Deke (Fake Boyfriend Book 3)

by Eden Finley

  My heart beats erratically the entire time I read—which takes longer than usual thanks to the whole squinting-at-the-bright-light-of-the-laptop thing.

  He still doesn’t get it, but he’s right about one thing. My teammates are not on the same wavelength. Last night’s game never should’ve gone into overtime, and even though we’re taught not to play the blame game, all of us question what went wrong and when.

  It could be internally debated all morning without coming up with an answer.

  I can’t delay having to go outside this room and face both Lennon and Jet no matter how much I want to, so I find my clothes on the floor and recoil when I remember both Jet and Lennon undressing me down to my boxers while I was dead weight. Even my dick couldn’t get excited about them taking my clothes off because I was too drunk, but it definitely doesn’t have that problem now at the memory.

  I palm my cock to try to squash my growing erection. Stupid dick getting excited over Lennon, and it’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened in the past six months.

  I try to tell myself this morning’s hard-on is over Jet, but my brain and my body know I’m lying. Jet’s objectively hot, but the thought of going there? I shudder. I like my men old enough to drink.

  It’s because you haven’t had sex in a year, I remind myself. Yep, let’s go with that excuse.

  While I get dressed and wait for my cock to deflate, I can’t help snooping around Lennon’s room. The furniture’s rich intricacies and meticulous matching design is old New York meets modern. From the slate feature wall behind the bed to the heavy wooden vanity and drawers, everything looks like it cost a shit ton money. The only thing giving any indication of Lennon’s personality is the pile of clothes hanging out of a suitcase.

  I know how that is—traveling from city to city and living out of a bag.

  While I contemplate how much trouble I’d get in if I went through Lennon’s things—curiosity about the guy is a bitch—yelling from the hallway catches my attention.

  “What in the ever lovin’ fuck’s goin’ on in here?” The Southern accent is deeper than Jet’s. Sounds like Matt.

  “Whoa,” another voice says. “You two are fucking?”

  When I open the door to see what’s going on, I immediately regret it. Across the hall, where Matt and Noah stand in the open doorway, Jet and Lennon climb out of bed wearing nothing but boxer briefs. They scramble for their clothes, but I can’t stop staring at Lennon’s long and lean form. He’s toned enough to have a little bit of definition in his abs and pecs.

  More memories from last night haunt me. Jet and Lennon holding hands in the bar, the way they stuck by each other’s side all night, and then when I said Lennon has a nice ass …

  Jet agreed about Lennon’s ass, and the more I think about it, I remember it being flirty and a hell of a lot smoother than when I’d said it.

  They … hooked up? Why do I hate that idea so much I want to punch something?

  Chapter Eight

  LENNON

  Ollie’s entire face hardens, and his gaze flicks from a barely dressed Jet to me and back again.

  “Ollie?” Matt asks.

  Ollie startles and averts his gaze from us to Matt. “Uh … hey.” He does this weird half wave that makes him both adorable and awkward—reminding me of the guy I kissed in Boston. I hate that I’m not the one bringing that out in him.

  Jet finishes throwing on some sweats while I find my shirt.

  “Lennon and I ain’t fucking, so put your big brother claws away,” Jet says. “Mr. Hot Shot forward of the New York Dragons needed a place to crash because he got so wasted he couldn’t remember his address. And I dunno if you guys are aware, but straight guys ain’t too keen on sharing a bed with a gay dude.”

  Although I can’t be sure, because I can’t see from this angle, I swear Jet winks at Ollie, because Ollie’s mouth drops open to say something that never comes.

  “Besides,” Jet says, turning back around to face us, “even if we were fucking, you two wouldn’t get a say, because I’m twenty fucking years old.”

  “And showing off your maturity level right now,” Matt says.

  “You both need to cut the big brother shit.”

  “What did I do?” Noah asks incredulously.

  “Please. You’re worse than this one.” Jet points to Matt. “I’m still convinced you’ve set Lennon as some sort of spy.”

  I snort. “Because I’d be so good at that.”

  “So, it’s just a coincidence that since he’s been here your friends don’t turn up every couple of days to say ‘hi?’ Subtlety really isn’t your strong suit, guys.”

  “We’re just lookin’ out for you,” Matt mumbles.

  “Yeah, uh … well,” Ollie interrupts, “as fun as this is—learning my family’s not the only dysfunctional one—umm … I’m gonna go …”

  “Stay if you want,” Matt says. “I was about to go for my morning run and bring back breakfast.”

  Ollie stares at me, and then his gaze flicks to Jet. “Nah, thanks. I’m good.”

  “You remember where you live now?” Jet asks, and for once Ollie’s scowl isn’t directed at me.

  “Yeah. Thirty-one East Twenty-first Street.”

  “Fucking numbered streets,” Matt says.

  “Thank you!” Ollie says. “Apparently that wasn’t a good enough excuse last night. But, uh”—he glances at me again—“I’m gonna …” He tips his head in the direction of the stairs and then makes a break for it.

  “Shit,” I mutter. “Ollie, wait up.”

  I run after him as fast as I can, but I almost fall down the stairs. He reaches the sidewalk by the time I finally find my feet and catch up to him. I’m barefoot, don’t have my glasses or contacts in so I can’t see shit, and I have no idea what to say when I get in front of him, because I haven’t thought it through.

  He spins to face me so fast I have to take a step back.

  “What?” he barks.

  Yeah, what? Why did I chase him out here?

  “Did you read my new article?” You’re such a loser.

  Ollie’s glare doesn’t let up. “Yeah.”

  Uh, okay.

  “All it did was prove you still don’t know how you fucked up with the others.”

  “Huh?”

  He shakes his head. “They all implied I’m hiding something, and this one you’re like Hey, look at the superstar! He’s a hero. Pay extra attention to him.”

  It takes a minute to understand what he’s saying, but when I do … “Wait, you think I’ve been hinting at”—my gaze darts around the street, making sure it’s safe to talk candidly—“you know what?”

  “Well, what else could you mean by needing an encouraging environment to be the best player I can be, and—”

  “Exactly that!” I shout and then shake my head with a humorless laugh. “This whole time, you’ve been thinking I’ve been subtly taking digs at your sexuality? I thought you were pissed because I crushed your precious ego.”

  He huffs and glances away. “Okay, well, maybe it was a little of that, but, well, yeah. I don’t like how you made some excellent points that made me feel more shame and guilt over being closeted than anything my family has ever said to me.”

  Ouch. I’m suddenly seeing it from his perspective, and it’s even worse than I thought. I only spent half an evening with his family, but it was easy to see how they make him feel about having to hide.

  “I’m so sorry, Ollie. It was never my intention to pressure you into thinking you had to come out or—”

  “I wondered how it was possible for some no-name journalist to know so much about me and see deeper than just hockey. I hated it because it made me uneasy. I lost the most important person in my life, and then here comes this article that had the power to make everything I’d worked for go away and make losing Ash completely useless. Turns out it’s because the person who wrote it spent dinner with me and my crazy family.”

  I take a deep bre
ath and try to keep calm, because even though I now see why he’s so pissed off, I don’t think he’s really thought it through. Either that or he’s too blinded by the pressure he’s under. “You can be pissed at me all you want, because I get it now, but I also wanna say something without you getting pissed off more.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway.”

  I chase after him when he starts walking again. “What doesn’t matter?”

  “Save your breath.”

  I step in front of him so he can’t take off again. “Hear me out, and then you can keep sulking, but I’m wondering if you’re the only person who sees my articles that way because of your self-guilt. I said you were hiding behind Tommy because of your skills. I wrote those articles with no hidden agenda, and I was honestly only referring to hockey. If you interpreted it differently, that’s on you. Not me. I promised you six months ago I wouldn’t say anything to anyone, and I meant it. I didn’t even tell Jet I already knew last night when he found out.”

  Ollie stumbles backward. “You didn’t? But … why? I mean, he knows now, so—”

  I shrug. “It’s your thing. Your life.”

  “But you’re a journalist.”

  “We’re not all vultures. If I’d stumbled across you in a bathroom six months ago and you were shooting up drugs or strapping a knee injury or doing anything else that would actually affect your career, then yeah, I would’ve exploited the shit out of you.”

  Ollie snorts.

  “The articles I’ve written? They were only about hockey. You might want to look at your guilty conscience before you continue to hate me.”

  Ollie mutters, “I don’t hate you. For some reason … whenever I’m around you … Fuck, why is this so hard? I’m all edgy and I can’t think. I suck at this whole … thing.”

  “Communicating thing?”

  “Apologizing. And then on top of that, you slept with Jet, and for some reason, that makes me even more ragey, and—”

  “Whoa, hell no. I mean, well, yeah, we slept together, but nothing happened. I like my men old enough to drink.” Not to mention I like them bigger than me, muscly, and well, the opposite of Jet.

  Ollie laughs hard.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I said the same thing about Jet.”

  “Nothing happened,” I say again, even though it really shouldn’t matter either way.

  Ollie moves closer and lowers his voice. “Good.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and it snaps Ollie out of whatever’s going on in his train of thought.

  “Fucking hell.” He steps back again. “You make me forget who I’m supposed to be in public.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

  “At this point in my life? It’s definitely bad.”

  Right.

  “Can we please start over?” I ask.

  “Like, start over start over?”

  “Start over as friends. I promise if it gets to you so much, I won’t write a single article about you. Not even if you score the winning goal of the Stanley Cup. I’ll describe you as that hockey player with the hair, some muscles, and the missing teeth. That could be a number of you.”

  “Hey, I still have all my teeth.” Ollie smiles. “Except a few back ones. And okay, this one”—he points to his right canine tooth—“is an implant. But the rest are entirely my own.”

  “Even with that in the description, it could still be any of you.”

  “True.” He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a loud breath. “We can start again.”

  I step forward and hold out my hand for him. “Hi, I’m Lennon, but you can call me Clark.”

  Ollie shakes my hand. “I’m Ollie, and you can call me Ollie.”

  “I’m a sports journalist who sometimes writes obliviously asshole-y things.”

  “I’m a hockey player with a fragile ego.”

  “Friends?”

  Our hands are still joined, awkwardly moving up and down as if we’re still shaking when we’re not.

  He swallows so hard his Adam’s apple bounces. “A hockey player and a sports journalist walk into a bar… Nope, doesn’t sound right.”

  “We’re not all vultures,” I remind him again but can’t fault him. Some of my coworkers wouldn’t even hesitate to sell Ollie’s story.

  His hazel eyes glimmer as he murmurs, “Okay. Friends.”

  The Dragons sail through the first round of the playoffs thanks to Ollie’s scoring streak continuing. It’s like something clicked during that last Toronto game, and he’s been on fire ever since.

  His gorgeous smile can’t be wiped off his unfairly handsome face during the press conferences after the games. It really does suck how hot the man is. And now that he’s not scowling at me every five seconds, it’s distracting, which means my post-game articles are a little thinner than they should be.

  Oops.

  In the middle of the last press conference, as an act of faith or perhaps an olive branch for our new formed friendship, Ollie gets Ava’s attention and whispers something in her ear. The next thing I know, she’s calling upon me to ask a question.

  I blink as everyone in the room turns to me.

  I really should be more prepared than I am. There are questions I always have ready just in case but having never been called upon, even when I used to yell out with all my energy, I never expect to use them. Most of the time, someone’s asking the questions I have written down anyway. It’s come to a point where I don’t even try to ask anymore because while Sporting Health is reputable, it’s not big.

  Now here’s my chance, and Ollie’s giving it to me. Suddenly, all my questions seem lame.

  My heart beats erratically. “Beating Pittsburgh in five games, what is the team’s plan for the break until your next series?”

  The question is vague, but it’s better that than the permanent one on my list which is to ask management why they think no man has come out in the sport. Asking that would be like slapping Ollie in the face right now.

  The coaches say some shit about them studying their upcoming opponents and training, but the whole room knows the team’s first stop is to get utterly hammered tonight. Tomorrow, they’ll be dealing with watching tape and practicing while nursing hangovers.

  When the press conference winds down, I send my article off and make my way to wait outside the staff entrance for Jet. After five minutes, I check my phone and realize he’d messaged me during the press conference.

  A band had to pull out of a gig at Club Soho so Fallout is covering, which means Jet’s already gone.

  I push off the wall just as the door swings open, and Ollie charges out with his gear bag over his shoulder. He stops short when he sees me, and it’s hard to tell what he looks better in: hockey pads, a suit, or just his underwear.

  I try not to picture his muscled and tattooed body while Jet and I helped him undress the night of the Toronto game. He was drunk so it feels like an invasion of privacy to jerk off to the memory. Not that I’d do that … daily …

  Nope, not me.

  “Lost?” Ollie asks and his lips quirk. “Or waiting for me?”

  Find words. Any words. “Jet, actually.” I clear my throat. “But he got called to a gig at Club Soho. You heading out with the team?”

  Ollie adjusts his bag and stares into the empty parking lot. “Guess they all left without me.”

  “Did you want … I mean, if you’re not catching up with them …” What am I doing?

  “Did I want to what?”

  “Uh, I was gonna go check out Jet’s show. If you wanted to come. With me, I mean.” Where’s a wall when you need to bang your head against one?

  “Will there be food? I’m starving.”

  I laugh. “Of course, you are. And yes, I think they serve food there.”

  “What type of club is it?” His question, innocent enough, is not about the food.

  “It’s not a gay bar. Although Jet said when Fallout plays, the crowd se
ems to be mixed with both het and gay couples. It’s safe enough that people won’t assume anything if you’re spotted there. You know, unless you pull a Matt Jackson and blow someone. Or get blown.”

  Ollie chuckles. “I’ll try to keep my mouth and dick to myself.”

  “Damn. There goes that fun idea.” Don’t flirt with him, you idiot.

  He shakes his head, but his smile remains. “We going or what?”

  “You mind if we stop by my place first? I wanna dump”—I hold up my laptop bag—“this.”

  “Sure. Can I leave my crap there too? I’ll pick it up later.”

  “No problem.”

  The trip home is only a small detour, but by the time we get to Club Soho, Ollie has me on edge. All he’s done is sit next to me in a cab. Part of me wishes he didn’t get to shower after the game, because a hockey player after three periods is no rose. Maybe the stench of man sweat would turn me off him.

  Who am I kidding? I’m me. That’d probably be worse.

  I have a weird kink about locker rooms that I’m sure a psychologist would love to analyze, but I prefer to keep my jock fantasies on the down low.

  “Whoa, long line,” Ollie says when we reach Club Soho.

  I lift my chin. “Watch this.” Jet told me he’d put my name at the door, but as I swagger—for some reason I think I’m cool enough to pull off a swagger right now—toward the bouncer, my confidence wavers. What if Jet forgot and I say my name and he doesn’t let us in? What if—

  “Holy shit, Ollie Strömberg?” the bouncer says.

  I sigh.

  Ollie turns to me and lifts his chin to me this time. “No, watch this.” He holds his hand out for the bouncer to shake. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”

  The bouncer asks him for an autograph on the back of his name sheet, and then we’re let inside no questions asked.

  “I was totally on that list, you know.”

  Ollie grins. “Sure, you were.”

  Can’t I be cool once in my life?