Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I frown. “You have a point.” It does seem to be more acceptable for athletes. “I definitely know I’m good.”
He huffs, and we fall silent again. This is different, and I don’t know what to think about it. I can’t help feeling like I don’t belong here, that I have no right to be beside Lucas right now, but still I stay.
Even though he didn’t admit it, I know Lucas misses Ellis, and even though I could never admit it to him, I think we both have similar insecurities when it comes to Ellis—not feeling worthy of him, knowing we let him down, albeit in different ways.
“So should I not mention that fumble against Denver in the second quarter in the playoffs last season…”
I gasp, both annoyed he mentioned it and strangely pleased by the way he says it, as if it’s not the end of the world. “Fuck off. I played a decent game that night.” Decent isn’t good, though. Decent isn’t what I would have ever strived for before, but it’s what I have right now.
“Eh, it was all right,” he says, eliciting a surprised chuckle.
“You watched my game? You hate football.”
“I do, but sometimes it’s impossible to miss. People fucking love it. I don’t get it, and your face is everywhere I look. It’s annoying as shit.”
“My face is everywhere because I’m good.” It takes me a moment to realize I said that. I used to have more reason to be cocky, so I don’t do it as often.
“I was in LA. They sorta have to show you here. You’re their golden boy.”
I huff. I used to be, but not anymore. He knows as well as I do that I don’t play like I did before. “Depends on which day of the week you ask them.”
He shrugs. “There’s no loyalty in sports, even if people pretend there is.”
I sit up, and Lucas does too. “Sometimes it feels that way. Is it not that way with art?”
“I guess. They aren’t counting on me to win certain nights of the week, but…people are fickle, and they love you one time and hate you the next.”
“So it’s not unique to sports.”
“No. Just humans,” he replies, and then…then we just continue talking. Some of it is a blur, like it’s not really happening or someone else is inside my body.
Eventually, Lucas asks me if I’m hungry or thirsty, and I am, but I don’t want to leave this spot, don’t want to leave the roof and take the stairs back into the real world. “I thought we were stuck up here.”
He grins. “That was a lie.”
“Asshole.” But I’d known it was from the start.
“I have stuff downstairs. I can go get it. The party is over, and the gallery is closed.”
I don’t ask how he knows that. I haven’t even looked at the time. “I should probably just go home, then.”
“It’s okay to not always do what you should, Hunter.”
Is it? When photos of me partying have come out over the last few years, when I first started being seen with different women, I always heard about it from my coach, the media…Coach Blake. This isn’t you, Hunter. You’re better than this, Hunter. What would Ellis think?
What would Ellis think of me up here with Lucas?
“Okay,” I say, shutting down the voices in my head.
We go downstairs and get a bottle of wine, cheese, cold cuts, and crackers from his office fridge, then return to the roof—elevator keys in hand now. We eat, drink, and I just do this weird, simple thing—being on a roof with someone it’s strange for me to be with. We don’t talk about Ellis, don’t talk about their family at all, though he does ask about my mom. We stick to safe topics—something, it seems, we both need.
Eventually, we’re lying down again, the sky lightening as night transitions toward day. We’re not talking anymore, just lying there, awake, taking in the never-ending space above us. The silence is more comfortable than I would have expected, more comfortable than maybe I should have felt with Lucas because I’m not sure I’ve shared a similar silence with anyone in years.
“Come here.” He stands and holds his hand out to me. I let him take it, let Lucas pull me to my feet, and we walk to the other side of the building, where the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon, orange fading into yellow and pinks.
Lucas lights a cigarette, and we watch the sunrise, a new day beginning. My chest feels heavy, the sadness I tamped down for most of the night resurfacing from the darkness.
“I should go,” Lucas says.
“Me too.”
We clean up after our impromptu picnic, then take the elevator down, and before I know it, we’re standing outside his gallery, back in the real world.