The notifications finally stop, and I focus my attention back on my presentation. At the halfway point, Raja announces a fifteen-minute break. I return to the podium, shuffle my notes so I’m starting at the right point, and shake off my impostor syndrome. The room bustles with activity as people chat, get snacks, or go out to smoke. No one pays any attention to me, so I’m able to relax.
I pocket my offending phone and grab a bottle of water from the snack table. After catching my breath, I take a sip and check my messages.
Brad
You were right.
I should have gone to the game.
Hey, asshole. Stop ignoring me.
I stare at my phone, trying to make sense of the string of messages. Coach Rathbone insisted I call him by his first name. Which is why he’s listed that way in my phone. But calling him Brad? Texting him? Still feels weird as shit. He was my wrestling coach in high school. And my dad’s best friend for as long as I can remember.
About six months ago, I reached out to him through his sister Harper. I’m planning a surprise party for my parents for their anniversaryonValentine’s Day. But I need inside help to get everything set up. Since then, we’ve texted on and off a handful of times. Most recently was yesterday, when I texted him about the venue. He’s always been nice. Polite.
Nothing like this. Did he text the wrong number by mistake? Probably. I sip my water right as another text comes through.
Brad
At least there’s eye candy. Gorgeous. Long blond hair. Tight jeans. Hot ass I’d like to tap.
I choke, spitting water on the lady next to me. “Oh, sorry…” I gasp, coughing so much I have to walk away.
Taking a deep breath to replenish my oxygen supply, which has veered south, I try to focus. I’m obviously not who he thinks he’s texting, and I need to let him know. But I’m curious about this woman Brad’s gawking over.
I send him a text before I can talk myself out of it.
Pic?
Our messages overlap with his arriving a half-second before mine.
Getting a boner just thinking about it.
Don’t think of Brad and his boner.But it’s too late. My body ignores me, and I pretend to check the evacuation information posted on the wall. I can’t sport an erection in front of this group of people who’ve probably already dismissed me as a kid.
Raja clears their throat, and I glance at the clock over their head. Five minutes.
The lectern has a lower shelf, so I stash my water and granola bar there. I’m too nervous to eat. At least I can hide my condition while I study my notes.
I can do this.
Until the next text comes in. A dick pic. Of sorts. He’s outside and not alone. Grass and legs are in the background of the picture, like he’s facing away from everyone. But his legs are spread apart and the image clearly shows an obvious bulge in his pants. A very, very large bulge. Holy Mother of God.
My dick is as hard as the wooden podium I’m gripping. How can I get through the rest of this meeting when I can barely remember my own name?
I need something to help me deflate.Crush Orange. Mint chiffon.
Much better.
After my brain reengages, I text Brad. I’m definitely not who he thinks I am.
Um…I meant a pic of the woman.
You assume too much, my friend.
What does that mean? Then his next text comes through.
I’d drop to my knees for this guy.
