Or maybe, Joel’s brain told him, therewassomething more, and Quentin was inviting him over for alternate reasons.
No,Joel told himself.That’s not it. Quentin is straight, and the world needs to think that you’re straight, too, and it would be stupid to let yourself develop a crush on a famous hockey player.
The unfortunate thing was that he was pretty sure that the crush had already started to develop.
He knew that it would probably be a bad idea to take Quentin up on his offer. He’d just risk getting hurt by going over there, having it affirmed for him that Quentin was a straight guy who didn’t want anything more than friendship—or, worse, Quentin was secretly a clout-chaser and wanted to be more famous by associating with Joel.
Joel shook his head. That was unfair of him. Quentin hadn’t shown any interest in fame in that way, and Joel didn’t think that Quentin would ever exploit their new friendship to make himself more popular.
His thumbs had a mind of their own.
Joel:That sounds fun! What hotel are you at? I need to shower Florida off of me, but I can be there in an hour.
Quentin didn’t know what he was thinking, inviting Joel over to hang out and watch a movie. Their friendship was mostly a publicity stunt, and they had barely had a real conversation between the two of them without the mediation of their teams or other professionals. And beyond that, there was the undeniable fact that he couldn’t stop noticing how attractive Joel was.
Though he didn’t want to admit it, he knew that was one of the reasons that he’d invited Joel over. He was attracted to him. He had no reason to think that Joel was attracted to him, but then again, there was thisfeelinghe couldn’t shake.
He’d felt it onstage at the Boston concert. He’d felt it when they were being interviewed onRise and Shine America. He felt it when they were texting. It was a sort of nervous excitement, buzzing just below his skin, not all too different from how he felt before a game.
It was the feeling of anticipation, the feeling ofpossibility.
He jumped up and hurried to the shower.
He was sharing a room with Henri again on this trip, and Henri was out with some of the other guys for dinner. They probably wouldn’t be back until late. Henri liked exploring new restaurants in the cities they visited, and he liked having a good time. He was always responsible—he’d mentioned offhand to Quentin some bad things that had happened when he was in college, which made him cautious—but Quentin knew that Henri wouldn’t be back until much later. He liked the idea that he and Joel would have some time to themselves.
Not that anything wouldhappenduring that time. Not that Quentinwantedanything to happen during that time, beyond them watching a movie and maybe ordering room service. Like friends did. Because that’s what they were becoming: friends.
He took a hot shower, scrubbing himself clean. He always felt gross after flying, and tonight he cared even more about not being gross. He tried not to think about why, but as he stood under the hot water, he forced himself to confront that truth he often tried to ignore: he wasn’t straight, he was probably gay, and he was very sexually repressed. He didn’t get the chance that a lot of guys in their twenties had to explore their sexuality casually, to have fun, and to figure out what he liked and didn’t like. It meant that his desires would build and build and build inside of him, reaching an explosive breaking point.
He rinsed shampoo from his hair. Water sluiced down his body, and he thought about the concert in Boston. About Joel’s bare torso, shiny with sweat. The way that the lights had glinted on his smooth skin and the curves of his muscles.
Quentin looked down at his body. His cock was hard, thick, and pointing up at him, like an accusatory finger. He wrapped his fingers around it and began to stroke gently as those images of Joel filled his head. Joel is dancing on stage. Joel, half-naked and sweaty, was standing next to him and singing while looking into his eyes.
He stroked his cock faster, bracing one hand against the wall of the shower as his breath came in gasps.
Memories were replaced by imagination. He imagined Joel in his hotel suite with him. He imagined taking Joel’s clothes off, kissing him. His tongue on Joel’s neck, his hands spreading Joel’s firm ass, tasting Joel, taking his cock, and pushing it into Joel. He imagined Joel riding him, his head thrown back in pleasure, gasping as Quentin thrust up into him.
“Fuck!” Quentin cried out as his strokes reached a frenzied pace and he came all over the wall of the shower. His orgasm flushed through his body, and his legs shuddered under the weight of the pleasure, under the force of his mental images of a naked Joel.
He stared down at the cum dripping from his cock and his hands.Fuck, he thought, and washed the cum away with water.
Joel took a private car from his hotel to Quentin’s. He wore a black T-shirt and black shorts, with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, just in case anybody saw him, though he was careful that no one would. His car picked him up and dropped him off at the hotel’s private entrances, where celebrities could enter in privacy and unseen.
The entire way up to Quentin’s apartment, he reminded himself that he wasn’t there for a hookup. He was there to see Quentin as a friend. They were friends, and they were hanging out. Friends hung out. They were two guys in their mid-twenties. Twofamousguys in their mid-twenties. And Quentin was straight, or at least, he probably was, and the world had to think Joel was straight. Quentin had to think Joel was straight. Quentin had no reason to think Joelwasn’tstraight.
Take a fucking breath, he told himself as he walked from the elevator to Quentin’s hotel room door. He cast glances around him, worried that Quentin’s teammates might see him, or that other guests might appear in the hallways and later say that they’d seen Joel Beckett walking through the hotel where Quentin Hartley was staying.
Then again, why did he care? They weren’t going todoanything. That was just a fantasy that lived in Joel’s head. It wasn’t something that Quentin wanted, and Joel couldn’t focus on the fact that he wanted it, too.
He knocked on Quentin’s door and bounced on his toes, waiting.
Seconds later, the door opened, and Joel instantly wished he hadn’t worn pants of such a soft fabric.
Quentin stood there in the doorway, smiling sheepishly at him, and wearing only a towel wrapped low on his hips. His hair was wet, and droplets of water clung to his skin.
Heaven help me, Joel thought.
“Hey,” Quentin said. “Come in. Sorry, I just got out of the shower.”
