The Jock Script (The Script Club 3)

“No. Have you?”

“Nope. You’re my last…”

“Conquest,” he supplied, twirling the straw in his cup.

“Something like that.” My smile dipped when he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What’s wrong? You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I was thinking…you look very familiar. I thought the same thing the night that we…”

“Fucked.”

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Yes. Um…but I have a much stronger sense of déjà vu now. Like I’ve been here in this coffee shop with you.”

“Well, that didn’t happen. I would have remembered you,” I assured him.

“Hmm. Maybe.” He flicked his wrist dismissively and sat up taller in his chair, shooting a no-nonsense glance my way. “You said you had a sensitive issue to discuss. I’ve been on pins and needles for two days. If you’re going to tell me you have a sexually transmitted disease, please spit it out now.”

I widened my eyes comically. “No, I’m healthy. I promise.”

He exhaled noisily. “Phew. So…what is it, then?”

Okay. Now I felt stupid.

I sipped my coffee thoughtfully and let my gaze wander around the busy shop. This place was always packed with college students and local hipsters. The artsy decor and indie music set an uber-relaxed vibe, but the exposed-duct ceilings didn’t do much for the acoustics. It was loud.

I leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table. “This is going to sound weird, but…you know when I mentioned that I’m bi?”

“Yes. No one I know cares. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks, but that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“What is it?” he prodded.

Okay…here goes nothing.

“At the risk of sounding like a complete nut job, I asked you to meet me because…you’re perfect.”

He smiled coyly. “Why, thank you.”

“What I mean is…you’re out and proud. And I don’t know you, obviously, but you seem very self-assured.”

“I try to be.”

“And you keep yourself in check with your personal grading system. You have high standards, and you don’t want to let yourself down. Am I right?”

He nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”

“I am your opposite. I have high standards professionally, but in my personal life I’m—”

“A chronic liar. I remember.”

I lifted my to-go cup in a mock toast. “Yeah, well. What can I say?”

“Lying is a major relational transgression and a flagrant deception that leads to mistrust and feelings of betrayal. Don’t be proud of your ability to deceive at will,” he scolded.

“I’m not that kind of liar,” I hissed. “I’m not running a Ponzi scheme, for Christ’s sake. I’m just a regular guy.”

“Who lies.”

I winced. “Yeah, but I don’t want to lie anymore. And that’s where you come in.”

He frowned hard enough to dislodge his glasses from the bridge of his nose. He adjusted them as he leaned in. “Me? I’m confused.”

“I have a new situation at work and an ongoing one with an ex and…I’m officially nearing the end of my rope. I don’t have anyone to talk to about this. No one anonymous, anyway.”

“Talk about what?”

“How to come out,” I blurted.

Silence.

Well, coffee shop silence. The sound of good-natured chatter above the clink of china and the whoosh of an espresso machine filled the air. But at this particular table, we might as well have been in a space vacuum. I couldn’t hear anything but my heartbeat pounding in my skull.

“You want me to help you come out,” he repeated, enunciating each word as if to emphasize his incredulity.

“Um…yeah. See, I don’t know any gay people. Not well, anyway. And the ones I do know would think I’m nuts, or they’d know I was asking for a reason, and I’d probably give away more than I want to. Do you see my problem?”

“Yes, you need a good therapist. You’ve lucked out.…My mother just happens to be one.” He picked up his phone and tapped on the screen.

“Is she gay?”

He paused to give me a WTF look. “No, but I don’t see what difference it makes. You’re in a quandary and seek a service that I’m not equipped to—”

“You’re perfect. For this,” I added quickly.

“But I’m not a professional.”

“I don’t want a professional. I want you,” I insisted as he twisted his tongue around his straw. Gah, that was hot. I shifted on my chair, hoping to ease the pressure when my dick swelled against my zipper. This was not the time to perv on a stranger. “Hear me out. You’re roughly my age, you’re gay, you seem to be pretty honest, and—”

“I’m extremely honest,” he interjected.

“That’s good. I need to talk to someone honest who doesn’t know me. And before you suggest a shrink again…that won’t work. I don’t have time to get in touch with my feelings. I have immediate problems.”

He set his drink on the table, running a single digit through the condensation on his cup. I watched his finger as if it were the opening reel in my favorite porn. I could almost imagine him tracing the vein on my cock to my—