Chapter 12
Twelve
I Want It That Way
Ryan
I shove my gym bag into the locker, the metal door rattling against the frame as it swings back. Behind me, Spence’s voice cuts through the locker room. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.”
I turn to answer him—ready with some smartass comment—but the words die in my throat. Spencer Stark is standing there in nothing but white boxer briefs. Even after six months of this, I still need a second.
My brain shorts every. Fucking. Time.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now. We’ve been working out together three or four nights a week for half a year.
I’ve seen him strip down in this exact locker room more times than I can count.
But apparently my body did not get the memo because the sight of him still hits me like a linebacker to the chest.
The first time he graced me with this view, I nearly forgot how to breathe. My mouth went dry as soon as his slacks hit the bench and those thighs were suddenly bare for the first time.
Fuck.
Those thighs.
They were the first thing I noticed about him but now it’s worse.
Over the course of our workouts, Spence has gotten bigger.
His thighs and ass are impossibly thicker.
His arms have real size to them now. His back spreads wide when he pulls a shirt over his head.
His chest has that hard, sculpted line that makes it impossible not to stare.
And now that it’s off-season for me, we’ve been hitting the gym even more.
Which means I get this view… a lot. Either he’s gotten over his aversion to hanging his suit in a locker or he does it to torture me.
My bet’s on the latter. Right now, he’s standing by the bench pulling a pair of training shorts from his bag, the muscles in his legs flexing as he shifts his weight.
My eyes drop to the prize wrapped in those white boxer briefs. A large bulge shifts as he moves, the cotton stretching over it, and is that… yep, that’s head outline. I swallow the words I want to say.
Jesus Christ. It’s borderline obscene. I drag my eyes up before I start looking like the creeper I absolutely am. The worst part of this situation? I wish things were different.
I wish I could just say the words.
Yeah, Spence. I’m staring because you’re hot as hell and I’d very much like to climb you and stuff all that dick inside my aching hole.
But life doesn’t work like that. Not for me.
So instead, I do what I always do—flirt.
Relentlessly. But always wrapped in sarcasm.
Always just ambiguous enough that I can laugh it off if Spence ever calls me on it.
I dance right up to the line of being obvious and then toe it, leaving that little question mark hanging between us.
But if I’m being honest? Part of me is hoping he’ll cross the line. Because if Spencer Stark ever actually made a move on me? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to say no. Deep down, I think that’s exactly what I want, consequences be damned. To have the choice made for me.
Spence snaps his gym shorts over his hips after dragging them up over those ridiculous thighs, and I finally remember he asked me a question. Right. The agency. The non-profit.
I lean back against the locker, crossing my arms like I’m completely unaffected by the half-naked gorgeous man two feet away from me. “Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “I was sworn to secrecy, Spencester. And I’m a good secret keeper.”
He rolls his deep blue eyes in that way he does when he thinks I’m being particularly annoying.
Which is often.
“Whatever,” he mutters as he grabs his water bottle and slams his locker shut. “Let’s go warm up.”
I grin, pushing off the locker and falling into step beside him. “Oh, we need warming up?” I say lightly. “Because I was already feeling warm and tingly watching you change.”
Spence pauses mid-stride and slowly turns his head toward me with a look that lands somewhere between suspicious and exhausted. “Ryan.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t deal with you.”
I flash him my most innocent smile. “Yet here you are,” I say, walking toward the weight floor beside him. “My favorite workout partner.”
He huffs under his breath, shaking his head, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Honestly, it’s almost as good as the view in the locker room.
Spence’s mood lightens through our workout. A little cardio followed by a rigorous leg routine always gets the endorphins flowing.
“One more,” I mutter to myself through clenched teeth as I drop into the bottom of my last squat, thighs burning. My legs shake as I push up. Halfway through the movement, I watch in the mirror as Spence moves in behind me. His hands hover near the bar, and his body presses closer as he spots me.
My entire nervous system short-circuits, because the man of my wet dreams is very close. Close enough that I feel the heat of his body. Close enough that his chest brushes my back. My grip nearly slips when I feel something heavy and solid pressing against my ass.
My brain explodes into static when Spence’s voice comes in low behind me. “You got it.”
Do I?
Because right now, I’m trying very hard not to die. I force the bar up the rest of the way, legs trembling, and rack it with a loud clank. For a second, I just stand there, breathing hard. Then I turn around, and he’s still right there, all up in my space.
His chest rises and falls, a faint sheen of sweat along his collarbones, dark hair slightly mussed from the workout. It does not help that he’s looking at me the way he always does. Intensely. He holds out a bottle of water. “Looking thirsty there, Ryan.”
I take the bottle, and I can feel his eyes on me as I swallow, and I have to actively stop myself from shivering like a horny teenager. Jesus. Get it together. I twist the cap and take another long drink, mostly to buy myself a second.
Spence tilts his head. “Can I ask you a question?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sure thing, Spencester.”
His eyes narrow. “I told you to stop calling me that.”
I shrug it off. “And I told you not until I find another nickname for you.”
He sighs like a deeply tired man. And I love it. He may rattle me—mostly because I’m trying to hide how attracted I am to him—but I enjoy getting a rise out of him, too.
Spence shakes his head. “Not happening.”
I grin lazily at him. “Weren’t you going to ask me a question?”
He clears his throat. “I get that you would want to sign with Anthony. I even get that you’d want to invest in the agency.” His deep blue eyes hold mine. “But why the queer youth center?”
Shit.
“What made you want to be the primary donor for that?”
And there it is. The question. The honest answer sits right there in my chest, heavy and real. I wish I could tell him. I wish I could say it out loud.
I wish I could tell him that it matters to me because I know what it feels like to hide who you are. Because I know what it’s like to grow up hearing certain words thrown around locker rooms like they’re jokes.
Like I’m a punchline.
I want to tell him it’s because I know what it’s like to fall asleep wondering what would happen if anyone ever found out the truth.
Instead, I paste on my PR smile. The one I’ve been perfecting since high school. “It’s important to my best friend,” I say easily. “So, it’s important to me.” At least what I do say is true. It’s just not the whole truth—and that’s what makes me feel gross.
Spence studies me closely as I continue, shrugging casually. “I get paid millions of dollars a year to play a sport I love. Least I can do is give something back to the community.”
Silence hangs between us as Spence gives me a look I can’t quite read. We just stare at each other for a moment. Something charged sits in the air. So, naturally, I do what I always do when things get too real.
I deflect.
“Besides,” I add lightly, “if it ever becomes public knowledge, it’ll piss off my father.” I flash him a grin. “So, win-win.”
“But Ryan—”
“Excuse me?”
We turn toward the voice cutting Spence off mid-sentence.
A woman stands a few feet away—and wow—she’s gorgeous. Long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Skin-tight leggings showing off her curves. Massive breasts practically defying physics. Big eyes. Full pouty lips.
Everything I’m expected to be attracted to.
I nod politely. “Hi. Sorry, are we in your way?” She giggles and tosses her hair back.
Oh boy.
“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she says breathlessly. “My brother is a huge fan, and I’d be kicking myself forever if I didn’t ask for your autograph.”
“No trouble at all,” I say on a smile, used to this. “What would you like me to sign?”
She bends down to her gym bag and rummages around for a second, pulls out a pen, then straightens up, tugging the strap of her top down on one side. “Sign my bra.”
I stare at her and raise a brow. “You’re going to give your bra to your brother?” I already know the answer before she giggles again and places a hand on my bicep.
“Okay,” she coos. “You got me. It’s for me.”
My eyes drop to her hand. I feel absolutely nothing. I stopped trying to make boobs happen for myself a long time ago. Back in college, all my locker room stories about girls were completely made up.
Every. Single. One.
And honestly? It made me feel disgusting.
Once I got into the NFL, I started playing the privacy card whenever teammates asked about girlfriends or hookups. Said I liked to keep my personal life private. Mature. Focused on football. Eventually they stopped asking, which was a relief.
I’m about to suggest she find something else for me to sign when I hear a low rumble behind me. I turn, and Spence is standing there… not looking pleased. I’m used to Spencer Stark looking annoyed. But this?
This is different.
There’s something hot and sharp in his eyes. His gaze drops to the woman’s hand on my arm. With a voice I don’t think I’ve ever heard come out of him, he snarls, “I suggest you get your hands off my client.”