Top Notch Boyfriend

I have to chill the fuck out as I’ve always known I should do with guys. Like I told Jason I’d do. I grab my phone from my back pocket, toggle over to my messages.

A text blinks from him. It looks like he sent it a few hours ago, before the concert. I open the thread.

* * *

Jason: I have arrived! See you soon. You behaving? Or not behaving?

* * *

Then there’s another note sent an hour later.

* * *

Jason: But here’s the thing . . . you should do what you want to do. Know what I mean?

* * *

I write back right away.

* * *

Nate: No. What do you mean?

* * *

Jason: You okay, man? You sound a little off. Come to think of it, you seemed off at the concert. What’s going on?

* * *

Nate: I don’t want to bug you when you’re hanging with friends.

* * *

Jason: Dude. TJ and Jude are way into each other. I’m such a third wheel. Talk to me.

* * *

My heart aches stupidly. I’m trying to figure out why I’m annoyed. Or upset. Is it because Hunter has an ex? Is it because I felt used? Or is it because seeing those two dudes fighting makes me think the takeaway is to slow the fuck down?

Press the damn brakes once and for all.

That has to be the boyfriend lesson.

* * *

Nate: Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do fall too fast.

* * *

Jason: Ohhhhh. Did you fall for your Brit already?

* * *

I wince at the words. At the utter truth reflected at me. At the fact that I well and truly need to get out of this mess before it breaks my heart.

* * *

Nate: Yes.

* * *

That’s all I say. Nothing more. No joking. No teasing.

The phone rings, and as I walk past an Elvis impersonator reeking of tequila, Jason says, “I stepped away from those two. You okay, man?”

I sigh. “I will be.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” I mutter.

He laughs. “Um, we’re beyond that.”

“I don’t know. I tried to be cool, but fuck. I like the guy,” I say, only that hardly covers it.

“Is he a good dude? I didn’t get to talk to him much at the concert.”

I flash back on the last day and a half. How Hunter talks to me, takes care of me, reads my moods. Senses my insecurities and then turns them into something else: into a moment of truth.

A moment where I can start to let go of all those past issues where guys were using me to say they banged a pro baller. Guys getting me into bed because of the number on my back every Sunday, not for who I am off the field.

Hunter doesn’t seem to care about the Hawks jersey I wear to work. He did make me feel used, though. But still, he seems to care about me. My likes and dislikes, my wants and needs. My hopes and dreams.

“He’s a great dude,” I say, my heart in my throat.

“Well, there you go,” Jason says.

And here I am. Standing on the street corner, a drug store on the other side of the road, a guy in a ratty leather vest handing out tickets for a strip club nearby, and a young blonde weaving through the crowd as she carries a long, plastic cup.

Why the fuck am I here?

“I should go,” I say and hang up.

I turn around and head back to the hotel. I don’t know what to say to Hunter, how to sort out the mess in my head, what to make of Brandon fighting, Hunter kissing me in front of him or my racing pulse.

All I know is some things happen too quickly.

And some things are meant to happen.

When I reach The Extravagant, I’m buoyed by a burst of clarity, and I practically run to Speakeasy, searching for the dark-haired British babe.

I hunt through the crowd, scanning, looking.

But he’s nowhere to be found.

I draw a deep breath. Last time I felt this way at the airport, he was there. I won’t freak out.

That’s my lesson.

And I stick to it as I get in the elevator and head to our suite, sliding the key across the door.

I swing it open. “Babe,” I call out, and that affectionate nickname feels good on my tongue. Feels right to say.

The trouble is, when I walk through the quiet suite, his suitcase is gone.

18

NATE

He wouldn’t do this to me.

He would not fucking do this to me. I repeat those words as I leave the suite, phone in hand, tapping out a message to him.

* * *

Nate: Hey! Where are you? I want to see you.

* * *

There’s no reply, but I sent it two seconds ago. My pulse spikes, and my nerves run roughshod as I head to the elevator. My brain plays out a few scenarios, most of them involving heartbreak.