Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
It was my turn to laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. Now you think you’re funny? You should leave the jokes to me.”
“Why? You’re not very good at them.”
I moved the phone around so he couldn’t focus on me. “Oh, sorry. Bad connection. I couldn’t hear you.”
When I righted it again, Anson was looking down, his bottom lip tucked under his upper teeth, a smile curling his lips. I sucked in a breath because fuck, he was gorgeous. I wanted to be the one biting that lip. I wanted to take him apart, put him back together, and then devour him all over again.
I adjusted myself, my cock beginning to plump.
“You really love it, don’t you? Football.”
His gaze returned to mine, his brow creased in seriousness. “The only thing in the world I love more is my family. I’m good. I’ve always been good. I have natural talent, but I also worked my fucking ass off to get where I am, and…I love it,” he said again. “Football is my life. I don’t even know who I would be without it.”
It didn’t take a genius to translate what that meant. He wouldn’t risk football, not even to be authentically himself. He was afraid of losing it, of losing that piece of his identity, even though he was already sacrificing part of who he was for the game. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him: Did anyone know? Did he have anyone to talk to? Had he ever just let himself go? To feel and have and experience? Something told me he hadn’t.
I didn’t ask those questions, though. What I said was, “Does it run in your family like politics runs in mine?”
He shook his head. “Yes and no. My dad died when I was seven. He didn’t play professionally, but he loved the sport. He taught me to play catch. Mom says he told her I was good, even when I was running around with a ball at three or four years old. He told her I would play professionally. That he couldn’t wait to see it.”
His voice was broken, stripped bare, and I could feel how much the memory hurt him. He loved football, but he also played for his dad. “Politics was always in my future. It’s what Calloways do. I hated the idea of it when I was young. It felt like my life was all mapped out for me. It made me want to run the other way.”
“And now?”
“Now, it feels right. I went to law school, so I have options, but…”
“But what?”
I hesitated for a moment, though I knew the answer. “I want to make the world a better place. I thought of all the good I could try to do for people—even if it was only in standing proud in who I was. Political life is…well, it’s a fucking mess. There are lots of bad people out there, and sometimes, maybe I’m one of the bad guys. Hell, maybe I always have been, and I’m lying to myself, but I like to think most of us are in it for the right reasons. That we want to help people, make their lives better, make our country better. I guess the idea of doing that is for me what football is for you.”
He stared at me, something I couldn’t decipher in his eyes.
“But shh. Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation as a political bad boy who can’t keep it in his pants.” At least I wasn’t married or in a committed relationship like so many others were while they were enjoying other people. Not in the way Jeremy did, but behind their spouses’ backs.
Instead of responding to what I said, Anson replied with, “It’s late. I should go.”
“Okay. I meant what I said. All of it.” He nodded, and I found myself asking, “Can I text you sometime? It’s good to have a friend who understands being in the spotlight, even if it is in different ways.”
One second, two, three, four… They kept stretching, and I held my breath until, “Sure. Like you said, it’s good to have a friend who gets it.”
“Don’t look me up,” I added, and he chuckled.
“Not a chance in hell I’m not looking you up.”
“Well, don’t block my number afterward. It’s all lies.”
He grinned, then disconnected the call.
I put his number into my phone as Bashful, opened a text, and typed: Good night.
Bashful: Good night.
Me: Lies, remember! Except the stuff saying how good I am in bed…or at my job…or how fucking hot I am. There’s a lot about those things! None of that is a lie.
Bashful: The number you’re trying to reach is no longer in service.
I laughed.
Later, when I climbed into bed naked, I still had a damn smile on my face.
Chapter Seven
Anson
The first thing I did when Weston and I stopped texting was look him up online, and…holy fuck. I didn’t know what words to use other than those. He was definitely very, very out. There were pictures of him with a lot of different men—men on dates with him, men going to events with him, men he kissed in public—and he didn’t care. People had a lot to say about him, obviously, but Weston hadn’t let that hold him back, not if all the articles and photos told the truth. Plus, he’d gotten elected in spite of it all. That must have meant people liked him and he did his job well. Overall, his approval ratings were good—as good as they could be, I assumed.