Hat Trick (Fake Boyfriend 5)

Not being a caveman or anything.

I don’t understand where this is coming from, and the last two weeks have been grueling and hard without seeing him, but we’ve been texting daily when we can, sending pics … Well, he’s been sending photos of each city he’s in. I’ve replied with photos of the gross food our coaches have us eating as our preseason diet. But we’ve been cool.

At least, I think we have.

I’m kicking myself for not forcing a conversation face to face, but I also thought we didn’t need it.

We were both on the same page—he didn’t want me to go, and I didn’t want to leave.

Sitting here right now in pain, I’m wishing I hadn’t left.

What I don’t know is why he’s suddenly asking a random question about having sex with other people.

Cautiously, I ask: Do you want to fuck someone else?

I have to switch ice packs, so I get up and amble toward the freezer. It’s times like these I’m glad none of the gay brigade are here to see this.

I’m sure if they could, my joints would creak like an unoiled door. I’m the tinman from The Wizard of Oz right now.

Jet hasn’t replied by the time I hobble my way back to the couch, but he should be at his hotel by now.

My phone pings, but it’s not a message from Jet. It’s a daily Google alert email I set up about Radioactive and their lead singer.

Bryce said it was obsessive, but I’ve loved watching Jet evolve over the last three years. From his early performances and interviews where he’d say the wrong thing to the rock god he is now where he still says the wrong things in interviews.

The Google alert is for numerous news articles and social media posts from tonight’s concert. And right on the first page of Google images is a fan photo of Jet posing next to Harley with their arms around each other.

What the fuck?

They’ve got a backdrop behind them and the room is busy with people, so I assume they’re at the after-party, but he told me he was still avoiding the VIP meet and greets.

So, why tonight? Why, after sending me that text, did he go out instead of going back to his hotel?

It’s not that he can’t go out—I’m not trying to dictate his life—but ever since I read that text this afternoon, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that something’s off.

He still hasn’t answered my question, so I’d like to blame my next move on impatience and the pain I’m in from being back on the ice.

I forward the photo of him and Harley and say: Do what you want.

A groan falls from my mouth as I drop my phone on the couch and lie back with the new ice packs in place.

I love my job, but this is the downside.

I close my eyes and imagine myself not in pain. I think of being back on tour with Jet, watching him from the side of the stage and just admiring the fuck out of him.

I must fall asleep, because, even though it only feels like a few minutes, I wake up wet from the melted ice packs and cold. But that’s not what startles me to consciousness.

It’s the banging on my front door that rouses me.

My achy body stumbles toward the door.

I have no idea what time it is or who it could be. The entire gay brigade is on the list with my concierge at the front desk, along with a few of my teammates, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’ll be Ollie to rub it in that his bestie, Tommy, kicked my ass tonight.

Only, when I open the door, I’m proved wrong.

So fucking wrong.

“Baby?”

Jet stands there, his hair loose and curly, his cheeks flushed, and a look of pure anger on his face. He’s wearing a leather jacket that makes my sweet man look like the rock star he is to everyone else. “What the fuck, Caleb?”

Caleb. Ooh, yeah. He’s mad.

I’m still trying to get my bearings and make sure I’m not actually still asleep on the couch and dreaming this.

I blink.

Jet’s still there. He thrusts his phone at me, hitting me in the chest. “What. The. Fuck?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in DC? Wait …” I look around my apartment. “How long was I asleep? How did you get into the building?”

“The dude at the front desk recognized me, but that’s not the point. The text is why I’m here. Really? Do what you want? What the hell is up with that?”

I squint and rub my eyes. “You might need to bitch slap me awake or something because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t tempt me with the bitch slappin’ because I’m tellin’ ya I’m two seconds away from losing my shit.” With his thicker than usual accent, I can’t help thinking we’re already past that.