A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,55

smoke show. And I said, ‘Trust me, I know. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever met.’”

I laugh, shaking my head, even though inside I’m preening from the compliment. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”

Fitz props himself on his side, his head resting in his hand. His lips go ruler-straight. “No. I don’t. It’d be a lie.”

I roll my eyes because that’s easier than to accept he means it. Besides, what does it matter if he’s attracted to me more than anyone else? It doesn’t—not in the scheme of things.

“I meant what I said earlier.”

“On the bridge?”

“By the Tube station,” he says, an intensity to his voice. “I meant it all. And yes, I meant what I said on the bridge earlier too.” He stops, sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters.

I sit up too, some self-preservation telling me maybe it’s time to go. My fight-or-flight is kicking in.

“Don’t go.” He reads my mind, grabbing my arm.

“I’m not going to leave,” I lie.

“I meant what I said on the bridge, Dean. I don’t do relationships.” He exhales heavily. “But I meant what I said outside the Tube station too, about wanting to see you. And I meant what I said to Summer. I meant all of it.” He lets go of my arm, grabs my hand again, and threads his fingers through mine. “But the thing is . . .” He sighs. “I really like you.”

Fitz shrugs, a little helpless. A little aimless.

And a whole lot endearing.

And so damn likable.

That’s the problem. When he says these things, my heart thumps the slightest bit harder. I wish I could say it was from the exertion, from the sex, but that was a while ago. This is just from talking.

That’s why my heart is hammering—because I feel the same way.

And there’s no room in my life for this.

But I don’t have to rearrange my life for him. All I have to do is rearrange the next three nights and two days.

I squeeze his hand back harder. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I can’t quite believe I feel it this soon. Or at all. “I like you too,” I say, then give him a matching what can you do shrug.

My reward comes in the form of a tackle. He pushes me down on the bed and smothers me in kisses and laughter, and then he rolls to his back, breathes out hard, and says, “I feel like I just ran a marathon.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t say that. I don’t, Dean. I haven’t. But I guess it doesn’t matter. This is ending when I leave, so I don’t need to pretend you’re like everyone else. You’re not,” he says, shifting to his side again to look at me, his hand sliding down my waist, over my hip. “You’re not like any other guy. And I can say that because it’s going to be over in two and a half more days. And I want to enjoy the hell out of this time with you. But I’m not just a player. I mean, I am, I have been, though there’s a reason I’ve avoided anything serious.”

“What’s the reason?” I ask.

“Look, I’m out. I have been since I was fifteen. It’s not a secret. But because of that, because I’ve been open, that’s how people saw me for a long time. The gay hockey player. The openly gay division-one star. The openly gay first-round draft pick. The openly gay rookie.”

“Are there other openly gay pro hockey players?”

“Yes. I’m not even the first. But I am the best.”

I shake my head, amused. “There’s that cocky side I adore.”

He laughs lightly, then continues. “And that also meant I was seen that way for the longest time. Not by my stats or my performance on the ice, but by my identity.”

It’s not tough to be out in my profession. But for Fitz, it must have been difficult. “That must be hard. I can’t imagine, because my life is so different. There are plenty of gay bartenders. It’s not something anyone makes a thing over. I’m no one’s hero.”

“Look, it’s not like I think I am anyone’s hero. But I didn’t want to be identified by who I liked, but how I played. That’s why I just have hookups. Why I avoid entanglements. I don’t want the media talking about that. I don’t want to be seen on the reg with so-and-so. Oh, that’s New York defenseman James Fitzgerald and his