“And you ended up getting drafted?”
He smiles at me. It’s boyish and sincere. “Oh, if only it was that simple. I entered the draft but wasn’t selected. I barely finished high school so playing in college wasn’t an option so I sweet talked an assistant coach on the Quebec Royales into letting me attend their development camp for undrafted players. I worked my ass off like my life depended on it because it honestly did and they signed me.”
“That’s an amazing story.” I’m in awe. “You need to tell the kids about that. It shows that you can accomplish everything you want to, despite a rocky start.”
His expression dims again. “Like I said, I don’t talk about it. My teammates don’t even know about my childhood.”
I drop my knees and lean forward. His right knee is bent, lying up across the couch cushion and so I extend my own legs so my foot brushes his knee. He looks down at it, reaches out and lays a hand over my ankle. One of his fingers brushes against the small patch of bare skin between my sock and my leggings and it sends a gratifying shiver up my body. “Don’t be ashamed. You should be proud. You’ve overcome so much.”
He won’t look at me. His eyes focused on his hand and my leg. “I’m not ashamed. I just don’t like talking about it. I’ve overcome my past, like you said, so why would I want to relive it by talking about it?”
“But you relive it anyway, don’t you?” I can’t help but ask and he stops moving his thumb softly across my ankle. “The way you react to small spaces has to do with your childhood doesn’t it?”
He pulls his hand back and leans away from me. I want to kick myself. I feel like I’ve gone way too far and he might leave but he does something else, just as bad. He puts on one of his cocky, flirty grins, which I now know for sure are an act. He’s hiding himself from me again. “Take off your shrink hat. We’re two friends talking, remember? I’m not your patient.”
“I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist,” I clarify and smile. “And I think we’re kind of past the friends stage, aren’t we?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize how wrong I am. The smile on his face disappears and the storm always swirling behind his eyes turns into a category five. I pull my leg back instinctively, but he reaches out and stops me. His hand wraps around my ankle and he grabs my other one too and he yanks me closer. Now I’m almost sitting in his lap. Letting go of my left ankle he cradles my head and leans in. The kiss is long and hard, his lips rough and his tongue forceful as it dominates mine. I feel that crazy, inexplicable instantaneous fire again and find myself crawling into his lap as his hand delves deeper into my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck pulling myself closer to him. His hands side down my back and cup my ass, pushing me higher, off his thighs and onto his lap, and I feel him rub, rock hard, against my center.
Against every animal instinct I have, which seem to be my only instincts right now, I break the kiss and struggle to find my sanity. “We shouldn’t do this without finishing our conversation.”
His eyes remain closed and he sighs softly. “I know. But I had to kiss you again and I know when we finish this conversation, you won’t want to let me do that again.”
The butterflies that have been fluttering inside of me suddenly turn to stone and drop like a cold mass of dread into the pit of my stomach. I move off him and back to the other side of the couch. He runs two hands through his hair again this time pausing to pull on it gently out of frustration. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like you,” he says but somehow looks stricken, like the admission is horrifying or painful or something. “And I mean, obviously I’m attracted to you.”
His eyes drop down to the bulge in the front of his jeans and mine can’t seem to help but follow. Yeah, he’s definitely hard. It makes me flush but his next words are like being doused in cold water. “But I can’t be anything but your friend.”
“Why not?” It’s a simple, honest, yet painfully needy question. And I can’t help but ask it.
“Because I’m different,” he replies gruffly and stands up creating an even bigger void between us, which I hate. “I don’t just mean because you grew up differently than me. I guess that’s the root of it, because it made me who I am, but it’s not that I think we can’t make something work because you grew up with everything and I grew up with nothing. It’s not that. It’s just I can’t be someone’s boyfriend. I’m not capable of that.”
My mouth falls open and I find my heart wanting to scream the words “I don’t care” but the fact is, I do care. My heart wants him—as is, with all the broken pieces, and even if some pieces are missing. But my brain knows who I am and what I need from a relationship and it’s more than just sex. “I can’t be someone’s bed buddy. I’m not capable of that.”
His face falls, like he was hoping beyond hope for another response. “I know. So I kissed you because it’s going to be the last time. Because we want different things.”
I’m not buying it. I stand up too and cross my arms. “You want to be single forever?”
He shrugs.
I glare. “That’s not an answer, Alexandre.” I say his name with a rolling French R and it gets under his skin, I can see it.
He shoves his hands in his pockets defiantly. “I’d rather be single than be rejected because I can’t be what someone needs.”
“How do you know what I need?” I ask. “I’ll be honest, I don’t even think I know what I need. I just know that everyone who seemed right so far, didn’t feel right. And this thing with you is different…and overwhelming and confusing and even a little terrifying. But that feels right.”
He wants to consider the possibility that I’m right but he doesn’t. Instead he steps over to the window and glances out at the street below, face set in the mask of cocky smile again. “You’re beautiful and sexy and we could have a lot of fun together. But that’s all it would be. I’d love to have fun with you. Friends with benefits is my thing. It’s my only thing. I’m trying to be a good guy here and be honest up front. I’ve never lied to a girl about it before and I certainly don’t want to lie to you. I do think you’re special, Brie, but I can’t be your boyfriend.”
“I guess we’ve found something you’re more afraid of than closets.” It’s mean and I instantly hate myself for it. I should know better. His claustrophobia is real and I just shamed him for it. I step closer. “Alex, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he replies in a hard clipped tone but he still sports that stupid, easy smile. “I should get going.”
I follow him as he makes his way to the front hall and slips on his shoes. I’m still feeling like a massive pile of shit for what I said. I lean on the archway that separates the living room and hall. “Alex. I’m just…disappointed. And confused. I don’t get it. I just don’t.”
He’s not about to try and explain it to me again. He gives me an authentic smile instead of one of his fake ones. “I hope we can be friends. I still want to volunteer and hang out with Mac too and I hope that means I can see you and maybe hang out together.”
“Is that going to be easy for you?” I have to ask because I know the answer for me. It’s not going to be easy. I like him. I want him. Pretending those feelings don’t exist is going to suck beyond words.
He’s already opening the front door but he pauses and looks over his shoulder to meet my eye. “No. It’s going to be hard as hell. But that’s the story of my life.”
