“Sure, Ollie,” Leo says quietly. It doesn’t sound like he believes him. “You make the rules.”
The length of the room between them, the site of their first kiss and their, well, not quitefirstfight, is too much. He just wants to be close to Leo, as close as he’s allowed, for as long as he can manage. “Come on, then,” he says. “Let’s go get something else to eat.”
“In public?” Leo asks, half-joking, half-exhausted. “Won’t that be suspicious?”
“I’d like to have dinner with you,” Oliver says. “The rules are for everyone else, not for how you deserve to be treated. I want you to know that. Besides, won’t it be hot? When the waitress tries to hit on me again, but you know I’m thinking about you fucking me?”
He offers Leo his arm just to make his intentions certain. He can be chivalrous when they’re alone, in his kitchen. Leo smacks the crook of Oliver’s elbow down to his side, a little harder than necessary, but he puts one hand in Oliver’s back pocket and keeps it there as they walk out, bumping into each other all down the stairwell.
• • •
They’re model citizens for the next two days, two bosom buddies who live in separate houses. And if Oliver organized an outing to play pool at the pub tonight, picking the spot that’s just one street over from his place and not owned by Conor Bishop,that’sjust because he’s a great teammate. Altruistic, even.
Being able to spend the evening with Leo without arousing any suspicion was supposed to be a bonus, but now that they’re crowded into a booth, Oliver wonders if it was a terriblemistake. Something else is arousing, is the problem. Have billiards always been so phallic? Sticks and balls, et cetera. Under the neon beer signs, Joe interrupts his indecent thoughts and passes Oliver a cue with one hand, pulling him to his feet with the other, sparing him some torment and introducing a new method of it. Oliver isn’t even any good at pool. He’s got coordinated feet, no hand-eye to speak of.
“This was a stupid idea,” Oliver grouses.
“It wasyourstupid idea, though, wasn’t it,” Joe replies sweetly. “Put your phone away!” Oliver manages to ignore him until Joe brings in reinforcements, Trevor joining him in pinning both of Oliver’s arms to his sides and marching him over to the sea of cheap felt. “Riddle me this,” Joe goes on, laughing. “You arealwaysglued to that thing, but never once have you responded to any message in a timely manner. I had to change you as my emergency contact!”
“It’s a power play,” Anthony adds sagely. “He thinks his time is more valuable than ours.”
“Joe, you changed your emergency contact to yourwife,” Oliver says defensively.
“He shouldn’t have had to!” Finn says.
“Oh, come off it,” Leo says casually from the booth, looking down at his own phone. “Oliver texts back.”
Joe’s face quirks into one of amused betrayal.
“So there is someone else!” He points at Oliver with the menacing end of a cue. “And here you told me I was your number one.”
“He said that to me too,” Trevor sighs.
Oliver squirms, the only one in the uncomfortable middle of a gay joke. Well, maybe not the only one, because of Leo, who is just now pink as boiled prawn and busying himself with shredding the corners of a damp coaster to ribbons, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Oliver brandishes his own cue and initiates a fencingmatch with Joe to distract the lads into placing their bets rather than continuing the conversation, which, surprising no one, works like a fucking charm. He’s so busy poking blue circles of chalk onto the back of Finn’s sweater, he doesn’t even notice they’re one man short until Leo texts him from the loo.
Didn’t realize I was such an exception
Leo is an exception to every rule he’s ever set. Oliver wants to go kick the toilet door in and say,Duh.Instead, he stomps off to the bar for a refill on water—being responsible is not all it’s cracked up to be; when this season is over, he’s going to become ninety percent piña colada—where he can look at his screen in peace.
who’s this?he writes stubbornly on his way back to the table.
I think you know.Oliver feels sparks down from his abdomen to the tops of his thighs. And between them. He knows, all right—the idea of it is so thrilling he barely notices the follow-up text.what are you wearing?
cheeky. come have a look, because I’m not going to sext you
like hell you aren’t. tell me what you want to do to me.
There’s so much he wants to do to Leo, none of it safe to type in public. Oliver can barely remember to breathe, much less heckle his pool opponents.
strangulation.He fucks up another shot, nearly missing the cue ball entirely, then clarifies.but not in a sexy way
kind of in a sexy way
Leo now seems to be having the best time of all of them, smiling devilishly down at his phone while Oliver shoots the worst round of billiards in Camden FC’s history. Joe is begging him to stop embarrassing them, to focus, but Oliver’s hands are clammy and useless, unless they’re touching Leo.
maybe so. but we live ten minutes apart, there’s no need for a text trail
you made the rules for scheduling,Leo replies.
