder. “Maybe I’ll join you sometime.”
The words seem to echo in the silent room, and I imagine I can hear the shock. I unclench my jaw enough to offer him a small smile and a nod. Even if he doesn’t mean it, I appreciate the overt display of solidarity. God knows I need all the work friends I can get.
“Hell yeah, man, anytime,” Remy answers, clapping a hand on my shoulder and waiting for me to join him standing. He’s dressed—finally—which means every second more we spend here is a second too long. When we get outside, Remy is practically bouncing with excitement, rubbing his palms together and bumping his shoulder against mine.
“Excited?” I ask, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Fuck yeah, I’m excited. You’re going to dance with me, right?”
I’m grateful for him having to get into the car on the other side of the vehicle so that he can’t see my expression. Images of dancing with Remy at the club flash before my eyes: his back against my chest, hips rolling, scalp dotted with sweat. You don’t like dancing, I remind myself sternly, and climb into the car.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” I tell him and watch his face fall for a second before the loose grin is fixed back into place.
“Come on,” he cajoles, but I shake my head.
“Trust me. I’m too…ungainly? I can’t loosen up enough to be a good dancer—too stiff.”
“Since when is too stiff a bad thing?” he asks innocently. I glance over at him, scowling, and he laughs. “All right, I’ll dance and you wingman from the bar. What do you think Zolkov is going to make of it?”
“Hell if I know. He loves to go out clubbing, but I’d bet this will be his first gay club experience. I think he’s more going to make fun of me than he is for anything else.”
“Ah, yes, the important role of the best friend.”
“Indeed,” I agree, and we share a smile. I look away quickly, but not before my stomach swoops at the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles that wide. He has no fucking business being that cute.
We split off to our separate rooms to change when we get home. It’s not until I’m standing in front of my closet, clad only in briefs, that I realize I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear to a club. I’m definitely more of a brewery or pub guy, but something tells me jeans and a T-shirt aren’t going to cut it. Hands on my hips, I tap my fingers idly and survey my options. Whatever it is can’t be too flashy since we’re aiming to be as inconspicuous as possible. Yeah, because too flashy is definitely a problem you’re going to have, I think wryly, looking at the array of black, navy, and grey clothing I own. Sighing, I grab a dark blue button-up that I’ve never worn before. It’s made of a satiny, shiny material that has always made me think of pajamas. Hence, why I’ve never worn it out.
By the time I finish changing, Remy is waiting for me in the kitchen. He’s taken a different route than me with the clothing, choosing to wear a white tank top that shows off his tan. It shows off some other things as well, but because we are platonic friends, I don’t notice those.
He looks up when I walk in, eyes widening. “Damn,” he says, and then clears his throat.
“Okay?” I hold my arms out and drop them back to my sides helplessly. “I don’t have a lot of depth in my wardrobe.”
“No, you look good.” He clears his throat again and his eyes skitter away, bouncing around the kitchen before landing back on me. He steps up to me, close enough that I can smell coconut on his skin. “You just need to loosen these a little bit.”
Reaching up, he begins to carefully unbutton the shirt. His knuckles lightly brush my throat and I lean my head back a little bit, dizzy with his proximity. He opens the top three buttons and fans the edges out a bit, before looking up at me and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“There. Roll up the sleeves a little more, too. Above your elbows.”
I do as he says even though I feel ridiculous having my shirt opened this far down my chest. Might as well not have it buttoned at all. Finished with the sleeves, I hold my arms out to the side again, spinning around slowly.
“Better?”
Remy blows out a breath that puffs his cheeks. “You’ll be beating men off with a stick.”
“We’re not going for me,” I remind him, as we walk toward the garage and hop back into the car. I text Zolkov to let him know we’re on the way. He responds immediately with an emoji of a hospital, so god only knows what that’s supposed to mean. “Also, what do you want to tell Z about tonight? We can pretend we’re there for me if you want?—"
“Nah, we might as well tell him. Otherwise, he’ll just see me dancing with guys and figure it out.”
“He won’t say anything,” I tell him, glancing over. Remy shrugs, indifferent.
“I don’t mind if he knows I’m…” He stops, squinting through the windshield as he tries to come up with the correct word.
“Curious?” I fill in, and his face relaxes back into a smile.
“Right. I don’t mind if anyone knows, honestly. It’s not a big deal to me, but…” I catch his glance in my periphery. “I understand why you’re advising discretion.”
Conversation halts as we pull up to Zolkov’s and wait for him to climb in the back seat. He leans forward—forgetting to put his seat belt on until I remind him—and puts a hand on Remy’s and my shoulders. He gives each of us a little shake, just as excited as Remy and twice as excited as me.
“You look good,” Zolkov tells Remy, before turning his head to address me. “And you look like we are collecting bail bonds this night.”
Remy hoots with laughter while Z sniggers and I try to maintain a serious expression. Z pats my shoulder in a conciliatory manner and sits back in his seat.
“I look good!” I argue, and Remy gives a small nod. I don’t look over at him even though I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of my face. Zolkov sighs.
“Yes. Because good is what all the gay men want to dance with.”
“For fuck’s sake, Z,” I mumble, pulling to a slow stop at a red light. “I’m not going to be dancing. I don’t dance and I’m not going to start anywhere in the vicinity of your cell phone.”
Remy laughs, turning in his seat so that he can look at Zolkov in the back. “Actually, Gray is doing me a favor. We’re going to the club tonight so I can try and pick up a guy.”
I glance up at the rearview mirror in time to see Zolkov’s eyebrows rise. Remy, not sounding the least bit concerned with discussing his sexuality, continues in a smooth, even tone. I feel a pang of envy. I’d known I was gay at a very young age, and struggled with it far more than Remy is thus far.
“You will have no trouble,” Zolkov says. “Everyone love the beach bum look. Very sexy.”
“Beach babe,” I correct, grinning. “Although, if that hair gets any shaggier, bum might not be far from the truth.”
“All I’m hearing is that I’m sexy,” Remy says, raising a hand and running it through the gold strands. He is sexy, but I keep that opinion to myself. Just friends, Gray, don’t think about the dick pics.
“We shall find you a man,” Zolkov agrees, waving a hand dismissively. “Easy.”
“Well, I don’t necessarily want to ‘find a man’…maybe just dance with one and we’ll go from there,” Remy an swers, laughing a touch nervously. “I’m just testing the waters a bit, that’s all. I just got divorced and, well, yeah.”
He shrugs, but Zolkov needs no further explanation. At the mention of divorce, he was already nodding along in solidarity, mouth twisted into a grimace.
“Yes, perfect time to…” He pauses, working through his internal English dictionary before settling on: “Explore.”
“Exactly.” Remy sits back in his seat, facing forward with his head turned to look out the passenger window. “The perfect time.”