The kid points at me. “I win this game, and he takes me home after.”
I blink. “You need a ride? Where do you live?”
“No, man.” He sighs and shakes his attractive head. “I mean for sex.”
Oh shiiiiit. I’m actually speechless at this request. And not in a good way.
Beside me, Scully puts his head in his hands. “Oh God, really? With Forest? And here I thought we had a chance against the Plague.”
Two
My Fantasy in Flannel
Beck
My face is burning. I can’t believe I finally did it—I propositioned Forest. The hot bartender. My long-time crush. I’ve spent so many hours on this barstool watching him make drinks, admiring his tattooed forearms, trying to gather my courage.
Sportsballs is my happy place. He can’t possibly understand what it means for me to be sitting here. It took all my courage to walk through the door. I wasn’t quite sure what I was hoping for. Just a chance to acknowledge myself, I guess. I was actually shaking a little the first time I walked across the battered wooden floor toward the bar.
And there he was—my fantasy in flannel, a tattoo peeking out of the V of his collar, his sleeves rolled up. I’ve been stuck on him ever since, and it’s taken months to actually do this—to tell him what I want from him besides a light beer.
When I heard his beer league team lost their goalie? I knew I had to speak up. They need me so badly. So after all this time, I’m finally shooting my shot.
Yay me. Except Forest isn’t having the reaction I’d hoped for, which was, “Sure, dawg, let’s roll.” Or whatever you’re supposed to say when you agree to sex. I wouldn’t really know.
Instead, he looks tortured. He sticks out one strong arm and pushes Scully away. Then he leans his elbows against the bar and studies me. I get the feeling it’s the first time he’s really noticed me, in spite of all the attention I’ve given him for months.
A feeling of doom descends. I’m not good with people, but even I can tell he’s about to shoot me down. At least I’m getting a closeup view of his muscled arms. Forest is the reason my search history includes the term “lumberjack porn.”
“Kid, look, I’m sorry,” he says in his growly voice. “I can’t promise you something like that.”
“Why?” I demand. “I’m not ugly. And I know I’m awkward, but I promise to shut up while you fuck me. You can even use a gag. If you want. I bet you’re into that. I hear you and Scully joking sometimes. He teases you like you’re into bondage.”
His eyes widen, and he swallows roughly. “Okay, slow down.”
“Or wait… Do you need me to win the game first? Because that won’t be a problem.”
Maybe I should just come clean about who I am. I play for the Ice Cats, which is a minor league affiliate team in Loveland, about an hour from here. I’m not out to my team, so I always keep my trap shut when I’m in Sportsballs.
I don’t know, though. If Forest checks my stats for the Ice Cats right now, it might not help my case. I’m in a slump. A bad one.
He looks down at his rough hands, and for the hundredth time I wonder what they’d feel like on my body. “Shut up and listen a sec, okay?”
My body quiets down immediately. I don’t mind being told to shut up. Not by Forest.
“You’re cute as hell,” he says, “but you’re too young for me. Even if you weren’t, I don’t really do hookups anymore. Not to mention that trading sexual favors isn’t my style. I’m trying to be an upstanding citizen, here.”
“See, I appreciate that. But it’s unnecessary, because I’m literally upstanding in bed every night after I watch you work a shift.”
The stranger on the barstool next to mine laughs loudly.
Fuck. This is turning into the most embarrassing night of my life. It’s even worse than the interview I gave after my first college game, when I told the reporter that my pregame ritual involved talking to my pads in French, which I don’t even speak. They played that clip for weeks.
I pocket my phone and grab a pen off someone’s order pad on the bar. I scribble my number on a paper coaster. “Here’s my phone number. Text me if you decide it’s worth it. I’ll be a great goalie for you guys, and I promise not to speak French.”
I slide the coaster in Forest’s direction, and he looks at it the way he might look at a cockroach scurrying across the bar.
Scully, though. He reaches around Forest, picks up my coaster, and pockets it, grinning like he just won the lottery. “I’m keeping this safe. For the team.” He winks.
