Chapter Twelve
Lucas
Hunter came over again for breakfast on Tuesday. This time, I made omelets and these high-protein fruit smoothies that are popular among athletes. I’ve fucked a professional athlete or two in my time, so I know enough things like that.
While I want him to eat some chocolate fucking cake when he wants it, I also don’t want to be a bad influence.
I want him to take care of his body and excel at his sport, if for no other reason than I saw how happy it made him when he played so well last Sunday.
He loves football the way I love photography, though it takes more from him than I think football deserves.
But I don’t want him to lose that because he lost my brother—the brother I need to remember Hunter is in love with.
He’ll never be mine. I should never want him to be mine…
After breakfast, we went on another hike, talking and laughing, being playful but also serious, like we did the previous week.
This time, I invited Hunter up after our hike, but he didn’t come.
I almost offered to show him my darkroom, just to get him back inside, but figured that’s a little obsessive, and if the man didn’t want to come, I shouldn’t try to manipulate him into it.
I hate the way I want him, want to spend time with him, the pull I feel in my chest to him…the same one that left me devastated when he and Ellis went from best friends to boyfriends.
And now, just like last weekend, I’m in my condo alone, with the LA and New York game on TV.
I don’t know how the thing hasn’t burst into flames, having to play football two weeks in a row.
Spending time with Hunt is fucking with my head.
Hunter, who is playing another incredible game today.
While he doesn’t have a touchdown, he’s doing his job and getting the football up the field, his rushing and passing yards climbing high and fast.
At halftime, I consider turning the TV off, but I want to hear what they’ll say about him. There’s not a chance in hell they won’t mention his play, so I’m not surprised when they start out with, “We’re seeing flashes of the old Hunter King the past two games.”
“I was thinking the same thing. His instincts when it comes to finding an opening have always been incredible, but he’s been missing that a lot lately, except for these last two games,” another broadcaster says.
“He used to credit that to his partner, Ellis Blake Jr. The two of them really were a special story.”
My stomach twists. Is it cool that a hypermasculine sport like professional football has accepted Hunter and other queer players? That they talk about his relationship with Ellis the way they do? Yes. But does it make my chest ache every…single…fucking…time I hear it? Also, yes.
I mute the television, not in the mood to hear more.
As if the universe wants to remind me how much it hates me, my cell rings.
It’s Mom. I relax slightly knowing it’s her, but I’m also aware of how talking to her always makes me feel.
She loves me, she supported me, but why didn’t she ever do anything about the way my father treated me?
“Hey, Mom.” I sit back on the couch, trying to remember how long it’s been since I let myself talk to her.
“Look who’s decided not to ignore me today,” she says with a soft playfulness. It hurts her. It has to, but as much as I love her, she’s hurt me too.
“Sorry. I’ve been busy. I…moved to LA.”
“What! Lucas! You moved to another state and you’re just telling me?”
“It’s only been a couple of months,” I counter, but as soon as I say it, I realize how ridiculous that sounds. I couldn’t find a moment in the past few months to tell my mom I moved and opened an art gallery? “I’m sorry,” I say, and Mom sighs.
“You know I love you, Lucas, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer automatically. And I do, but then all that bitterness resurfaces, and…I know I don’t make it easy on her. “I’ll be better.”
“I will too,” she replies.
“I, um…opened an art gallery.”
“That’s incredible! Tell me all about it,” Mom asks, and I do—about Isla helping me run it, how well it’s doing, and about recent contracts I’ve secured and shoots I’ve been involved in.
“Is she your girlfriend? You’ve mentioned her a lot over the years.”
“No, but she’s my best friend.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you have her.”
The game is back, halftime having finished, but I don’t unmute it.
“I always knew you would make all your dreams come true,” Mom says.
“Thank you for supporting them, even if they weren’t what was expected of me.”
She sighs softly. “Your father loves you.”
“Yet you felt the need to tell me that, though I didn’t even mention him.” She would only have to do that if there was room for doubt. “Is he there?”
“No. They have a game. Speaking of football, I know you’re probably not paying attention, but Hunter was on fire last week. He’s doing great this game too.”
I am paying attention. I’m watching his games, the way I used to sneak and do when he was in college.
“That’s good, but I don’t want to talk about Hunter.”
“He’s basically a brother to you. It would be nice if the two of you could spend some time together now that you’re in LA.”
Maybe he should be, but Hunter is nothing like a brother to me.
He’s my first crush, the man I’ve secretly craved since before I even understood what it meant, and all seeing him has done is remind me it hasn’t gone away.
She wouldn’t be telling me to spend time with Hunter if she knew what I wanted from him.
“I should go, Mom.”
“Okay, fine. But I love you, Lucas. So much.”
“I know. I love you too.”
I end the call, and when I look up, I see Hunter in the end zone, right before the ball drops into his arms…and I smile, smile for the boy who always saw his worth in this game I hate, thankful he’s finding his way again, while still hoping he realizes he’s so much fucking more than that.
*
The Pulse wins 28–21. Hunter had another incredible game, something every sportscaster mentions.
He’s grinning ear to ear, practically fucking glowing in this way only Hunter can do—or at least, it would be annoying as shit coming from someone else.
It’s still a little annoying coming from him, but stupidly endearing too.
“I hate to jump the gun, but is King having a comeback?” one of the sports commentators asks.
“The Comeback King,” another adds, and I roll my eyes. That’s the dumbest fucking nickname I’ve ever heard, but I have a feeling it’ll stick.
I force myself to turn the TV off.
I go onto the balcony, smoke a cigarette, then sit at my computer to get some editing done.
It’s what I should spend the rest of my day doing, what I should have done earlier, because I have thousands of photos to go through.
It’s a much better way to spend my time than watching Hunter play football.
I don’t even let myself text him this time, Mom’s words about Hunter being like a brother to me playing on a loop in my head. But when my phone rings—not even a fucking text—and his name appears on the screen, there’s not a chance I can ignore it.
“Did you watch my game?” is the first thing he says.
I feign ignorance. “The Pulse played today?”
Hunter laughs. “Shot to the heart. Though I don’t believe you.”
“Ugh. Yes. I watched. I had nothing else to do today, so I figured, why not?”
“I’ll definitely never get a big head around you.”
“You already have one.”
“Thank you,” he counters.
We’re both silent for a moment, and I wish like hell I could read his mind. That I could know what he’s thinking right this second, know what he was thinking before he called me, and why he did.
“I thought…” he begins hesitantly, “maybe I could bring dinner to your place? Just a way to celebrate the badass fucking game I played today and to thank you for breakfast the past two weeks.”
Alarm bells are going off in my head, but the truth is, I’ve been waving the white flag with Hunter my whole life. I’ve always wanted his attention, even when I pretended I didn’t. I would have always done anything he asked, even though that makes me the worst brother in the world.
“You do owe me,” I tease.
“I guess it’s settled, then. I always pay my debts.”
What are you doing, Hunt? Why are you calling me? Why do you want to come over?
“See you soon,” I tell him, then end the call before he can change his mind.
I haven’t done much with myself today. I stayed in bed late this morning because I couldn’t sleep last night, so I clean up real quick, then tug on a pair of low-slung jeans and a tight V-neck tee.
It takes Hunter a while to get here. The stadium is about forty minutes away, but it can take longer depending on traffic. I should have offered to have food here for him instead, but then that would have rendered his excuse for coming over moot.
I ignore any feeling other than anticipation, not allowing myself to feel them, and then he’s there, calling on the intercom, and I’m letting him upstairs.
It doesn’t surprise me when he shows up in a pair of track pants, tennis shoes, a Pulse shirt, and, like before, wearing a hat as though it makes him unrecognizable.
What would he do if people found out we were spending time together? Would it make Hunter stop?
“I smell vegetables. I thought you were bringing food,” I say.
He laughs. “Vegetables are food, asshole.” He walks over to my kitchen, like he’s completely comfortable here now, setting the bags on the counter and opening one. “Chicken, rice, and grilled veggies. It’s good for you.”
“This food sucks, man. I was looking forward to this too. I changed my mind. You’re not allowed to come over anymore. You must leave now.”
“Even after the game I just played? You’re supposed to be celebrating with me. I’m fucking killing it, Lucas.”
I groan, pretending to be annoyed. “Ugh. You are. That play in the third, when you split the defense and literally jumped over Collins, was something else.”
His smile grows.
“Don’t get used to football compliments. I’ll probably never give you one again. I’ll give you compliments about other things, but not that.”
“I don’t believe that at all.” He continues pulling out containers of food, and I continue to pretend to gag while talking shit.
“Why would I have to compliment the Comeback King? You’ll get enough of it from everyone else.”
He laughs. “I heard that. Part of me hates that I have to ‘come back’ from anything, but it has a nice ring to it. I’ll take anything right now.”
It takes me a moment, but then I notice the other bag he has with him, this one with a different label on it. Hunter opens it, tugging out a small container, then unseals it, and inside is… “You got me a red-velvet cupcake?” My palms get sweaty, and my heart thuds.
“It’s your favorite, right? You still like red velvet? I remember you did when we were kids.”
“I do. It’s still my favorite,” I admit, Hunter watching me, his frown smoothing out, and I wonder if he’s remembering the same thing I am. My fifteenth birthday, when Dad was supposed to pick up a cake, and he brought home a vanilla one—Ellis’s favorite.
“He was never fair to you,” Hunter says. “I should have said something…done something.”
“You were a kid. What could you do?”
“I’m not a kid now.”
“And neither am I. I don’t need anyone to fight my battles with him.
And all it would have done back then is turn him against you.
He likes people who do what he says. He’ll never forgive me for shattering his dreams for me.
” If you obey my father, he loves you. If you don’t, especially when it comes to football, then to him, you’re the enemy.
I stiffen when Hunter reaches out and grabs my hand. He brushes his calloused fingers over the top, the simple movement making heat rush through me.
“I’m sorry.” He keeps drawing circles on my hand.
I shrug. “It is what it is.” I pull away before I do something stupid, before I ruin everything and deepen my betrayal of my brother. “I think I’ll eat my cupcake first.”
I reach for it, but Hunter grabs it before I can. “Nope. It’s your reward after you eat your vegetables.”
“Well, that’s not fair. I would have let you have your dessert first.”
“I’m more responsible than you.” He picks up the containers of food. “Come on. Let’s eat on the balcony.”
I stand there, watching him go.