Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
CALLAN
I hold my finger on the buzzer a few seconds longer than necessary, hoping it’s making an obnoxious sound on the other end. Then I let off, wait ten seconds, and do it again. By the third time, a voice finally comes through the intercom.
“Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”
I smirk and hold down the talk button to answer. “Good.”
There’s no immediate response. Was Diego not expecting me?
Or maybe he was hoping it wasn’t me. I had my suspicions when he texted me this morning to cancel his training, claiming he wanted to rest his muscles for an extra day before getting back at it, but the minute long silence before he says anything confirms it.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s Wednesday,” I remind him, shifting the bag of ingredients from one hand to the other and pulling my shirt up to wipe some of the sweat off of my face.
He’s silent again for at least thirty seconds.
Is he seriously going to forfeit his pinball prize just because he’s embarrassed that he got an unexpected hard-on from a massage?
As much as I’d love to pump up my own ego and assume he got turned on by me, I have to go with the most obvious answer—that even straight guys get random erections when they don’t necessarily want them.
The door finally buzzes without another reply from Diego, and I grab the handle to pull it open before he can change his mind.
I got his address from his membership form, so I already know his apartment number, which is on the second floor.
There’s an elevator, but I ignore it in favor of the stairs.
I shouldn’t be surprised that he lives in a nice-ass building.
His rent has to be double mine based on the lobby alone.
I might envy his fat hockey paycheck if it weren’t for the fact that he spends more time on the road every year than actually enjoying his nice apartment.
I reach his floor and prepare myself for the possibility that even though he buzzed me in, I might still have to talk him into opening the door.
But when I get there, the door is already open and Diego is leaning against the doorframe in a pair of low-slung shorts and a tight t-shirt.
He must have his air conditioning cranked up inside, because his nipples are stiff against the fabric.
He looks at the bag in my hand, drags his fingers through his already messy hair, then steps out of the way to let me pass.
“I forgot about the whole dinner thing,” he says as I step inside and toe my shoes off.
“Wow, it’s like beating me at pinball meant nothing to you.”
A grin flashes across his face, erasing the cautious, tight expression that was there a second ago.
“Well, you know, I win at so many things, it’s hard to keep track of them all.”
Lord save me from the allure of cocky straight men.
A round black pug waddles up behind him with a snort and eyes me from a safe place behind his legs, its curly tail wagging cautiously.
“This is Slapshot.” Diego stoops to scratch the dog behind the ears and give him a little push towards me.
“Slapshot?” I repeat. “Does Sarah Mclaughlin know about this?”
“What?” He chuckles.
“Naming your pug Slapshot is blatant animal abuse if I’ve ever seen it.” I shake my head and Diego laughs harder.
“I didn’t name him, my sister did. But I’ll be sure to pass that message along.”
“You have a sister?” I don’t know why it’s surprising to hear about Diego’s family, but it feels a little bit like seeing your elementary school teacher at the grocery store.
Some part of you knew they were a real person with an outside life, but a much bigger part of you is shocked to realize they’re a whole-ass human being.
“Val.” He nudges the dog gently with his foot so he’ll follow us deeper into the apartment.
“She’s three years older than me and I swear she’s been a mother hen since the day I was born.
After I called her about the breakup, she showed up here the next day with this fart monster in tow and told me he was going to be my new best friend. ”
“That’s nice. I’ve always envied people with siblings,” I confess. “I guess I’m getting a taste of the experience with the guys at Sweat though. We spend enough time lovingly insulting each other and getting all up in each other’s business to feel like brothers.”
Diego’s smile goes from relaxed to strained again, and he nods. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.”
I’m about to pry and ask if he’s talking about the guys on his team, but he keeps talking without giving me an opening to be as nosy as I want to be.
“What’d you bring to cook? I have a fully stocked kitchen that you’re welcome to help yourself to, and there’s a grill out on the balcony if you want to use that.”
“You have a balcony?”
“Winners have balconies, man.” He gives me a cocky smirk. “Here, let me give you a quick tour. You have got to see my home gym. Then I’m going to crack open a beer, kick back, and let you cook for me.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He leads me into the kitchen so I can set the bag down on the counter, and I let out a low whistle at the size of it.
His kitchen could fit three of mine, and I say that as a person who’s never had kitchen envy in his life.
I’ve always been perfectly comfortable with the size of my kitchen, but damn, the things I could cook in here.
Does he like to cook? Does he have a personal chef who stops by a few times a week to cook for him or a meal service that delivers his food?
Finding out he has a sister is like opening Pandora’s box.
I want to find out everything else that I don’t know about Diego Ferguson; all the things they don’t talk about on ESPN.
I guess a tour of his apartment is a good place to start.
DIEGO
I stuff my hands into my pockets to keep myself from awkwardly fidgeting as Callan unpacks the ingredients he brought.
If he hasn’t mentioned yesterday’s incident by now, he’s probably going to let it lie, right?
He seems totally chill, like it’s not even on his mind.
He teased me a little about my messy bedroom when I showed him around and was clearly impressed by the balcony and gym.
The only person who feels weird right now is me, and I need to just let it go.
Sometimes guys get random erections and sometimes when we jerk off, weird shit pops into our heads. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
“You want to go start your grill while I prep the salmon?” he asks.
“No way. You’re making dinner and I’m watching you make dinner.” I hop up on the edge of the counter and smoosh my ass around on the cool marble, making a show of getting comfortable. “Hey, grab me a beer from the fridge.” I nudge him with my foot.
Callan scowls and shakes his head, then turns to open the fridge and pull out a beer. I hold my hand out, but he twists the cap off and takes a sip himself, taunting me with a toothy grin as he sets the bottle down on the far end of the counter, out of my reach.
“Dick.” I chuckle, then bite down on my tongue when I realize what I just said. Way to avoid the elephant in the room, man.
Callan doesn’t seem to notice it though.
Of course not—why would he? There’s nothing memorable to him about a guy getting a hard-on while his hands are all over them.
He probably calls that a Tuesday. A frown unintentionally tugs at my mouth.
He said he’d hooked up with a couple of his clients.
Maybe he took them into the massage room, oiled up his hands, and…
An unexpected rush of heat has me dragging in a sharp breath. I heave myself back off the counter and whip open the fridge to get myself a beer, letting the cold air cool my skin for a few seconds and scatter the strange thoughts.
This is Slater’s fault. He put all this confusing shit into my head, and now I can’t stop thinking about it because it doesn’t have anywhere to go. It’s like trapped, stale air. Maybe I just need to open a window.
I twist the cap off of my beer and flick it at the garbage can, nailing the shot from halfway across the kitchen. I fist-pump in victory, take a sip to fortify my resolve, then open the damn window.
“Slater said something funny.”
“Oh yeah?” Callan doesn’t look up, just keeps rubbing the salmon down with seasoning, but I see his eyebrows go up with interest.
“There was this gorgeous woman checking me out and I mentioned to him and AJ that I just wasn’t in a good headspace to hook up with any women right now, you know?”
Callan grunts and his eyes flick to me before returning to the food prep.
I take another sip of beer and clear my throat. Am I really going to say this out loud? What exactly am I hoping he’s going to say back? Maybe he’ll tell me that Slater was just winding me up? Fucking with me? Getting into my head? If that was his goal, it fucking worked.
“He said I should try guys.” I force a laugh.
Callan stops rubbing the salmon and turns to look at me fully. The expression on his face is unreadable. Is he annoyed? Amused? I can’t tell.
“Yeah, that sounds like Slater,” he says after a few seconds of pause. “Don’t take it personally. He only figured out that he’s bisexual, like, a year ago. Now he’s sure that everyone is.”
“Right,” I mutter. Is that all it is? He’s projecting?
I guess it makes sense. I mean, I’m straight.
I’ve always been straight. You don’t just wake up one day and want to rub up on other dudes, right?
Another laugh forces its way up my throat, and a panicky little flutter moves through my stomach.
“He made it sound like a totally regular thing straight guys do. Dumped by your girl but still horny? Try getting a blowjob from a guy instead.”
I laugh again and I’m expecting Callan to laugh too, but instead he shrugs and his lips twist into a crooked, coy kind of smile.
“Hard to say who’s actually straight and who’s in denial, you know? I’m not in the business of policing anyone’s personal label.”
“Wait, are you saying you’ve sucked off straight guys?
” My voice drops low like I’m afraid someone’s going to overhear and burst in here to accuse me of being gay.
I’d be lying if I said my dick wasn’t suddenly more interested in this conversation than it should be, plumping slowly against my thigh.
He stares at me with an unmistakable challenge sparkling in his eyes.
“If you’re trying to hint that you want a blowjob, Fergie, you’re going to have to come right out and say it.”
Wait… does that mean he’s offering?