Page 56 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

SHOW: Miss you too, man.

Man? That seems so… I don’t know. Distant.

SHOW: Beau… I know this is hard, but I also know you can do it. You can show Boston that they fucked up.

BEAU: Yeah.

Dots pop up on the screen, then stop, then return seconds later.

When the text comes through, it’s a pic of Trav’s abs, aiming down at his dick. My cock responds with a slight swell as another text comes through.

SHOW: Meant to be motivation, not distraction. This is how I feel just thinking about you. So yeah, I miss you too. A ton.

That makes me feel a little better.

BEAU: You’re so fucking hot.

SHOW: Back at ya. Show them what’s up tonight. The Magnets are good, but so are you.

BEAU: I have to deal with Hen and LaBelle tonight. Fuck my life.

SHOW: You’ve got this, babe. I have faith.

Babe.

A smile tugs at my lips. That’s better. Maybe I’m not alone in my confusing feelings.

BEAU: I’ve got this.

SHOW: I’ll be watching.

BEAU: Talk soon. Thanks for reaching out. I needed it.

SHOW: I got you, Beau. Always.

I tuck my phone away and focus on making Trav proud. It’s all that matters right now.

TWENTY-SIX

SHOW

“Hey, you made it,” Klaussen shouts, making half the bar turn to look at me.

With eyes on me, the black cloud that’s been hovering over me for two days is easier to ignore. Beau was right, I needed to get out of my apartment and stop moping.

“Look at this place, it’s packed. Are you all here to support Bozy in his first game with the Huskies?” I ask loudly to no one in particular.

A table of guys sitting near the entrance boo loudly, and I grin. Yeah, pretty much how I’m feeling about it too. One of them is wearing a backwards cap with the Magic logo on it, and another pulls out his phone and takes a picture of me without even bothering to try to hide it. I flash a big grin and a peace sign for the picture, then saunter over to their table. Might as well give them a good story to tell at work tomorrow, right?

“Dude, are these the suicide wings?” I point at the basket of hot wings in the middle of their table.

“Nashville Hot,” the guy with the Magic hat answers. “Nobody can eat the suicide wings without crying like a baby.”

“I can,” I brag, snagging one of the Nashville wings and biting into it.

“Bullshit,” one of the other guys says with a chuckle.

“You don’t believe me? Yo, Harlson, tell these guys you’ve seen me eat the suicide wings,” I shout over to my teammates sitting at the bar a few feet away.