We sit idly before speaking, both of us sipping our hot beverages and listening to the mellow soundtrack of instrumental music above head - both of us seemingly captivated by the open flames in front of us.
Matthew is the first to speak, setting down his Grande, nonfat, half-calf, mocha latte before adjusting in his seat, twisting his large body so he can face me properly.
“Okay, fine. I admit it. This evening with the boys might have been a teensy-weensy bit of fun.” He holds his fingers up in measurement, thumb and middle finger indicating our level of fun.
It’s about three inches worth.
Ha ha.
I lean back and smack my thigh gleefully, the slap sound echoing off my jeans, then point at him like he’s a witch at the Salem trial. “See! Didn’t I tell you?” He regards me then with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners, I study him for a few heartbeats; note the stubble of a day’s growth at his jaw, and way his green eyes watch me. Always, always watching me. “The way those little boys’ look at you…”
…is the same way you look at me.
The words almost pass my lips.
I want to say it.
But I don’t.
Instead, I avoid his questing gaze and take a sip from my cup of the frothy Hazelnut Chai latte steaming from my cup, clutching it with both hands as if I’m out in the cold and need to stay warm.
“How do they look at me?” Matthew asks, cocking his head at me like a curious puppy.
“You know – they look up to you. They watch you like you’re Captain America, wielding a golden hockey stick and covered in video games.”
A pretty lame analogy, but it does manage to have the desired effect.
“No shit. Really?” I nod. “Huh, I guess hadn’t realized...”
“Well, it’s like you said that day I was at the boys practice – they don’t have many positive role models where they come from. But I also don’t think, when you were telling me that, you realize you are that positive influence they need. You and Weston. You’re their role models.”
“That’s some scary ass shit,” he jokes then gets quiet. Matthew shifts in his seat and I can see the wheels turning in his head. Slowly he begins,“I know that being – you know – a professional athlete, people look up to us. We get hounded and some of us even get stalked - not me, but I’ve heard stories.” He takes a drag from his latte before continuing, and I watch the muscles in his throat contract as he swallows. “Anyway, the team’s public relations people and our agents handle most of the public image and community service stuff. So it’s easy to forget about the little kids you actually build a relationship with giving you a hero complex. Because everyone else… they don’t even know you. They just see you on television and assume you’re decent. When, you know – some of the guys aren’t.”
I nod for him to continue.
“It’s not easy, you know. Having the public watching everything we do. That’s why I come home – I can’t stand being in Los Angeles – no offense to LA, of course… but… it’s turned me into a total homebody. I don’t go out, I don’t really know anyone besides my teammates. And a bunch of them are, you know, married. So when I hang out with John Tamaso, for example, it’s at his house with his wife and four kids. Or Brady Chandler will bring his family over, and it’s them and me barbequing by the pool at the Tamaso’s rental house.” Matthew rests his head back against the leather chair and sighs. “You don’t even want to know how the single guys on the team act on our off days. It’s a wonder we win any games.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, closing his eyes. “I already let my agent know I’m looking for a trade. Any place is better than Anaheim.”
He sits like this for another eight minutes or so - head back, eyes closed – and you know me… ogling him every chance I get without being obvious. I look my fill, staring intently at his lips (my favorite part of his face), trying to remember what they felt like pressed against mine.
I study the shape of them, and the way he has them pursed. The sharp indent at the bow, well defined and full, his lower lip slightly pouty.
Without thinking, I touch the tips of my fingers to my mouth, running my index finger back and forth across the bottom of my lip, as my gaze moves lower to the gap at the collar of his shirt where he’s left the top unbuttoned.
I imagine trailing my hands across the cords of his neck, slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt down to his navel, and running my soft hands across his pecs. I wonder briefly if he has a hairy chest, or if it’s bare – then my mind (and eyes) wanders further south to his ‘happy trail’… and just as I’m getting a visual of what it looks like in my mind --