Hat Trick (Fake Boyfriend 5)

It was not.

I took Soren’s hand to drag him away where I could have him to myself. “Tell Wayne I’m goin’ out.”

“Dude, he left halfway through the set,” Benji said.

Of course, he did.

Our tour manager was the worst. He didn’t believe in us, in our music, or that we were good enough for the label.

And he was a sleazebag.

A convincing one.

But I wasn’t going to think about that with Soren there.

“Don’t wait up,” I called on the way out.

“Where are we going?” Soren asked over the house music.

“To get a drink. I can legally buy you one this time.”

His body shook as he laughed. “You know, I was under the impression you could legally buy me one last year.”

I gave him my best innocent face.

“You’re trouble.”

“Duh.”

Once back in the bar area of the venue, I was approached by fans all the way to the bar. I said a quick hi to each of them and took selfies. At one point, I lost Soren, but by the time I made it to the bar, he was waiting there for me with two drinks.

I leaned in close to his ear so he could hear me. “I was supposed to buy you a drink.”

“I still owed you from last time.” Soren slid the glass over to me.

“So, uh … I—”

A piercing screech echoed in my ear. “Jay! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

I put on a publicity-ready smile and faced the barely dressed chick. “Hi.”

“Can I get a photo?”

I gritted my teeth. I loved my fans, I really did. But I was with Soren. The Soren.

“Of course.”

She threw her arm around my shoulder and took a selfie. But as soon as she walked away, another person approached.

Then another.

Then a guy came up to us. “You’re Roman Josi!”

“Who?” I asked.

“Nice to meet you.” Soren held out his hand to shake.

It was the guy’s turn to fanboy over the hotness of Soren. “Whoa, this is so cool.” Then he spotted me. “Hey, you were onstage!”

“Yup.”

“Cool. So cool.”

Soren chatted to the guy about hockey, but I was still confused.

The fan got a pen off the bartender and asked Soren to sign his shirt.

Finally, after he left, I leaned in. “Who’s Roman Josi?”

Soren grinned. “He plays for Tennessee. We get mixed up all the time because we apparently look alike. I don’t see it.”

“You just sign someone else’s name?”

“Nah, I wrote ‘I’m not Roman Josi’ and then signed my name and team underneath it.”

“Brilliant.” I took out my phone. “I so have to Google this.” As soon as the image popped up, my eyes widened. “Damn, there’s two of you. That’s too much for my brain to handle.” And my cock, but I didn’t say that aloud. “Please tell me he’s gay too. No, wait, don’t. I’ll never get that image out of my head.”

“Sorry. Still only Ollie and me on team gay so far in the league.”

“Shame.”

“Hey.” Another guy approached.

This time, I didn’t know who he was approaching. Me or Mr. Hockey. It became obvious when he leaned closer to me, pressing his side against mine.

Hello, personal space boundaries.

Although the scowl on Soren’s face was a nice consequence.

“I read somewhere you’re gay,” the guy said.

“I am, but sorry, you’re not my type.”

He cocked his head.

“I prefer guys who can’t read.”

He laughed. Any other night, I would’ve been all over him. He was tall, cute, and scruffy. Definitely my actual type.

But, Soren.

The random guy pressed in closer. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“He’s good,” Soren growled.

I kinda loved it.

The guy glanced between the two of us and then backed away with his hands up. “Worth a shot.”

I threw back the rest of my drink. “Can we go somewhere neither of us could be recognized?”

Soren stood. “Let’s go.”

We were stopped another handful of times, me more so than Soren, but I wasn’t counting … much.

It was surreal to be next to Soren again. Last time I’d seen him, I was talking about becoming famous, and now I was being recognized by people in a bar.

Finally, after months of being exhausted and thinking about how shitty touring was, I saw the payoff. I could not only see how far I’d come but could feel it.

“We should go dancing,” I said as we hit the warm Tampa air.

“Or we could go coffeeing.”

“Compromise. Dancing then coffee.”

Soren groaned.

“Come on, old man. Not up for it?”

“Don’t call me old man.”

“Big Daddy?”

“Fuck no.”

“Roman Josi …”

Soren shoved me, and I laughed. It was easy to find my laugh with him. I was used to playing the goofball card, trying to pull everyone into my madness. The truth was, my outlandish personality was my armor—something I needed to protect the inner broody artist I tried to tame.

Like that night last year in the club, Soren let me breathe easy and just … be.

I didn’t have to think of the quips coming out my mouth. They fell out on their own.