Immoral by Nicole Dykes

7 Years Later

Fuck, what did I do last night?

I reluctantly open my eyes and groan when I see a hand on my chest. A neatly trimmed and manicured nails on a dainty but masculine hand. “Well, hey.” The blond guy smiles up at me with a sparkling smile I’m pretty sure attracted to me to him last night.

“Hey.” I stretch my arms upward, and the guy takes the opportunity to scoot higher, lying nearly flat against my bare chest.

He traces the tattoo on my bicep. “Lordy, these muscles.” He drags his tongue over said muscles, and I try my best not to pull away.

“Yeah?”

“I could stay here and lick them all . . .” he moves down to my pecs, “day  . . .” and then the ridges of my sculped abs, “long.”

Christ, that thought should make me happy. Or horny. But really, all I want is to get this guy out of my bed. “As fun as that sounds, I have some things to take care of today.”

He pouts, pushing his pink bottom lip out as he looks at me with sad, puppy dog eyes. I could break the guy in two. He’s thin and wiry but, if I recall, has a mouth like a fucking hoover. And there’s no denying he’s a good-looking man. “I suppose you might. But maybe I’ll be your good-luck charm.”

He winks as I sit up in my bed, pushing him back gently enough to give myself some space. The sheet covers my lap, but that doesn’t stop his gaze from going there. “We might need it.”

He shakes his head, leaning in to kiss me, but I turn my head because I’m a fucking asshole. He pouts again but quickly recovers. “Game seven is going to be epic. Did you hear who they nabbed for the national anthem?”

That grabs my attention as I climb out of the bed, tugging on a pair of gray sweatpants and turning back to the stranger. “No. Who?”

I don’t pay much attention to the entertainment. My mind is on the game. My first World Series. And fuck, if the series hasn’t gone all the way to the final game to see who’s going to take home the win.

“Immoral. Well, I guess just the lead singer, but it’s still pretty damn cool if you ask me.” He stands up with no shame at his nakedness, not that he should have any. He tugs on his tight pants from last night and finds his shirt.

“Immoral?”

I sit down on the bed, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me up. “Yeah. Well, Grady Bell.”

Fuck.

Me.

Of course, he’ll be there. Because why the fuck not? It’s only the most important game of my professional career, and I haven’t seen him since graduation night seven years ago. But sure, perfect time for a reunion.

“Are you sure? I thought they were on tour.”

He grabs his phone, typing away before he shows me an article stating that Grady is back in his “hometown” to finish out the World Series. Fuck. Kansas City isn’t even our hometown.

We’re from a really small town about eighty miles south of Kansas City on the Kansas side, but facts aren’t really all that important, right? Not when you’re trying to sell something.

“I think their tour ended a couple of weeks ago. Anyway, pretty cool. You’re from here too. Do you guys know each other?”

Okay, I’m done with the small talk. “I’m sorry. I really have shit to do. This was fun though.”

The guy—for the life of me, I can’t remember his name—approaches me, pulling on the waist of my joggers, tugging me closer to him. “Don’t be a stranger. I mean, I know I can’t say anything about this, but I may have left my name and number in your phone if you’re up for more fun.”

He kisses me and then tosses me a wink before bouncing out of my room.

Thank God for NDAs.My agent would fucking kill me for last night, but I did get him to sign the NDA before bringing him home and avoided all pictures at the crowded club. And because the World Series happened to be in the town where my house is located, I didn’t have to stay in a hotel, so the guy does have my actual address.

Risky. Maybe. But I’m not worried.

Sue me. I was celebrating my team making it to the final game.

But you see, I’m an athlete. And as liberal and accommodating as the sports world tries to seem these days, there are some things that just aren’t done as my agent, Jenny, has explained to me many, many times.

My phone rings next to my bed, and I groan, walking over to answer it without even looking. I know who it is this early in the morning. “Hey, Ma.”

“Well, hello, Mr. Bigshot World Series Guy.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile on my face as I take a seat on my bed. My parents are pretty okay even if they may be a little ignorant. But they love me. They always have. They stuck together through the teen pregnancy and managed to have three boys, all baseball players. But I’m the only one that’s gone pro so far. Although my youngest brother is well on his way.

“Good morning.”

“Did you get enough rest last night?”

I glance at my crumpled sheets and shrug even if she can’t see me. “Sure.”

“Uh-huh. Well, your father and I are so excited. You know we’ll be there in the stands screaming louder than anyone else.”

“It’s like ninety degrees. Why won’t you use your VIP seats? There’s air conditioning.”

I can actually hear her waving me off. “Please. That’s not a real experience. Oh, and did you hear Grady will be there? What ever happened to you two boys? You were so close.”

Well, Mom. He kissed my fucking brains out. And then I couldn’t handle being in love with a straight guy, so I ditched town early without saying goodbye, and now I’m sure he hates me.

Cannot say that though. “He’s busy, Mom.”

“Well, you two can catch up. I saw he’s dating that cute little girl from that show . . . What’s it called?”

“I have no idea, Ma.” I do, but I’m not saying it. Grady has had lots of girlfriends over the past seven years. All really high profile celebs like himself.

“Well, maybe you can double-date. If you’d ever bring anyone home, that is. I heard that girl reporter . . . the blonde one that’s so cute. What’s her name?”

“Veronica.” My mom has been trying to set me up with her since she interviewed me my rookie year.

I could go into the whole “Mom, I’m gay” thing again, but what the hell’s the point? My mom and dad prefer to live in deliberate ignorance. In their world, their son isn’t gay. He’s just a player who hasn’t quite found the right girl yet.

“Right. Well, I know she’s sweet on you.”

“I gotta go, Mom. I’ll see you later.”

“Yes. Go win the World Series, Ry. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” I lean back against my headboard, swallowing tightly. She’s proud of the baseball player.

But not the man I really am.