by Beth Bolden
“I thought maybe my contractor blabbed,” Colin said, turning away before Nick could see his reaction. He felt an irrational need to reach out a hand and pull him back, let Nick see his face. One of Colin’s outer walls had begun to crumble and Nick’s need to see inside was growing even fiercer.
“Your secrets are safe with me,” Nick said. Would the compulsion to convince Colin to trust him ever weaken?
“Except one,” Colin retorted, like it was Nick’s decision to share Colin’s sexuality with the world. Nick inwardly grumbled and wondered how they were supposed to make it through the next three weeks without killing or fucking each other.
Colin perfunctorily shared the other two bedrooms, and told Nick that he could pick either one. “They’re nearly the same,” he said, though that was not entirely true.
One was a lot nearer the master bedroom that they were approaching now. The other was on the other end of the house.
The master was a vast swath of nearly empty space dominated by a huge raft of a bed. The entire fourth wall was open to the outside, with a folding glass door to protect it from the elements. A deck with a glass railing gave an unobstructed view of the ocean.
Nick shoved his hands in his pockets and avoided looking at the bed. He wandered out onto the balcony before he lost the fight with himself.
From this vantage point, he could see the lower patio and the pool. “It’s an incredible house,” he told Colin.
“I’m luckier than most,” Colin agreed.
So many of the athletes Nick had interviewed over the years had people overflowing out of their houses. A constant barrage of needs and wants and never a moment where they could be alone.
Colin had set himself up on this island and had barricaded himself in a place where he was completely alone.
It was such a stark contrast, and Nick wasn’t even sure Colin realized it.
Sometimes what you thought you wanted wasn’t what you really needed.
Nick wasn’t even sure that someone besides him had even been in this house. There was a complete lack of evidence that anybody else had even been here. “I thought you said you had a PA,” Nick said because he realized he’d not seen any evidence of one.
“I do,” Colin replied sheepishly. “Lindsay. She...I don’t need her much. She mostly just arranges things for me. I don’t really need her here.”
Nick shook his head slowly. “You’re the strangest celebrity athlete I’ve ever met.”
“Right, well, probably because I don’t think of myself as a celebrity. I’m just a football player.”
Colin O’Connor wasn’t ever going to be just a football player, but Nick let him keep that fairy tale. “Have you had Jemma out here?” He knew she hadn’t been here, but it was worth asking to find out if Colin volunteered a reason.
“The house was just finished a few months ago,” Colin said casually, like it wasn’t a huge fat excuse. “And she’s so busy.”
“Right.”
If Colin knew he’d given himself away, he wasn’t obvious about it. Which didn’t mean much, since he had a strong ability to batten down his emotions and refuse to give anything away.
“Well, I’ll let you get settled in. What do you want to do for dinner?”
Nick had to remind himself that Colin wasn’t really asking him, and that he wasn’t really supposed to answer.
Forcing himself to shrug was tougher than it should have been. Definitely tougher than it had ever been before with all the other athletes he’d interviewed.
“Oh, that’s right,” Colin answered his own question. “I’m supposed to do whatever I would normally do.”
“So what would you normally do?”
Colin flushed. “It…it’s boring. I like a routine.”
Nick wished he found him a little more boring. “I spent a few weeks with Tom Brady once. Trust me, the routine’s fine.”
“Okay, well, I cook dinner and usually watch some TV.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Okay, I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”
And Colin just left him standing on the incredible terrace off his bedroom. Only when Nick was sure he heard Colin’s steps on the stairs did he dare turn around and let the bed re-enter his field of vision.
“Yeah,” he said out loud, “that’s a big nope.”
He went back down the hallway and gave each guest bedroom a second glance.
It was just as he’d thought; the sheets and towels in both were clearly brand new, never used. They’d been washed once to take off the packaging smell, but that was it.
It shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow that fact pushed Nick right over the edge and when he came back upstairs with his bags, he picked the room kitty-corner from the door to the master bedroom.
He unpacked. The dresser and closet weren’t empty, but had a minimum of basic wardrobe requirements in a variety of sizes. Same for the bathroom; there was a fully stocked selection of toiletries in the cupboard under the sink. First evidence he’d come across that Colin’s PA was more than a figment of his imagination.
There was a narrow desk in the bedroom, and Nick pulled his laptop from the bag and booted up. He opened the document he’d started when he’d first met Colin.
He liked to write down stream of consciousness observations and notes as they happened when he was working on a profile. He didn’t usually write the article itself until much later, using the notes he’d already taken.
Nick ignored the words he’d already written and started a fresh paragraph with today’s date as the heading.
He tried to be completely, bluntly honest in these observations. Never before had he worried about inserting himself into them. But he’d had trouble with the notes for Colin from day one.
Nick didn’t have to look back to the beginning of the document to see the first thing he’d written about Colin O’Connor.
His eyes are too blue and his smile isn’t honest enough.
Like it even mattered how blue his eyes were.
It shouldn’t. It didn’t.
Nick’s fingers hovered over the keys and tried to marshal the timeline of events in his mind, remembering his personal observations but keeping it impersonal.
After three attempts, each worse than the last, Nick leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
It wasn’t as if these notes were ever going to be seen by anybody but him. Did it really matter if he inserted himself into them? Forcing himself to do something that felt unnatural wouldn’t change the way he was beginning to feel. Making writing his notes easier wouldn’t change anything, except his frustration level.
It still felt wrong to break the rule; like a backslide into dangerous and unknown territory. But when he returned to the keyboard, restriction lifted, the words flowed easily and quickly, and he was able to type up today’s observations in only a matter of minutes.
He didn’t read through them, because knowing he was writing about both Colin and himself and how they intersected was one thing, and reading it were two different things.
The truth was, it was denial, but so far it was a method that was working, so he closed the document and then his laptop. He went back in the bathroom and checked his hair. It looked messy from the cross-country plane trip, but then the bedhead look was popular, right? He hesitated before forcing his hand down. He wasn’t going to fuck with it, because he wasn’t going to acknowledge he wanted to look good for Colin.
He didn’t change his t-shirt, either, after a good minute debating in front of the dresser.
Colin could have him, travel smell and all.
After putting it off as long as possible, Nick wandered back down the stairs.
Dusk had fallen, and Colin had the living room doors wide open into the balmy evening. The muted, recessed lighting on the terrace shone on his hair, dipping the edges into gold. Music played lowly over hidden speakers. At the center of it stood Colin at a grill built into the side of the patio, flip
ping their dinner.
Nick’s throat went a little dry. Maybe this was what he did for himself every night, but all the scene needed was a partner to walk into it, move behind Colin and press their lips to the strong, tanned curve of his neck.
Tasting salt, Nick swallowed hard.
Colin turned, spatula in one hand glinting off the lights. “Hope you like chicken,” he said, with a wider, freer smile than Nick remembered. Like being here in his sanctuary unwound him, pared him back to the essentials.
“Uh, yeah, chicken’s great.”
“I realized when I was at the store today, I forgot to ask you if you had any dietary restrictions.”
“You went to the store?”
Colin shot him a funny look. “Yeah, it’s this great place, where you can buy all sorts of food to eat.”
“No, I mean, you went to the store.” Nick paused. “Like you, yourself. And not your PA.”
“It seems really stupid to have Lindsay do all these things for me when I’m perfectly capable of doing them myself.” Still, it seemed Colin was aware of how different that attitude was, because he suddenly looked a little uncomfortable and Nick felt bad he’d pointed it out. He hadn’t meant to, it’d just sort of popped out because in all his years of interacting with athletes, every single one with a profile similar to Colin’s used the hell out of their PA.
They didn’t go grocery shopping. Not on a regular basis. Definitely not just because they could.
“Well, you cook, so I’m impressed right off.” Nick changed the subject and tried to ignore the pulse of guilt that he’d spent nearly his whole time here telling Colin how weird he was.
“It’s just grilled chicken. Simple marinade. I had to learn to feed myself in college. It was either that or starve.”
Nick leaned against a patio table. “I’m sure you could’ve found some alternatives.”
“Probably.” Colin didn’t need to add that neither forcibly conscripting underclassmen into feeding him or begging football groupies to bring him meals were something he’d have done. That much went without saying, considering he had an employee who he was paying to run errands for him, and he still did all them himself.
“Not your style, I know,” Nick responded dryly. “I’m beginning to discover that.”
Colin loaded the chicken onto a platter and turned off the grill.
“Is that so wrong?” he demanded as they walked into the house. “Do people really want some sort of ego-maniac caveman? Because, it’s not just you, every time I turn around, that’s what people not only expect, but what they’re looking for.”
Colin marched over to the coffee table in front of the sofa and that’s when Nick noticed that he’d set two places there. Clearly taking Nick’s stricture to do whatever he normally did to heart. Dumping chicken onto each plate, he stalked back to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. Nick had seen him annoyed before this moment, simmering away inside, but now he seemed pissed. Nick half-expected to see the tips of his hair catch fire and his eyes to raze a path in their wake.
Nick stayed wisely silent and settled down on the deep leather couch. There was a salad on each plate, full of neatly chopped vegetables, and the chicken, which smelled really good. Colin flopped down on the couch and handed Nick a beer. Nick pretended not to notice when their thighs brushed together. It was a comfortable couch and big, but Colin was big, too.
The truth was, it didn’t seem quite big enough.
“You can tell me to shut the hell up,” he said wryly, his anger already cooling to a simmer.
“Considering why I’m here, that seems a counter-intuitive choice,” Nick pointed out.
They ate in silence for awhile. The food was delicious, but then Nick wasn’t surprised. Colin wanted to be good at everything and Nick imagined that not much stopped him from achieving that goal.
“What do you think?” Colin asked.
“It’s all really good,” Nick said, gesturing to his nearly empty plate. “You’re also a grill master, apparently.”
“No, I mean, why do you think people want me to be different?”
Nick had never had an interview where his interviewee was so interested in him.
“You’re assuming I have an opinion.”
Colin shot him a frank look. “You’re full of them. Your eyes never stop. They’re constantly calculating and analyzing and judging.”
Nick practically choked on his mouthful of chicken. He chewed slowly and swallowed, taking a long sip of beer. Whatever Colin had put in the marinade, it had a bite. Or maybe that was the conversation. Talking with Colin was deceptive. You thought he was all mild-mannered, until he weaseled under your shields and skewered you with a pointed question.
“I don’t judge.”
“Don’t dodge the question,” Colin persisted. “I asked you why because I know you have an opinion.”
“Maybe I don’t want to share it.” Nick felt uneasy and off-balance. This wasn’t how his interviews usually felt: like he was the one being interrogated. He dared to glance up, only to see those blue eyes pin him right to the couch. It was hazardous to underestimate Colin O’Connor, even if you weren’t a defensive coordinator in the NFL.
“That’s usually how it goes, isn’t it?” Colin asked, but it clearly wasn’t a real question because he kept going, his eyes narrowing in on the flaw they’d discovered in Nick’s defense. “You ask the questions. You analyze the subject. Nothing back. Well, I’m going to tell you,” he drawled. “That isn’t how this is going to go.”
It was only force of habit that prevented Nick’s jaw from dropping to the floor. “And how do you think this is going to go?”
“I think this is a two-way street.”
Nick shook his head emphatically. “It’s not. And even if it was, I’m not very interesting. I promise.”
Colin’s expression turned both unbearably fond and unbearably sly. “I find you pretty fascinating. I promise.”
Nick was so, so, so fucked. “You’re flirting with me.” Maybe if he’d been a little less shocked he could’ve kept the words in. But as it was, Colin had decimated his brain to mouth filter.
Colin didn’t look surprised or dismayed or even the tiniest bit shocked. He looked fucking delighted. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Am I any good at it?” He seemed genuinely curious, as if he didn’t really know.
Nick’s head fell into his hands. “Better than you realize,” he mumbled through his fingertips.
“Great,” Colin said, and changing subjects like Nick’s entire foundation of you can’t possibly be attracted to the athlete wasn’t crumbling around him, continued with, “you want some ice cream? I’ve got some great frozen yogurt. And we can put on Netflix.”
“Yeah, sure,” was all Nick could mumble in return. What did Colin even mean? Was he just practicing? Playing a game? Serious as fuck? It was impossible to know, unless Nick asked, and Nick wasn’t nearly stupid enough to ask. Colin might actually tell him the truth.
Nick slept like shit in the room that was just a little too close to Colin’s.
Would it be weird for him to switch rooms now? He’d probably have to make up some lie, a bullshit excuse that Colin would see through in half a second. He’d give Nick that wide-eyed bright smile with the sly edge that promised he wasn’t nearly as naïve as he seemed. Nick couldn’t risk that smile, so he stayed. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
By the time he wandered downstairs, the sun was bright in the sky and the house was quiet.
Nick went through the cupboards one at a time, finding an obscene amount of protein shakes and powder, and a lot of basic staples that proved Colin probably did know how to cook. That hadn’t been an act, though he was beginning to wonder how much of the Colin O’Connor he’d seen wasn’t. Probably almost none of it, and that was terrifying.
He had just poured milk into his Cheerios when Colin jogged up to the patio and into the house, wearing a pair of loose-fitting athletic shorts, a thin layer of sweat, and nothing e
lse.
Nick choked on air. So much for his peaceful breakfast.
“Good morning,” Colin said with that annoying smile. All innocence with just the tiniest edge of something more. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and how effective it was.
“Morning,” Nick mumbled into his cereal.
“I was going to wake you up for my jog, well our jog, but you seemed to be sleeping pretty soundly.”
Nick tried not to think about what that sort of picture that made. Or that Colin had looked into his room and had seen him sleeping.
“Do you jog every morning?” Nick asked, even though he already knew the answer. Anything to abort that line of thinking.
“Usually about ten miles or so. Went fourteen this morning, felt really good.” Colin reached for his forgotten t-shirt hanging over a barstool and shrugged it on. It stuck to his skin in sweaty patches, which shouldn’t have been attractive but apparently, Colin O’Connor defied logic.
“Bullshit,” Nick mumbled.
“Tomorrow you want to join?” Colin asked like he hadn’t heard as he grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge.
“Not for a fourteen mile jog,” Nick said.
“Not even for ten?” Colin wheedled.
“Not even for ten. You could probably convince me to do about half that.”
“Then you’re on. I’ve got to take a shower, and then we’ll go into town. I have a meeting with Mark.”
“Your agent, right?” Nick asked.
Colin rolled his eyes. “If that’s what we’re calling him, sure, yeah. My agent.”
They were in the car heading to Mark’s office when Colin brought it up again. “I keep expecting you to ask me tougher questions. Instead you ask me why I drink protein shakes and about my house and how many miles I like to jog in the mornings.”
Nick saw Colin’s gaze cut over to him once, then twice, as if he could barely contain his curiosity.
“What did you expect? Me to interrogate you over your morning Wheaties?” Nick snarked.
“You saw my pantry. I don’t have Wheaties. Too much sugar.”