“You’re gonna need to be more specific about whatthisis.”
He pinches his nose between his thumb and index finger, sighing. When he finally opens his eyes to me, he’s world-weary. And I kinda feel bad for the guy.
Chasing after all of us fuckups. But I truly don’t know what I did wrong this time.
“I’m lost here.”
“You are engaged to Josephine,” he seethes, and I smile.
“Oh yeah. Yeah, I am.”
“Is this the concussion? Do you have CTE? Do you need an MRI?”
“No, and that’s nothing to joke about, man. I?—”
“Shut up,” he says, raising his finger to my chest. “Barely a month ago, I sat in that conference room because you can’t keep your dick in your pants, and then last week, I received an odd email about you being engaged. I thought it was a joke until I saw on your Instagram that it’s true. Engaged!”
His legitimate anger sets me back on my heels. Jo and I haven’t exactly been shouting it from the rooftops, but ever since we “came out,” I haven’t been hiding it either. I posted one photo on my social media yesterday, of Jo’s hand on top of a table, my ring on her finger clear. I didn’t put a caption, but I didn’t think I needed to. A picture speaks a thousand words.
“Do you have a problem with that?” I ask, defensive of my relationship.
I mean…my fake relationship.
Malcolm’s eyes narrow, and I notice that, for once, his usually cool exterior is shot. His tie askew and some kind of spot on his coat. A spill or something.
I finally managed to break Malcolm King.
I’m not sure whether to be honored or scared.
“Yes, I have a problem with it,” he says quietly, scornfully. “That woman doesn’t deserve whatever it is you are planning on doing with her?—”
“Hey, whoa.” I hold my hands up. “I’m not some kind of movie villain, okay? I’m not planning on doing anything to her.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“We’re getting married. I don’t understand what’s so hard to understand or why you’re acting like this.”
He crosses his arms. “You are not marrying that girl.”
I huff, offended. “Yes, I am. And if you’re going to act like this, we won’t be sending you an invitation.”
“You, Nicholas Tremblay the 3rd, are having a wedding?” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t full-name me.”
We stand opposite each other, both of us with our arms crossed, neither one giving in. If he thinks he’s going to talk to me like this, he can?—
“Fine. You don’t want to tell me what’s going on, I’ll go talk to Fitzgerald right now. Have fun in your next city.”
I snort. “You’re bluffing.”
He pivots on his heel, his shiny black dress shoe squeaking on the floor, and he makes it all the way to the end of the hall before I give in.
Because I don’t think a man in a three-piece suit bluffs.
“All right, all right!” I jog to catch up to him. “I’ll tell you.”
He stops, turning with an expectant eyebrow raise, gesturing for me to go on. So I do. I tell him the whole thing, from what happened in the hospital with Jo’s family to right now. I tell him about how I’m doing this to protect my spot on the team, but also to protect her. I tell him that it’s only for the season, long enough to get the front office off my jock and Jo’s family off her back, but I do not tell him about how I’ve been remembering her legs wrapped around my waist when I masturbate. Or how she moaned my name when she came, and it makes me half hard just thinking about it.
