Chapter 11
ROLAND
—Muddy Waters by LP
I think Coker is ignoring me.
It’s not something I would usually notice, but since last night, every attempt I’ve made to get his attention has been futile.
When Sandra texted to congratulate me, saying she was there to watch the match like she had promised, I figured he just wasn’t coming to the bar.
That he’d be spending the night with the Basseys, who both came to see the match with Sandra.
Then I got pulled into conversation with Michael, who flew in from Abuja yesterday morning.
The first thing he did was give me an update about my pending divorce.
I couldn’t hear half of what he was saying because I kept hoping Coker will show up and was checking the door periodically.
I did hear when Michael said even legal matters can be fast tracked if money exchanges certain hands.
I immediately transferred the required sum, and it kind of hit me right then that my marriage really failed.
I have never failed at anything before. All Michael could offer was a pat to my shoulder.
But it wasn’t enough. For some reason, I wanted Coker to be there.
After searching the crowd over Michael’s shoulder again, I finally saw him.
When our eyes met though, his expression was so cold it could freeze a volcano.
Then he looked away, turning his body slightly so his shoulder faced me instead.
I swear to God, it still stings like hell.
Since we left Copenhagen, he has been giving me signs that he wants me. Basically eye-fucking me. And I’ve finally made peace with the fact that I’m attracted to him. I want him, and I would take whatever he’s willing to give me.
And I had it all planned out, too. I was hoping I could get him to come back to my room since Akintola already told me he wasn’t sleeping there again, so I had it all to myself.
But the look on his face killed that idea fast. The spark of interest that was constantly on his face was missing, and in its place was something resembling thinly veiled disgust.
My mind keeps circling back to it, stuck wondering whether he’s already tired of me.
The thought annoyed me the second it formed.
I still hate that it even crossed my mind.
What the hell has come over me? I know whatever this is between us is temporary, and it’s not like I don’t know his reputation of sleeping around.
My little lapse in judgement doesn’t mean I should become a clingy mess and start acting like I own him.
But God, I do want him. There’s something about him that keeps my body wound tight and restless.
Since we hooked up, I’ve been stuck in this constant, low throb of arousal that refuses to fade.
I can’t think of anything other than him settling between my thighs, the slow grind that would draw every sound out of me, and the way he would take me apart.
God help me, I want him.
By the time the team bus approaches Norwich, I am a tight bundle of nerves, my legs bouncing the whole ride.
I keep telling myself to relax, that I’m overthinking this.
Should I just walk up to him and ask what his problem is?
It strikes me as funny that at the start of this World Cup trip, I had wanted to approach him for a completely different reason.
Three weeks shouldn’t be long enough for things to change this much, but here I am.
The bus hisses to a stop and everyone starts filing out.
I hang back to look for him as we alight, but he seems hell-bent on avoiding me.
I’m so set on talking to him that I start planning around it.
If I have to, I’ll talk to whoever he’s rooming with and switch.
It’s probably stupid, and the idea should embarrass me, but I simply don’t care.
I can’t sit with this knot in my stomach for another night, not with the image of his disgusted expression still scraping the inside of my head.
Once I’m inside the hotel lobby, I head straight for the room list, my fingers trailing down the page until I find my name.
I blink once just to make sure I’m reading it right because, as luck would have it, my roommate is none other than Coker.
Relief bursts through me, and something close to excitement warms my chest, but I immediately school my face and search for him.
I find him standing off to the side with Bayero, laughing as they talk.
I walk over to them, and Coker looks up as I’m close.
Our eyes meet, and something flickers across his face, but it’s gone so quickly I think I imagined it.
Then his expression shutters, and his glare is back in place.
“Hey, roomie,” I say, like his glare does not bother me in the slightest.
I nod at Bayero as he peels away, probably to find out who he’s rooming with.
The second he leaves, Coker lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I can’t believe it,” he mutters.
I decide to stop wasting any more time. “Is something wrong? You can switch rooms if you want,” I say even as the words leave a sour taste in my mouth.
A wave of tiredness washes over me, but if he’s hell-bent on not sharing a room with me, I will deal with it.
I’m a big boy, after all. That doesn’t stop my heart from hammering against my ribs while I wait, though.
“Don’t be silly,” he says, rolling his eyes.
Before I can answer him, a bellboy rolls up to us with a bellman cart stacked with luggage. “Good afternoon. I’m Mark,” he says, tapping the name tag on his chest. “What room are you in? I can take your bags there.”
“Thank you, Mark,” Coker says easily, dropping his bags on the cart.
I watch his eyes drag over Mark without any shame, starting at his blond hair and down the clean line of his uniform, until it settles squarely on his arse.
He wets his lips, and it makes me wonder if he has a thing for blond men.
For half a second, I picture myself with bleached hair.
The image is so absurd I almost choke on it. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Coker’s attention does not waver as we follow Mark to the elevator, his eyes staying fixed on Mark’s arse shamelessly.
I know it shouldn’t bother me, we’re not together, and he’s free to look at whoever he wants.
But that doesn’t stop the spike of anger flaring in my chest, and it makes my hands curl into fists at my sides.
By the time we reach the seventh floor, my jaw aches from clenching it.
I keep my face blank when we step into the room, focusing on kicking off my shoes and setting my bag down as Coker pulls out his wallet, slides five ten pound notes free and hands them to Mark. “Thank you for your service. I do love a man in uniform.”
Mark’s eyes widen before he smooths his expression and pockets the money. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says, his voice dipping lower on the last word, his blue gaze pinned entirely on Coker.
The meaning is so obvious, and he isn’t even trying to hide that he’s flirting with a customer. I should get him fired for being unprofessional. Calm the fuck down, Roland.
Coker is already opening his mouth to answer, but I’ve already had enough.
I’m sure it’s going to be more flirting, so I step forward, pull the door open, and gesture for Mark to leave.
The bellboy hesitates, eyes flickering between us, then leaves with a polite nod.
Once the door shuts behind him, I turn back around, and right on cue, Coker is glaring at me.
“That was rude,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.
I lean back against the door, the wood cool through my shirt. I’m suddenly tired of tiptoeing around whatever this is supposed to be. “Why are you behaving like a spoilt little brat?”
He looks genuinely offended, his eyebrows shooting up. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he hisses. “It’s not like you weren’t flirting your way through Southampton.”
For a second, his words don’t register. When it clicks, a laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Then another. And it builds until my shoulders are shaking.
I’m laughing so much that I’m bending forward, one hand on my thigh, the other pressed against my side as I try and fail to get it under control.
“You thought I was flirting with Michael?” I manage to get out.
Coker stares at me like I just sprouted another head. “Why is that funny?”
“Oh,” I wheeze, wiping the corner of my eyes. “You are adorable.” He keeps scowling, so I force myself to explain. “The guy with me at the bar yesterday is Michael. He’s my best friend and my lawyer.” I tell him. “You’re the first man I’ve been with.”
What I don’t say is, You’re the only man I want to be with.
The anger drains out of his face, replaced by something that looks a lot like embarrassment. He drags a hand down his face and groans. “Fuck my life,” he mutters.
Still leaning against the door, but no longer ready to bite his head off, I maintain eye contact with him. “You could have just walked up to us and ask me instead of sending me death glares.”
He scoffs and shifts his weight, arms still crossed. “And say what exactly? I don’t have any claim to you. And for all I know, you could’ve just developed a taste for men and wanted to see if other men did it for you.”
I can’t even argue with that because it’s a fair point.
My mouth opens, and for a split second I consider telling him the truth.
That, yeah, I have noticed other men before.
I’ve looked and appreciated and moved on.
But I’ve never wanted to touch any of them.
Never felt this tug in my chest, or this restlessness underneath my skin.
Not until him. And I cannot, for the life of me, explain that I’m fully aware whatever is happening between us is a bad idea, because it is unheard of for footballers in the league to be queer, and that could cost us our careers if it got out .
. . and knowing that does not stop me from wanting him anyway. If anything, it makes me want him more.
Instead of saying all that, I let a slow smile spread across my face. “So,” I say, watching his expression carefully. “You’ve been thinking about Copenhagen?”
His eyes are dark with lust, pupils blown wide enough that it sends a shudder through me. He holds my gaze while he works open the buttons of his shirt, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Let me tell you what I’ve been thinking about,” he says, voice low. “I’ve been thinking about sucking your dick until you come down my throat. And then prep your gorgeous hole with my tongue and fingers before I push into you.”
His words go straight to my dick, and it twitches. The aforementioned hole clenches on instinct, in anticipation, I think. It is a small, electric clench that makes my breath hitch.
What am I supposed to do with that?
Do I want it? Do I want to be pushed into the bed and thoroughly fucked until I forget my own name? I can’t stop the image from forming in my head. I picture his hands on my hips, his lithe body pinning me down, the slow drag of him inside me.
Jesus Christ.
Yes, I want it.
I want it so badly it almost hurts.