The Rainbow Clause

by Beth Bolden

  “No Cocoa Puffs or Lucky Charms?”

  “This is what I’m talking about,” Colin said in exasperation. “This couldn’t possibly be going into my profile.”

  “How do you know? I think the American public deserves to know that Colin O’Connor has an unfair prejudice against breakfast cereals that actually taste good.”

  Colin laughed, the sound shocked right out of him.

  “It does seem like false advertising, I’m on the Wheaties box and I don’t even eat them.”

  “This is what I’m saying,” Nick said, grinning back. It all felt so easy, like they’d been doing this a lot longer than the few weeks they’d known each other.

  “Gonna have to bring that up to Mark. He needs to find me some better promotions.”

  Nick imagined that he was trying. He was beginning to appreciate what Mark went through with his client, who seemed like the most laid back, most affable athlete on the planet, but who was actually incredibly intelligent with a sneaky and penetrating insight.

  “Don’t tell him I said anything.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” Colin shot a side-eyed, amused look in Nick’s direction. He caught it and felt hot all over. He couldn’t believe he’d flown in yesterday and thought that he could keep his distance. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and distance was a laughable thing of the past.

  It killed Nick to leave the room while Colin was deep in discussion with his agent, but the name on his phone’s screen was someone he couldn’t ignore.

  Scratch that. He’d ignored her plenty – but before he’d flown to Miami, Duncan had pulled him aside and insisted that he keep his regular appointments with Mary, his therapist.

  “I don’t need a therapist anymore. I’m fine,” Nick had told his boss, who was as inflexible on this point as he was notoriously rumored to be.

  “Humor me,” Duncan hadn’t asked, he’d demanded. “Fifteen minutes, once a week. Or else I put someone else on the Colin O’Connor story.”

  Nick knew Duncan wouldn’t, but Nick wasn’t willing to take the risk by calling his bluff.

  He answered the call, tucking his phone against his head as he slunk into an empty hallway, with only closed doors to overhear him. “Mary,” he said testily.

  “A joy to talk to you again, Nick,” she said and it would have been impossible to miss that she didn’t sound happy to hear his voice either. Of course, he was probably just as unpleasant an obligation as she was to him. Five Points had hired her to make sure their star journalist wasn’t emotionally traumatized by his attack, and she was contractually obligated to see it through.

  “Apparently Duncan’s threats are as effective as rumored,” she continued. “I was surprised you answered.”

  “This is a waste of time. Both yours and mine. And I have something considerably more important to do with mine.”

  “What?” she asked.

  Anything seemed better than discussing his nightmares or the attack. He reminded himself of her very airtight contract, which supplemented the normal rules about doctor-client privilege. “I’m doing a big story. An athlete coming out of the closet.”

  “That is an important story,” she said. He hated her annoyingly bland platitudes and the way she encouraged him to talk by saying nothing of substance herself. His habit of unloading on her in a normally uncharacteristic manner was one of the biggest reasons he’d stopped answering her calls.

  He leaned against the wall and tipped his head back. “An understatement.”

  “Important for you personally, I’d imagine.”

  The most important. Important enough that he needed to stay focused on the end game. Important enough that he should be in the room with Colin and Mark, watching the former fight the latter every step of the way.

  “You’ve not got me to lay bare my sad teenage years yet, and it’s not going to happen now,” he reminded her testily. “But yes.”

  “The last time you had a big assignment, you were attacked. It’s understandable you’d anxious about this trip,” she said, even though he’d said nothing about anxiety.

  It was just another reason he mistrusted her. She seemed to read him even better than he read his own subjects, and that made him endlessly uneasy.

  “Are you having nightmares still?” she asked.

  “Haven’t had one in a month,” he said, which was almost true.

  “That’s good, especially with this story starting up,” she said. “I want you to call me if you start getting them again.”

  They both knew he was completely capable of promising and lying about it – or promising now and never following through. He’d done both in the past, which was why Duncan had become involved this time.

  “How about this,” she suggested, breaking the tense silence, “how about you call me if you feel like there’s nobody else you can talk to about them?”

  Mary had not proved to be particularly flexible up ‘til this point, continually insisting on follow-through and the traditional counseling methods. Obviously, she had discovered that he wasn’t a traditional sort of patient.

  “Fine,” Nick said.

  “I know you’re thinking you won’t ever reach that point. You very well might not. But trauma has a habit of creeping up on us when we least expect it, even after we believe we’ve conquered it. Even when we believe we’re stronger than the memory. I want you to know I’m here for you, if you ever need someone to talk to about it.”

  “No more required phone calls?” he asked hopefully.

  She laughed, and it humanized her, shaped the outline of her in his mind, even though she’d always just been a disconnected voice to him. “We both know that you’ll never agree to them without Duncan’s threats. I’d rather you know you can come to me, on your own.”

  “I’m really fine. Nearly all the time.” Nick shoved a hand through his hair, hating the thread of guilt in his voice. He’d sort of treated her like shit, and he didn’t usually do that. He’d learned very early in his career that you trapped more bees with honey than with vinegar.

  “It’s the rest of the time that worries me. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Go back to whatever’s got you preoccupied. We’ll talk if you need to.”

  “You’re gonna kill me,” Nick panted as they rounded the corner towards the house.

  Colin glanced back, even though he was felt fairly certain that Nick was in no danger of dying any time soon. Like he’d expected, Nick’s gait was smooth and his face was slightly flushed, but he was clearly in no danger of collapsing.

  The sound Nick made when Colin turned back was somewhere between a groan and a grunt. “You’re unfeeling. I’m gonna put that in your profile,” Nick said.

  In the last twenty-four hours, Nick had threatened to put all sorts of things in the article, and Colin was even more certain that he was making up all of them. Also certain: the way his heart raced when he realized that Nick was creating inside jokes with him.

  “I’m going to tell everyone America’s favorite quarterback leaves dirty dishes in the sink.”

  “If you don’t use a turn signal, every football fan who works at the DMV is going to conspire to suspend your driver’s license.”

  “If you don’t stop stealing all the popcorn, I’m going to tell the world that Colin O’Connor likes to binge-watch Gossip Girl.”

  Nick thought he was pretty funny, that much was obvious. The problem was that Colin found him pretty funny, too.

  No doubt that was also appallingly obvious.

  That might be the only even slightly embarrassing thing that Nick hadn’t threatened to expose to a wider audience. Colin was taking this as a good sign that maybe Nick wasn’t completely immune to his terrible attempts at flirtation.

  Colin felt like a tool jogging without a shirt, but he’d seen Nick’s gaze skate over his bare, sweaty chest yesterday and had chalked that up as a win, which meant he was going to be jogging shirtless for the near future.

  He pull
ed up short on the terrace, and gave his back a quick stretch. He knew he was playing dirty, using his physical attributes as a way to attract Nick, but god, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way and it had felt good.

  Falling in love with Jemma had been confusing and at points, both scary and exhilarating. But after it had become clear that she didn’t feel the same way, so much of that feeling had soured into guilt and regret.

  It felt good to flirt and be flirted with back. Like cliff diving, the wind whistling past your ears, that first startling cold submersion.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Nick huffed in annoyance.

  “Stretching?” Colin asked innocently, even though there was absolutely nothing innocent about the way he was bending over in these ridiculous shorts or the way Nick’s eyes were mentally peeling them off – at least Colin hoped that was the case. The possibility was the only reason he was even wearing them.

  Nick huffed again. “I’m going to write that you’re an exhibitionist. Which would explain the Sports Illustrated cover.”

  Colin laughed. He’d done a lot of that in the last two days. Having Nick around wasn’t anything like he’d expected or even dreamed it might be. He was full of those snarky comments still, but they didn’t feel impersonal anymore. Each one seemed to glide right over Colin’s skin, like they were calibrated just to bring a smile to his face.

  “You and that cover. I’m going to go out and get a life-size version for your room.”

  Colin, still stretching with his back to Nick, fully expected another verbal volley in their game, but Nick went uncharacteristically silent. Colin turned around to see Nick, redder in the face than he should have been from their run and staring at the ground as he stretched his quads. Really nice quads, if Colin was looking, which he absolutely was not.

  “Gonna go grab some water and a shower,” Nick said, letting go of his leg. “Have a lot of emails to answer this morning.”

  Colin watched his back disappear into the house and wondered what he’d said that was wrong.

  Was Nick, who brought up that stupid Sports Illustrated cover as often as humanly possible, embarrassed about being called out on his obsession?

  With Nick doing work, Colin took a shower and settled down at his desk in the office to do the same. He opened his email and couldn’t hide the grimace as his inbox rapidly filled.

  His email was only a mess because he didn’t let Lindsay deal with it like every other PA would have.

  That had been only one of the lectures that Mark had prepared the day before.

  “We need to start lining up bigger and better sponsorships,” Mark had said. “I want to see you out more. I know Boomer and the other guys invite you. You should go out with them. People need to see you.”

  The problem was that Colin didn’t want to be seen. He wanted to stay hidden on his private island, in his beautiful house, and if he was being painfully honest with himself, keep laughing with Nick.

  He still loved the perfect stillness of this house, but it had never seemed lonely until Nick showed up.

  “I don’t get how people seeing me in a club is going to bring in sponsorships.” Colin rarely let Mark just do his job, and he wasn’t going to pull any punches just because his stupid crush was sitting in the corner, scribbling words Colin desperately wanted to read. His fingers itched to grab the notebook out of Nick’s hand and greedily devour every word on the page.

  Mark had leaned forward across his desk, dark eyes intense and the early afternoon sunshine sparkling off that goddamned rose gold Rolex. “People are beginning to talk. You’re becoming a recluse. Nobody picks a recluse to sell their shit.”

  Colin had burned with the injustice of that accusation – and the embarrassment that Mark had said it in front of Nick. He could still feel the echoes of it now, which was why he’d worked so hard to keep Nick’s attention during their morning jog and its aftermath.

  It was hard to say whether he would have cared about Mark’s directive if Nick hadn’t been here. Colin deliberately didn’t think about it. Instead, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and started texting.

  Teddy. Boomer. Ricky. Oliver. He sent a variation of the same message to all of them, plus most of his O-line, and then dialed a number that Mark had given him ages ago that he’d never bothered to use.

  “Yeah, this is Colin O’Connor,” he said when a woman answered.

  The drawn out beat before she remembered who he was definitely didn’t help to convince him that Mark was wrong.

  He was the most exciting quarterback in the National Football League and even if he hadn’t been, he was still the only professional quarterback in Miami. The Hibiscus concierge’s silence was humbling, even when he didn’t care if she didn’t know who he was.

  He reasonably reminded himself that she had no reason to know his name. He’d never been to Hibiscus, which claimed to be the hottest club in Miami.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. O’Connor. Mark said you might be calling.”

  Colin ground his teeth and ignored that she’d played him into thinking she didn’t know who he was.

  She must have realized she’d taken it a step too far, as she continued with a smooth apologetic tone. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to bring some friends to your club tonight.” Okay, he didn’t want to; he’d essentially been ordered to. But after Mark’s admonitions, Colin didn’t think he could offer Nick another night of homecooked meals and Gossip Girl binge-watching with a straight face.

  She asked all the important questions. How many. Who. What would they like, specifically. Colin was stumped at the last question, but she smoothed that over too, promising them a unique experience.

  Colin told himself when he hung up, guilt twinging because he’d promised himself he’d never stoop to calling that particular number, that this was easier. This way, Nick could meet his friends in Miami all at once. Because unsurprisingly, his inbox was full of acceptances and excited emojis, everyone thrilled that he’d finally gotten the stick out of his ass.

  That last bit was his own embellishment, but Colin wondered just how true it might be.

  “You starving me tonight?” Nick asked as he wandered downstairs after a long afternoon of work upstairs.

  Colin had spent the afternoon trying to distract himself with emails, then paperwork and then TV so he wouldn’t go out of his skin at the thought of going to the club. He fumbled for the remote and the mute button at Nick’s words. “Uh, no, not exactly. We’re going out.”

  “Out?” Nick raised an eyebrow and Colin wanted to keep him forever, a little like Rapunzel in her tower. Unfortunately, he found himself sympathizing with Mother Gothel and her need for Rapunzel’s constant attention.

  He flushed. “You heard yesterday. Mark wants to raise my profile. He’s been suggesting I try this new club for awhile. Hibiscus. I thought we’d meet some guys from the team there tonight.”

  Nick’s expression was horrifyingly emphatic. “If that’s what you want to do, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  Colin knew Nick knew the truth – that he didn’t want to go at all--but he couldn’t admit it. Maybe it was the way Mark’s lip had curled when he’d called him a recluse.

  He was killing two birds with one stone; he was finally doing Mark’s bidding, and he was banishing the idea in Nick’s mind that he never wanted to leave the house.

  “The car will be here in an hour,” Colin said awkwardly into the silence that had descended between them.

  Those gray eyes seemed to be cataloging every miniscule reaction of Colin’s and he had a sudden horrible thought that Nick might understand him better than even he understood himself. “I’ll be ready,” Nick said.

  Colin didn’t think he was going to be ready at all.

  Still, he dutifully trooped upstairs to his bedroom, and even contemplated the shower, even though he’d taken one a few hours ago and hadn’t done anything more strenuous than sitting on the couch since. He settled
for dampening his hair and doing his best to style it, even though all the cowlicks he had made it difficult.

  Staring at his reflection, Colin tried to see in the mirror what so many others claimed: that he was hot, that he was gorgeous. He was one of the few that didn’t, that much was indisputable, considering how many copies of that stupid Sports Illustrated issue had been sold.

  It was hard to forget what Nick had said about that cover. You’re a cardboard cutout.

  Colin glanced back in the mirror. He knew sometimes he was distant. He knew he hid himself away. But the last thing he wanted was for Nick to think that about him, the real him. He didn’t want to be a cardboard cutout; he wanted to be a flesh and blood man. Living and breathing and feeling.

  Shaking off his melancholy, Colin approached his walk-in closet more carefully than he had in months. Since ever, probably.

  Lindsay the PA bought a lot of clothes he didn’t wear. He bought the rest, the ones he actually did. Typically, he avoided that side of the closet, but tonight he was supposed to be trying.

  Of course, he wasn’t trying hard enough to pick something ridiculous, and so he settled for probably the simplest item she’d purchased for him: a bright turquoise shirt with sinfully soft fabric. Colin briefly contemplated a pair of skinny jeans that rivaled even the ones Nick wore and decided he wasn’t feeling that dutiful. His regular jeans would do just fine.

  Colin was just about to slide wallet and phone into his pockets when he remembered Nick’s wandering eyes this morning. How much he’d appreciated those tiny running shorts. Maybe he wasn’t acquiescing to the demands of his position as much as making a moves to gain something entirely different.

  The skinny jeans were true to their title, and Colin hoped he wouldn’t end up doing any physical activity because his movement was greatly restricted, but gazing at the full-length mirror at himself, he definitely saw the benefits.

  He walked out of the bedroom just as Nick closed the door to his.

  Colin had been trying very hard not to look anything into the fact that out of the two nearly identical bedrooms, Nick had selected the one nearest his, and not the one all the way at the end of the hall.