Chapter 11 #2
Joel took a private car from his hotel to Quentin’s.
He wore a black T-shirt and black shorts, with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, just in case anybody saw him, though he was careful that no one would.
His car picked him up and dropped him off at the hotel’s private entrances, where celebrities could enter in privacy and unseen.
The entire way up to Quentin’s apartment, he reminded himself that he wasn’t there for a hookup.
He was there to see Quentin as a friend.
They were friends, and they were hanging out.
Friends hung out. They were two guys in their mid-twenties.
Two famous guys in their mid-twenties. And Quentin was straight, or at least, he probably was, and the world had to think Joel was straight.
Quentin had to think Joel was straight. Quentin had no reason to think Joel wasn’t straight.
Take a fucking breath, he told himself as he walked from the elevator to Quentin’s hotel room door.
He cast glances around him, worried that Quentin’s teammates might see him, or that other guests might appear in the hallways and later say that they’d seen Joel Beckett walking through the hotel where Quentin Hartley was staying.
Then again, why did he care? They weren’t going to do anything. That was just a fantasy that lived in Joel’s head. It wasn’t something that Quentin wanted, and Joel couldn’t focus on the fact that he wanted it, too.
He knocked on Quentin’s door and bounced on his toes, waiting.
Seconds later, the door opened, and Joel instantly wished he hadn’t worn pants of such a soft fabric.
Quentin stood there in the doorway, smiling sheepishly at him, and wearing only a towel wrapped low on his hips. His hair was wet, and droplets of water clung to his skin.
Heaven help me, Joel thought.
“Hey,” Quentin said. “Come in. Sorry, I just got out of the shower.”
Quentin had stood in the shower after jerking off until his water started to lose its heat, and then he’d realized he should probably get out and dry off.
He’d barely put a towel on before he heard Joel’s knock on the door, and now he was deeply regretting the fact that he was almost naked. Joel was wearing a simple black outfit, but it showed off the lean muscles of his arms and legs, and Quentin worried that he would get a boner beneath his towel.
He could not let Joel see that.
Joel swallowed, trying to think about anything that wasn’t sexy, and followed Quentin into his hotel room. It was smaller and simpler than the rooms Joel usually stayed in, but it was still nice. It had two beds.
“Sorry,” Quentin said again. “I must’ve lost track of time. I’ll get dressed quickly.” He was at the bed closer to the door, sifting through a suitcase for some clothes.
Joel tried not to stare, but it was hard.
Quentin had a gorgeous body, shaped by years of being a professional athlete.
He was bulkier than Joel, with wide shoulders and broad pecs, biceps that rounded when he bent his arms, and a muscular back that tapered into a narrow waist. His abs were thick and rippled, and his tightly-wrapped towel showed off his shapely ass.
Joel was not doing a good job of not staring at Quentin.
Quentin pulled a pair of gray sweatpants and a Boston Minutemen T-shirt out of his suitcase. “One sec,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Joel took the moment to go to the window and try to distract himself. He did not want to think about the fact that Quentin was in the bathroom, probably naked, as he changed into clothes.
“Okay, I’m decent.”
Joel turned. Quentin was positively indecent in his T-shirt and sweatpants. If only Quentin knew the effect gray sweatpants had on Joel, and the way that the sweatpants were making the outline of his cock very visible.
Quentin felt a little wicked for choosing gray sweatpants.
He knew the exact effect that they had on him, and if he’d been going for “unsexy,” he could’ve chosen literally anything else.
But…he’d chosen these. And he’d chosen not to wear underwear under them.
He told himself that it was because sweatpants were more comfortable when you went commando, but the little voice in his head told him he was full of shit.
He was wearing gray sweatpants without underwear because, when he walked, his cock moved and it was very apparent in the sweatpants.
He was comfortable in his body and comfortable with nudity.
He saw his teammates naked all the time, and they saw him naked almost every day.
It wasn’t a sexual thing at all. It was just the fact of practically living in locker rooms. He also told himself that he was dressed like this because it was something he was comfortable in, and he’d wear a similar outfit with his teammates and friends without thinking twice.
“What do you want to watch?” he asked.
Joel looked distracted by something outside. “Um, I’m not sure. Were you going to watch anything specific?”
Quentin picked up the TV guide. “These are the channels. Or we could rent something.” He went to sit on his bed. Joel still stood near the window, looking unsure of what to do or where to go. Quentin wondered if he’d made a mistake inviting Joel here.
“You can sit down,” he offered, and Joel glanced up. He’d been reading the TV guide like it was a college thesis.
“Oh, right,” Joel said.
Quentin moved over on his bed. What was he doing, indicating that Joel could sit with him on his bed?
His pulse was quick, his common sense shutting off, and he worried that he’d get a boner in his sweatpants.
Joel came to the bed and sat next to him.
Joel struggled to get his breathing under control. Quentin looked sinfully appealing in his sweatpants, and Joel was pretty damn sure that Quentin wasn’t wearing underwear under them. It was probably an unconscious choice. Quentin was a jock, and he was naked all the time with his teammates.
He definitely wasn’t trying to seduce Joel or send him a message.
Stop trying to send Joel a message, Quentin told himself irritably as he flicked through channels on the TV. They were sitting as far away from each other on the bed as they could without falling off, and Quentin was doing his best to stare straight at the TV and not at Joel.
They settled on an action movie from the early 2000s, and then decided to order a pizza, which Joel said he would eat but that Quentin couldn’t breathe a word to Shivonne and Harlan.
Quentin saw a chance.
“So, Harlan,” he said. “Seemed like he was interested in my friends Henri and Cort.”
Joel laughed. “I’d say so. He spent the night with them, right?”
“He did.”
“Good for him.” The movie was playing in the background, but neither of them was really watching it.
“I really respect Henri and Cort having an open relationship,” Quentin commented, because it was true. There wasn’t an ounce of passive aggression in his voice, because there was none of that in his heart. “They really trust each other, and they’ve found a way to have fun mixed with trust.”
Joel nodded. “I’ve noticed that queer couples often have a more evolved view of sex and intimacy within relationships. I admire it.”
Hm. Quentin felt like a detective, dissecting everything Joel said. What did it mean?
“Do you think you could ever have an open relationship?” Joel said. The question hit Quentin out of nowhere. “Sorry,” Joel said. “That’s a very personal question.”
“It’s okay. I haven’t thought about it much, honestly. I would have to know what I’m like in a relationship before I could make that decision.”
Joel cataloged that piece of information instantly. “You haven’t been in a serious relationship before?”
“I haven’t,” Quentin said. “Not as an adult. It’s hard with the hockey schedule. Plenty of my teammates have done it, and Henri and Cort are an example of how it can work well. But it can be hard when one partner is traveling as often as I do.”
“I get it,” Joel said. “It’s hard to maintain a relationship when your schedule is like this.”
“What about you?” Quentin asked.
“Do I want an open relationship?”
“Are you in a relationship?” Quentin clarified.
Joel was nervous about this line of questioning, but it was an excited nervousness. He felt like a schoolboy with a crush, gently teasing for information, while trying not to be discovered. “I’m not,” Joel said. “Like you said, it’s hard.”
“Not even you and Ariadne Lake?”
“You read too many tabloids.”
Quentin swallowed. He had assumed, like many people did, that Joel and Ariadne were in a relationship.
“She’s a very good friend,” Joel said, “but…I just don’t think we’d work.”
Why not? Quentin wanted to ask, but he was getting nervous, so he nodded at the TV. “This is my favorite part.” He had no idea what was going on in the scene.
They watched the movie together, and when the pizza arrived (pineapple and bacon, which they were excited about because they both loved), they ate it together, sitting cross-legged on Quentin’s bed.
When they’d finished the pizza, Quentin stood and folded the box and slid it into a bag he’d dedicated for recycling.
He returned to the bed and sat down, this time infinitesimally closer to Joel.
Maybe he imagined it, or maybe Joel moved a little closer to him, too.
The credits were rolling when the door to Quentin’s hotel room opened, and Henri stepped in, yawning and stretching.
Quentin and Joel, by then, were lying on the bed, their legs extended.
Joel’s arms were folded across his chest, and one of Quentin’s arms was bent up and back under his head, while his other played with the duvet.
They were talking about nothing in particular, about Joel’s tour and Quentin’s games, but Quentin still felt like he’d been caught doing something wrong when Henri saw them.
“Oh, hi!” Henri said, seeing Joel. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. How are you?”
Joel sat up quickly. Was Quentin wrong, or was there a slight blush on Joel’s cheeks? It was hard to tell, with the way that it was dark outside.
“I’m doing well,” Joel said politely. Quentin noticed a change in Joel’s demeanor.
Joel had been open with him, more talkative, more authentic.
Now that Henri was there, it was like the walls had gone back up.
He had stopped being just Joel and started being Joel Beckett, the pop star.
“I’ll be at your game tomorrow,” he said.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you play. ”
Henri beamed. “If I’d known you were here, I would’ve invited you to join us out for dinner tonight. Quentin should’ve come, too. But he’s old and boring.”
“I’m, like, a year older than you,” Quentin protested.
“Yep. Ancient.”
Joel was putting his shoes back on. “I should definitely be going,” he said. “Braun’ll be furious if he knew I was up this late.”
“Screw ’im,” Quentin said.
“That’s the spirit,” Joel said.
Joel wavered for a second, suddenly struck with the impulse to hug Quentin.
Quentin was standing by his bed, and Joel was hovering halfway to the door.
Henri was standing there, and Joel had the horrible feeling that Henri had a suspicion about what was going on here.
Though what was going on? Joel had no idea.
He hadn’t come out of the night any more sure about Quentin than he had been at the start, but he felt that if he hugged Quentin, he’d be giving something away about himself, and he couldn’t risk that.
“Goodnight, Quentin,” he said.
Quentin offered a small smile. “Goodnight, Joel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Henri said when Joel left, “What in the world? What was that? Are you two best friends now?” There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his question, just mystification.
Quentin couldn’t look at Henri. He was nervous and embarrassed, and he didn’t like that he was embarrassed. “He told me he was in Tampa, and I invited him over to watch a movie.”
“That’s nice,” Henri said. “Sarcasm aside, you are actually friends now?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Henri sat on his bed and faced Quentin. “I’m glad. He seems like a nice guy, and I think it’s a sweet friendship.” He looked like he might be about to say something more, but he didn’t.
Quentin’s heart was racing when he finally went to bed.