Fletcher grins at me over his egg white omelet at the Palace of Pancakes three blocks down from his condo. “I’m not cheating. I’m using my resources wisely.”
“Bribing Sheila with a gift from your dog to find out my favorite breakfast place is cheating.”
“You wanted me to use my psychic powers instead?”
“I wanted you to tell me whereyouwanted to go for breakfast instead of waiting until we’re almost done to confess thatyou cheatedand did this for me.”
It’s pretty early in the day, three days since the snowstorm. We’ve spent the last two nights together at his condo after he slept over at my place the night before. He wakes up each morning and goes to training. I leave his place to see my clients and continue the last-minute move preparations.
And we’re acting like this is a friends-with-benefits situationthat won’t bother either of us when I move in four days and leave it all behind.
“I’m still finding my favorite places,” he says. “You’re leaving. So we go where you like today.”
I don’t flinch.
He doesn’t flinch.
But I want to, and I think he does too.
“That omelet looks disgusting,” I tell him.
“Tastes pretty bad too. How’s your waffle?”
“Transcendent.”
It’s easy being with Fletcher because this has an end date. My heart doesn’t have to get involved.
It’s torture being with Fletcher because my heart didn’t get that memo and has very much gotten involved.
How can it not?
He’s a big, tough athlete hiding a heart of marshmallow behind the stone walls he’s built for it after being let down by everyone who’s ever been important to him in his life. And he’s spent the past several weeks learning my favorite breakfast place, noticing when I’m hurt or when I’m surrounded by people who have hurt me, helping my Little Kickers team, and giving me orgasms.
He is most definitely not the asshole I once thought he was.
He has struggles with his parent. He feels abandoned by the team that was his family. He knows how it feels to have your heart broken so thoroughly that you don’t think you can ever love again.
I don’t think Fletcher only cares about rugby.
I think he puts all of his energy into rugby because he’s always believed it wouldn’t hurt him.
Except it has.
It’s hurting him the same way soccer hurt me.
A sport can’t help but hurt you when it’s inevitable that one day, your body won’t be able to do it anymore.
“You know what would be a great way to get attention on the Pounders and sell more tickets?” I say.
“Hit me. I’m all ears.”
“Random raffle for a date with a player of their choice for all season ticket holders.”
He chokes on his energy drink.
“Porter is charming as hell. Holt has that look like he’s a total dom in the bedroom. Crew is complete heartbreaker material. And you and Silas aren’t bad.”
“Do not hit me. I am not all ears. In fact, I’d prefer you stop talking.”
