it between games.
One more deep inhale and exhale, and Eric slowly curled his extended legs back toward his torso and came out of the handstand. He finished his practice, going easier on his body with the final poses, and taking care to listen to what his body was telling him.
Eric knew what his body needed. It was grumbling about it now, but at night it practically screamed. It had been far too long since he’d last had sex.
As he headed downstairs to his kitchen, his thoughts involuntarily turned to Kyle. He was sure that Kyle flirted with lots of men—it was practically his job to do so—but Eric couldn’t help the fact that Kyle had captured the seldom-used lurid part of his imagination.
It was absurd. Kyle was young and, flirting aside, probably had no real interest in an old man like him. In fact, Eric was very sure that Kyle was hopelessly in love with Kip, based on the way he’d gazed longingly at Kip at the party. Scott and Kip’s happiness seemed to pierce Kyle like a blade. If Kip was Kyle’s type, then Eric definitely had no chance.
No chance. Jesus. No chance of what? What did Eric even want?
Eric filled a glass with water and drank it down quickly. He refilled the glass, then returned his water pitcher to the fridge and grabbed a jar of overnight breakfast quinoa. He stood at the window in his kitchen and watched the morning traffic on 36th Street as he ate. The large house he’d shared with Holly had been on Long Island with a spectacular view of the water. But Eric preferred this: a front-row seat to the bustle of Manhattan. This Murray Hill townhouse suited him better in every way.
It was, in all honesty, ridiculous for Eric to have an entire four-story townhouse to himself. He had considered an apartment—maybe a penthouse like Scott’s—but this house had been for sale at the right time and Eric hadn’t been able to resist it. He’d worked with a designer to create a home that exuded serenity and comfort, while also providing a complementary backdrop for his art collection. The final result was, Eric had to admit, stunning. But he hadn’t been prepared for how lonely it would feel to only have art and designer furniture for company.
His phone lit up where it rested on his kitchen counter. Eric set his empty quinoa jar next to the sink and picked up the phone. It was a message from Jeanette, his friend and art dealer. She had a collection of paintings by a new artist that she thought he would be interested in.
Well. Maybe this would be the painting that would make his life feel whole.
Eric: When can I see them?
They planned for Eric to come to the gallery on Tuesday—his day off. As always, Jeanette didn’t send a photo of any of the paintings. She insisted his first impression of the art be the one he got when he viewed it in person. She was never wrong about what Eric would like, though, so he was excited to see what she had.
Kyle was studying art history, which was something that Eric couldn’t stop thinking about. He had made the fatal mistake of learning about the man. He wished he could go back to the time that he didn’t know Kyle was studying ancient history and art, or that he loved mythology and was just generally brilliant and fascinating.
It was one thing to be flirted with by a cute bartender, but when it was a cute bartender who was smart and shared Eric’s interests...
Well. It had been a nice surprise.
He could, he thought, attempt to flirt with Kyle the next time he happened to see him. Kyle seemed naturally flirtatious and would probably be able to provide Eric with some much-needed practice. It would be harmless, and Eric could use whatever he learned from it whenever he attempted in earnest to date again.
Practice was all he needed, he decided as he jogged up the two flights of stairs to his bedroom. It was something that he understood, as an athlete. Practicing something over and over would eventually yield results. He could improve his ability to flirt the same way he had improved his rebound control on the ice. He would practice flirting, practice dating, practice being intimate with another person.
With a man.
Maybe.
But first, flirting.
Chapter Four
If Ilya Rozanov didn’t get his ass out of Eric’s face right fucking now, Eric was going to