“Are you sure you’re a senator?” I finally asked. “Aren’t they old and stuffy?”
“Most of them, yes. I’m special.”
Heat pooled low in my gut, and I tried to ignore it. “Let’s get that beer.”
I grabbed two bottles from the fridge, then handed one over to him. We opened them, and Weston walked around, looking at odds and ends as he worked his way toward the living room. He was so relaxed, I wondered if he made himself at home in random guys’ houses all the time. I followed behind him as if my house was his place and he was leading me through it. “This is your brother?” He pointed to a photo on the wall.
“Yeah. He’s the best.”
“I’m sure he would say the same about you.” He took a drink of his beer and continued to move around the room. “College jersey. Ugh, fucking sports guys. I can’t believe this is on the wall in your living room.”
“Hey, I was a fucking badass college player.”
He waved his hand. “Yes, I know. I’m your stalker, remember?”
I liked that Weston had spent time looking into my career. “Eh, no one’s perfect.”
He finished his tour, then went for the couch. “You’re not freaking out.”
“Oh no, I assure you, I am. I got some of it out by talking to myself in the mirror. Now I’m just trying to hide it. Believe me, there is a lot of internal freaking out happening.”
Weston sighed and sat down. “As much as I tease, and contrary to what traveling here might say, I won’t push you. Ever. This is your life, your truth. No one has the right to decide how someone else lives their life. And no matter what happens or doesn’t happen between us, if you tell me to fuck off, and I walk out, and we never speak again, your secret is safe with me, Anson. I would never tell anyone. I would never do that to someone.”
I believed him. I trusted Weston. I wouldn’t have kept talking to him if I didn’t. Maybe that was stupid, but it was true.
I sat down on the other end of the couch. My leg couldn’t keep still, bouncing up and down. “I know. I just… I’ve never admitted it. I’ve never told anyone.”
“I know. And I’m sorry it has to be that way.”
As cocky and sarcastic as Weston was, he knew when to take things seriously. He was kind, compassionate. I liked those things about him a lot.
“Football…fuck, we play it off really well, like we’re inclusive, but we’re not. I told you before about how often I hear the word fag or guys talk about being queer or limp-wristed. How they wouldn’t want to share a locker room with a gay guy. The fans…” I rubbed a hand over my face. “Fuck, I don’t even want to think about how that would go down. What it could do to the team, ya know? It wouldn’t be about our game or our record. We’d be the team with the gay guy on it. That’s what people would talk about and focus on. Endorsements, contracts…fuck.” I had the current season and one more with Atlanta.
“Hey, relax. No one is asking you to come out. It’s just me and you. If I’m not going to tell and you’re not going to tell, then you’re good.”
I looked over and smiled at him, suddenly really fucking glad I’d gone to the bar that night. I needed Weston. I needed someone.
“It’s just hard, feeling like I have to be so careful, always keeping a part of myself locked away. I don’t even… I spent half an hour scrubbing myself in the shower because I felt like shit after sleeping with a woman. I just want to be like everyone else.” I couldn’t believe I was doing this, that I’d said all that to him. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. What the hell is whining about it going to fix?”
“Is being with women something you do often?” Weston asked, an odd thickness to his voice.
“No. I do it sometimes because otherwise people would wonder. Sometimes I hope it’ll be special, or hell, I just want to be touched.”
My gaze snapped to Weston’s when a deep groan escaped his lips. “You’re killing me here, Bashful. I told you I wouldn’t push, and I don’t want to, but I need to tell you how much I’d love to be the one to touch you. Jesus, the things I would do to you.”
Bashful. My hands shook. It felt as if I had something lodged in my throat. I tried to swallow it down but couldn’t. My pulse raced like I was in the middle of the biggest play during the biggest game of my career. I had one shot. If I took it, I won. I’d know what it was like to win at least once in my life, but if I didn’t, I’d lose. I’d spend the rest of my life regretting it, not knowing what it would feel like to win. To be touched the way I longed to be touched.