Deke (Fake Boyfriend 3)

I could text, but that’d give him a chance to not reply. I hit dial on his number instead.

It rings numerous times, and I imagine him staring at his phone debating whether to answer the unfamiliar number. I imagine the adorable concentration line over the frame of his glasses which he gets during press conferences.

Although, he must’ve got his contacts prescription refilled finally, because he hasn’t worn his glasses all week.

I prefer the nerdy glasses.

“Lennon Hawkins.” When his voice finally hits my ears, the professional tone does things to my groin.

This is not good.

“Hello?”

Shit, I’ve been too quiet. “Your reporter voice is hot.” Fuck, not what I was supposed to say.

“Thank you?” Lennon sounds unsure, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s being sarcastic or he doesn’t know who it is.

“It’s, ah, Ollie.”

“I know.” He’s smiling now. I can hear it in his voice. “What’s up?”

“Ah … Petrov’s gone out for the night.”

“Thanks for the scoop. I’ll write it into my article right now.”

“Smartass,” I grumble and let out a loud breath. “He has this … theory.”

“Okaaay.”

“That to not suck in game six, we need to do exactly what we did the night after game one.”

He’s silent for a beat, and I begin to wonder if the call dropped out. Or maybe he dropped the phone. “Umm …”

I know exactly what he’s picturing right now. Us, fooling around on my bed, kissing as if we were told the world was going to end, and leading to something we should be thankful got interrupted.

I hesitate before saying, “I’m not saying he has a point, but it’d be kinda fun to see if he did.”

Lennon stays silent.

I sigh. “Okay, yeah, not a great idea.”

“Ollie …” His tone is soft, but his voice has an edge to it, and I know what’s coming.

My eyes fuse shut, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know why I called. I wanted to see you, but talking to you right now, I remember why that’s a bad idea.”

I can’t be with him in the way he deserves. It’s not like we could go on a date like a real couple or do any of the shit Ash wanted me to while we were together. Pursuing Lennon would make me an asshole, but all I want to do is find out what room he’s in and go over there and finish what we started five games ago.

“I think Boston is the issue,” Lennon says.

“Huh?”

“Boston,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The two times we’ve kissed was when we were here. Totally Boston’s fault. You don’t want me. Boston wants you to want me.”

“Boston is a shitty wingman,” I complain.

“Yeah. Not the best at picking the ideal guy for you.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Let’s just say you’re not the first closeted guy to screw with me. I kind of have a penchant for them.”

Shit, I’m already an asshole. “It’s not my intention to screw with you.”

“That’s a slight improvement on the others.”

“Others? How many have there been?”

“Two. Plus multiple crushes.”

A pang of jealousy hits me, which is ridiculous. Lennon’s been with other guys. That’s a given. That doesn’t mean I want to hear about it, though.

“It started with Daniel Pirro.” He sighs wistfully, and I hate it.

I may not want to hear it, but apparently, we’re doing this.

“In high school, I wasn’t out, but I’ve always been one of those guys where it was obvious. I used to say I’m like the Luke Skywalker of gay guys.”

“Wow, think highly of yourself, huh?”

Lennon laughs. “No, but the gay is strong with this one. I set gaydars off within a two-mile radius.”

“Sounds convenient.”

“Except when you’re a sixteen-year-old kid.”

I wince.

“I don’t know if Daniel or maybe his friends saw me checking him out or if they just got a kick out of humiliating me, but one day after school, Daniel—the fucking captain of the football team—corners me outside my AP class.”

AP classes? Figures Lennon is smart. I barely graduated. I did enough to pass so Ma and Dad would continue to let me play hockey. I’m not dumb, but I’m not exactly college material.

“I was always the last to leave, so everyone had already gone. I was waiting for him to hit me or tell me to stop staring at him or something. Instead, he asked me out.”

My stomach churns. I don’t really want to know where this story is going, and I thank God that I had my older brothers to look out for me. I never had to worry about being outed and getting hurt—all my fear has been about my career, even back in high school. I was practically born wearing skates, and it’s all I’ve ever cared about.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I thought he was fucking with me, but when he stared right at me with vulnerable eyes and asked if I was like him, I … well, yeah, I fell for it. I was getting everything I’d fantasized about for months, so I didn’t question as hard as I should have. I went home thinking I had an actual chance with a football player.”