“That sounds like quite a story,” Rachel said.
“Yes, but it’s one we’re not going to tell, is it Gabriel?” Camille’s voice was friendly—probably for Rachel and Kellan’s benefit because her eyes were like lasers trying to flay the skin off of Gabe.
He made motion over his mouth like he was closing a zipper, which made Camille look exasperated with him.
“Well, I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” Kellan said, effectively redirecting the conversation. “My roommate is a real hard-ass, so if I hadn’t found something soon, she was going to throw me out.” He gave Rachel a smug look, which made her slap him on the arm.
“No, she wasn’t.”
“Wait, you guys are roommates?” Gabe asked a little louder than he’d intended.
“Yeah. We met at a wedding a few years ago, and she’s been obsessed with me since, even though I keep trying to tell her I’m not into her… type,” Kellan explained.
“Yeah, that's not even remotely the case,” Rachel said.
“Please. You asked me to move in with you after we’d known each other for three days.”
“Because you told me you were going to have to become a rent-boy if you couldn’t find an affordable place to live.”
“Stop acting like you saving me from a life of prostitution was a selfless act. You just didn’t want to share me with the rest of Manhattan.”
“Oh my God,” Camille interjected. She turned to Gabe. “They’re just like us.”
“Like looking in a mirror,” Gabe replied, his tone serious. “Except… who’s the
almost-rent-boy in our situation.”
“Definitely me,” Camille said.
“That makes sense,” Gabe said with a nod.
Camille did that slow panning thing again. “And why exactly does that make sense to you?”
Gabe titled his head a little. “Why did it make sense to you?”
“Because I’m the poor, gay one.”
“That’s why it makes sense to me too.”
“Mm-hmm,” Camille said before turning back to Rachel. “So what brings you to Philly?”
Gabe’s ears perked up at the question. Rachel hadn’t given him much of an answer when he’d asked before.
“For work,” Rachel said before picking up her drink and taking what seemed to be a gulp. “I’m a journalist. So I’m here on an assignment,” she finished.
“That’s neat. What’s the story?”
Rachel’s mouth opened and closed a couple times. Gabe felt like he was watching a fish that had been yanked out of the water.
The silence stretched on until Kellan interjected. “She’s writing about what goes on in men’s locker rooms.”
She’s… what? That seemed like a strange idea for a sports article. Despite the press being a common presence in the locker room after games, most of the time it was a safe space for the athletes. It was odd for a team to willingly crack open the doors and let a reporter have free reign in there.
“That’s not it, exactly,” Rachel corrected. She turned her head to look at Kellan, but Gabe couldn’t tell what that look consisted of. Judging by the way Kellan shrugged—an I-was-only-trying-to-help kind of gesture—Gabe guessed it wasn’t pleasant.
“I’m doing an article on the behind the scenes stuff athletes endure, but I won’t actually be going into the locker rooms. It will mostly focus on the stresses athletes face off the court or field, or… whatever.”
“Oh. That sounds interesting,” Gabe said. “Are you mostly focusing on hockey? Since that’s the only sport in season right now? Basketball doesn’t count because it’s boring.”
“Um, well, uh, no, no I’m focusing on all sports. The players don’t have to be in season to be able tell me about their experiences.” Rachel took another drink. “And I’m not limited to athletes here. Philly was just more central to travel out of since it’s close to Baltimore and Washington and New Jersey, and… other places.”
“That makes sense,” Gabe said.
“Good,” Rachel sighed. Her eyes widened. “I mean it’s good because a strong story should always make sense. Like the concept. If the concept doesn’t make sense, then the article probably won’t, either.”
Gabe smiled. “I can see how it would work like that.”
Rachel gave a soft laugh, which seemed to relax her whole body. Gabe wasn’t sure what caused her to get so tense when she was talking about her article. Maybe she was nervous about talking to the players or something. Which was a problem Gabe could fix.
“I could introduce you to some guys who’d be happy to talk to you. You probably have guys who’ve already agreed, but, if you need more, I can definitely make some calls.”
Rachel’s eyes brightened at his offer. “That’d be great. I’ll let you know.”
The conversation flowed more easily after that. Eventually, Camille moved to sit on the other side of Kellan, and Gabe slid closer to Rachel.
“You should let me take you to dinner while you’re here. When you have time, of course.” Gabe tried to not get his hopes up that she’d agree. This was a girl who’d snuck out of his hotel room at butt-fuck o’clock to get away from him. But seeing her here made it feel like fate had intervened, and he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try to sure up plans to see her again.
She smiled softly at him. “I’d like that.”
“Really?” He should’ve tried to hide how surprised he was at her easy acquiescence, but screw it. Her answering grin told him she’d liked it anyway.
“Yes, really.”
“You around Wednesday?” Business at the club had slowed down a little since the Super Bowl. It seemed everyone hibernated until March Madness kicked off and hockey playoffs began. Mike’s business logs had reported an annual decline in member attendance during this time of year, so at least Gabe knew not to blame himself. And it also meant he could easily sneak away for a date mid-week.
“I can be,” Rachel replied.
Gabe may have imagined the sultry look in her eyes, but he sure hoped he hadn’t.
***
Rachel slapped Kellan’s arm again as they walked down the busy city street. It was dark, and Rachel was surprised by how much time had passed inside the bar. It had felt like an hour, but had clearly been closer to three. “Locker rooms? Really?”
Kellan rubbed his arm where she’d hit him. “What? I was only trying to help. You were just sitting there like a jackass.”
“Telling Gabe that I’m writing a story about guys in locker rooms was you helping? I’d hate to see what you’d say if you were trying to sabotage me.”
“It’s the first thing that came to mind. It’s not my fault that my knowledge of sports is limited to fantasizing about them having orgies after games.”
Staring at him, Rachel said, “Stop acting like a stereotype.”
“What stereotype would that be?”
“That all men have sex on the brain twenty-four seven.”
Kellan laughed. “Sweetie, that is not a stereotype. Even your precious Gabe probably thought about it at least twenty times while we were there.”
Rachel scoffed. “He did not.” She was already regretting telling Kellan about her one-night-stand.
“Such a mature response,” Kellan teased. “And yes, he was. It was written all over his face when he looked at you. That boy is smitten.”
“Did you just say ‘smitten’?”
Kellan flipped her off and continued. “Why do you think he asked you on a date? Because he wanted to spend more time with your sparkling personality?”
“I don’t know why I hang out with you.”
Kellan sighed dramatically. “We’ve been over why.”
“You’re the worst.”
Kellan slung an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “I know. It’s part of my charm.”
“If you say so,” Rachel muttered, but she let herself lean into him a little.
“You need to be careful with him, ya know,” Kellan sai
d softly after a few steps.
Letting her head rest against his chest as they walked awkwardly down the street, Rachel replied, “I know.” And she did know. Gabe’s reasons for asking her out were romantic in nature. Or at the very least sexual—which was a concern she didn’t care to focus on at the moment. If she wasn’t careful to keep some distance, she’d end up leading him on when she knew it was a bad idea to mix business with pleasure.
But part of her also knew that she’d said yes to the date because she—Rachel the person, not Rachel the reporter—wanted to go out with Gabe. She liked being around him—really liked being around him, if she let her mind drift to their encounter after the Super Bowl. Enjoyed his energy and humor and genuineness.
Kellan gave her a squeeze. “Be careful with yourself too.”
Rachel replied with the only truth she had. “I’ll try.”
Chapter Eight
“That’s really what you like best about Philadelphia?” Rachel asked, staring at the bronze statue.
“Yeah. Why’s that weird? Rocky Balboa’s a local hero.”
“He’s not a real hero. He’s from a movie. And he didn’t do anything that was heroic. He was just a boxer.” Rachel recognized her mistake so quickly she should have been able to prevent herself from even making it.
But before she could take back her words or twist their meaning into something less insulting, Gabe was already talking. “Just a boxer? Just a boxer,” he repeated, making her feel even worse when he emphasized the word. “The next thing you’ll tell me is that Abraham Lincoln was just a president, and Jesus was just a carpenter.”
“Did you really compare Rocky to Lincoln and Jesus?”
Gabe stared at her. “That depends. Did you really insult your own people?”
“Presidents? Or biblical figures?” What the hell was Gabe talking about?
“No, not presidents,” Gabe clarified. “Athletes. You’re a sports reporter, aren’t you? Shouldn't you try to stay on their good side?” Despite his demonstrative gestures and defensiveness, she could tell Gabe was only giving her a hard time.
“I wouldn’t really call that ‘insulting.’ Heroes are cops and firefighters. And military or someone who saves a dog who gets stuck in a tree or something.” She saw Gabe’s smile begin to form, and she could tell he was holding back a laugh. “What?”
“Do a lot of dogs get stuck in trees?” His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking at her with an arrogance only Gabriel Torres could make charming.
“Shut up,” she said, stepping toward him so she could give him a playful punch to the arm. “Cats. And you know what I mean. Rocky’s a fictional boxer.”
“We may have to agree to disagree,” Gabe said.
Shaking her head, Rachel let her laugh be her reply before grabbing Gabe’s hand to pull him in front of the statue. “Take a selfie with me and Rocky,” she said, already pulling out her phone and angling it up so the shot could have all three of them in it.
“I don’t think Mr. Balboa gave his consent to be photographed,” Gabe said.
“You didn’t give yours either, but I’m still taking the picture,” Rachel said. “Now say cheese.”
“You’re very bossy,” Gabe replied as she snapped a few pictures.
Rachel shrugged as she flipped through the pictures to find the best one. Then she sent it to Gabe. “I texted it to you.”
“Oh, cool. Thanks. You care if I tweet it?”
“No, go ahead.”
“You have a Instagram account? I’ll tag you.”
The answer to Gabe’s question was yes, but she realized quickly that she shouldn’t disclose that. Her profile said she worked at All Access, a fact she’d neglected to share with Gabe when they’d run into each other after the Super Bowl, and that she felt awkward about announcing now. Also, the fact that Gabe was a former athlete in Philly, where she was tasked with finding out about a club for athletes, made her less inclined to share the tidbit with him. She knew it was inevitable, but the longer she could keep it to herself the better. She finally went with “My account’s private,” which she felt less guilty about saying since it was the truth.
Once Gabe shared the picture of them, the two headed to a restaurant that Gabe had suggested on Boathouse Row. She was glad he’d planned the outing without asking for her input because she’d only been to Philly a handful of times and didn’t have any suggestions about where to go. He’d taken her to the art museum first. Not striking her as the artistic type, she’d initially been shocked that he’d chosen to take her there. But when she’d asked him about his interest in art, he’d said he’d never really understood it, but that since Rachel’s mother was a painter, he thought maybe Rachel could explain some things to him.
The gesture had been sweet because not only had she been surprised that Gabe remembered the detail about her mother—a fact Rachel hadn’t even remembered mentioning—he’d also made her feel a little more comfortable in a strange city by giving her the opportunity to show him around too.
“So, what else have you been up to since we left college?” Gabe asked her once they’d sat down.
Since he already knew she was a journalist—though not the full extent of it—she wasn’t sure what he was asking exactly. “Nothing much. Just the usual. Did an eight-year stint in the slammer but got released for good behavior.”
“No one calls it ‘the slammer’ anymore,” Gabe said, his expression unaffected by her joke.
“I just did.” Then she gave him a cheesy grin, which caused him to laugh. His teeth appeared almost whiter than the crisp Henley he had on, and now that she was studying it, she couldn't pull her attention away from the way the material stretched over his chest. She remembered how it felt against her palms as she’d run her hands over him. She could almost feel the soft hairs tickling her skin at the thought.
Gabe put his elbows on the table and folded his hands slightly below his chin—a movement that made his biceps look like they might cause the cuffs around them to rip as they stretched. She was lost in the deep brown of his eyes and in the way his bronze skin looked even darker against the white of his shirt when Gabe’s voice startled her out of her visual foreplay. “You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah. Yes. I’m fine. Just thinking.” And, so Gabe didn’t have time to ask her about what, she told him about what she’d really been up to after college. She’d gotten an internship at a major sports news station, but the opportunity hadn’t resulted in a career at one. So since then she’d been taking some freelance work as it came and writing for a smaller publication. “Other than that, I’ve just been living the small-town girl, big-city life in New York.”
“You like it there?”
“I do. It’s expensive as hell though.” She quickly realized that Gabe probably wouldn’t be able to relate: He’d been paid millions of dollars from the time he he’d started his career. Paying seven dollars for a coffee was certainly no big deal to him. “And I don't get to go home much. It's tough to find time to fly all the way to Oregon. Weekend trips aren't really worth it.”
“Yeah, I definitely get that. My mom still refuses to leave Puerto Rico.” The way Gabe stirred his iced tea with his straw gave her the impression that the distance bothered him more than he let on.
“I didn't even realize that's where she lived.” The admission made her feel guilty because she realized that she knew less about Gabe’s life than he knew about hers. “Were you born there?”
“Yeah. My aunt and uncle moved to the U.S. years ago with my cousins, and a little while after they left, my mom sent me to live with them. She thought I'd get a better education here.”
Rachel tried to imagine what it would be like to move to a different country as a kid, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't. Her childhood had always been easy: two parents, two older brothers who gave her a hard time but were as protective as they were annoying. It wasn't until her father passed away when she was in college that she really had to deal
with any serious struggle. “How old were you when you moved here?” she asked him.
“Twelve. But I'd still go home every summer as long as my aunt and uncle had the money to send me. There was no way my mom could've afforded it, but my uncle made a pretty good living. And once I was old enough to get a job, I saved the money myself.”
Rachel wanted to ask about Gabe’s father, but since he hadn't mentioned the man, she figured he didn't want to talk about him. “She's never wanted to move here so she could be closer to you?”
Gabe pulled off a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth as he shook his head. “Nope. She's lived there all her life, and her English isn't great. When my grandparents passed, they left my mom the house that she grew up in. She loves that place. Won't even let me buy her a nice beach house or anything.”
“That's kind of sweet,” Rachel said, thinking about how so many people would probably take advantage of an offer like that. “Do you go there much?”
“Whenever I can. I couldn't get there at all during the season when I played though. Now that I'm retired, visiting should be easier.”
It made Rachel wonder why he wasn't there now. “Have you been back a lot since you retired?” She found herself genuinely wanting to know more about Gabe, which was a change for her. Having been single for a while and having a job that required her to interview people while maintaining a professional distance meant that it was rare that she cared on a personal level.
“Not as much as I'd like to. Twice, I think. For like two weeks at a time.”
“Oh, wow,” she replied. “I'm surprised you didn't want to stay longer.”
“I did. But it's hard to leave for long periods of time. I'm used to living out of a suitcase, but I'm kind of sick of it, to be honest.”
The two leaned back to let the server put down their meals. She asked if Gabe and Rachel wanted anything else, but they said they were fine.
“So what are you doing with all your new free time?”
Gabe cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable at the question. “Stuff,” he said, shrugging.
“What are you interested in? Do you have any hobbies or anything you've picked up?” She sounded like a nosy preschooler, and she knew it. But some habits died hard. And asking questions was one of them.
The One Night Stand Page 5