Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I suck in a sharp breath. “What the fuck?”
“Oh, that’s not even the worst part. The next day, he pretended like he didn’t do anything wrong. Knocked on my door, practically let himself in, and threw himself on my bed, completely ignoring the shiner on my face. Said he was ‘protecting what we had.’ That weekend also happened to be the start of spring break, so when I went home, Mom saw the black eye, and the worrying became worse. She was convinced I was the victim of a hate crime, and then having to explain it was my boyfriend who did it? I understand she has the right to be worried, but I’m not one to hide who I am.”
And I am. And that’s the entire reason we’re on the phone right now instead of face to face.
“Shit, I didn’t mean that as some kind of dig at you. I understand why you can’t—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I completely understand. It sucks, but it’s my reality. I chose this when I decided my career was more important than anything else.”
Lennon draws in a deep breath I can hear through the phone. “I wish it was easier for you to have both.”
“Can I ask you something? Why, after all of that, did you go into sports journalism? Like, shouldn’t you hate the industry and everything it stands for?”
Lennon hesitates, and I can practically hear him opening his mouth to say something but changing his mind. When he does finally find his voice, it’s small. “Just because I don’t have the talent to play the sports I love, that doesn’t mean I don’t still love them. I’ve been obsessed ever since I was little. I like analyzing plays and the general atmosphere of a game and am fascinated by team mentality. I guess you were born with the athlete gene, and I was born with the spectator gene.”
“I admire you for not holding resentment.” I admire a lot about Lennon after what he just told me.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I resent those assholes from my past. But that resentment also motivates me to make a change in the sporting industry. I want to write more pro-LGBTQ stories. The NHL, MLB, and the NBA still don’t have out players on their current rosters. If it weren’t for Matt, the NFL wouldn’t either. I wasn’t lying when I said I want to support gay men in sports.”
“And I have all the hope in the world that you’ll succeed.”
Chapter Twelve
LENNON
Stopping us from going there again is a smart idea. My cock disagrees, but with the way Ollie reacts to my past, even he can’t admit that he won’t hurt me. The best thing to do in this situation is walk away before becoming invested.
With my track record, I can’t risk it.
Maybe third time’s a charm.
Wishful thinking.
Not to mention if we were to start something real, I’d be putting more than my heart on the line. Female reporters who’ve gotten involved with athletes tend to not stick around in the industry for long. Whether they’re honest about it from the beginning—something Ollie and I could never do because he’s closeted—or if they’re found out, they become targets, labeled as jersey chasers, and then their articles are ridiculed for being biased.
My jock issues aren’t the only thing holding me back.
So, yes, even if I’m kicking my own ass for turning Ollie down, I did the right thing.
In the coming days, the Dragons are plagued by illness, injury, and stupid penalties. They lose the same way they started the series—with a fucking shutout.
They leave the arena with their heads hanging low but their hopes high. This is the furthest the Dragons have been in five years, and they show potential for next year.
During the press conference, Ollie’s not even present. The team captain and the head coach are the only people giving interviews. They do the usual thank-yous, praise their team for getting as far as they did, and spout bullshit about an optimistic future for the team. By the time I’ve written up the gist of my article and made my way out of the arena, I can’t find Jet or Ollie anywhere.
Not that I want to see Ollie. Last time I sought him out to give my condolences, we ended up lip-locked and grinding against one another.
I wait by the players’ entrance and get out my phone. There’s no message from Jet, so I text him asking if he’s already left.
Leaning against the wall, I tap out some more notes on my phone to add to the article before I send it off to my editor. Every time the door clicks open, I perk up, only to be disappointed when it’s never Ollie who steps through.
No, I’m waiting for Jet. Not him.
Keep telling yourself that.