“Don’t sound so excited to celebrate an amazing win.” I force a laugh out.
“Are you going?” Jamal scratches the scar under his chin.
I shrug. “Probably not.”
“You should. You played amazing and had a couple assists. We wouldn’t have won without you.” His aqua eyes fill with sincerity.
“Ooor,” I say, dragging out the word. “I could show you where I thought you spent all your Christmases, and you can console me by telling me how great I played.” My feet shuffle without my permission, but I maintain confident eye contact while my stomach crashes into all my other organs.
“That would be complicated,” he says softly, letting me down easy.
“No, you’re right. Stupid idea. Have a great night.” I return to my locker and dress in ten seconds flat.
“Theo,” he calls after me, but I jog away, down the hall and out the door. Cold air fills my lungs and cools me from the inside. I’d be easy to spot with a heat sensor since I’m flaring at a million degrees. My feet take me across the street, and I keep my head down so I’m not recognized. I’m in Enforcers gear, but so is everyone else. I’d be more recognizable if I’d put my suit back on.
Diehard fans hang around, and I don’t need to be seen sulking because my stepbrother turned me down. I wish I could excuse my behavior as impulsive, but I knew exactly what I was doing.
All I could think about was kissing him again and the way his body felt under mine last night. Jamal pulled me on top of him. Fuck, I can’t think about it.
Someone yells my last name, but I keep walking. There might be stories tomorrow online about how rude I am, but that’s not new info. I have to cool down. There’s a subway station a block up, but I’m still not sure which train to get on, and I can’t ask.
A hand closes on my arm, and I turn, ready to strike, but it’s Jamal.
“Jesus, could you slow down? I’ve been hollering at you for a block, and I’m not some bloodhound able to track you.”
I stare mutely.
“We were on Park Ave, right? Are you walking all the way, taking a train, or should we call a car?”
“I don’t know which train,” I admit.
“I do.” He steers me toward the subway with a hand on my coat sleeve. Now that I have what I want, I’m jumpy, afraid of being seen with him. He’s right, we’d be complicated, and it would be insane to start something. But I don’t ask what he’s doing or if he’s going home with me or making sure I get home.
My dick wants him to come home with me, but my brain is screaming danger. I can’t trust that he won’t use what I told him against me.
I’ve got on a baseball cap, and he’s wearing the do-rag I gave him in Detroit. We keep our heads down so no one recognizes us. He nudges me at our stop, andI follow him up to the street. We walk in silence, and I’m out of words. Anything I say could burst this bubble, and he’d leave.
The doorman is ready for us, opening it with a slightly bowed head.
“I’m sure you remember John’s son, Jamal King. He’s been here every year for Christmas,” I say to the confused doorman. He smiles and lurches ahead of us to press the elevator button.
“Good day, sirs.” He tips his hat as the elevator doors shut.
“What the hell was that?” Jamal says with amusement.
“It’s fun for me to paint John as a liar, even if he never knows.” It’s petty, but I don’t care.
“Home sweet home.” We exit the elevator, and I open the door with a flourish of my arm.
“What. The. Hell. Is. This?” He strides down the hall to the huge living room windows, taking it all in. “You live here?”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “Not by choice,” I say defensively.
Jamal runs his hand over the back of the couch, then rounds it to push on the cushion. My mom would faint at the impropriety of bringing John’s bastard son here.
“It’s so…”
“It’s gaudy and ugly and totally terrible,” I supply.
