Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I knew this was a bad idea for a reason. Pulling it off is going to take more than saying This is my boyfriend, so now you can stop acting like dicks.
He glances in my direction, and I want to apologize for panicking, but what kind of boyfriend doesn’t know his partner’s name?
“And who is … Clark?” Ma asks, giving him the same stare down she gave Amanda when Nic first brought her home.
“He’s, uh—” My voice cracks like it did when I was twelve years old, and I have to clear my throat. “This is my boyfriend.”
Everyone’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, even Vic, who saw us in the bathroom together.
The guy now known as Clark lifts his hand and waves awkwardly, which makes me chuckle.
“Umm, I wasn’t going to tell you because it’s fairly new”—like, ten minutes new—“and he said he had to work—”
“But it turns out I didn’t,” Clark says with a warm smile. “Plus, this guy offered to take me to a football game if I could make it.”
Oh, shit. A voice in the back of my head screams Abort. Abort! But we’re too far gone now. Can’t exactly turn around and be all Ha-ha, gotcha.
How did I think I could get through this dinner without my profession coming out?
I’m never going to hear the end of this. Not that I sprung a boyfriend on them but that he’s a football fan.
“Football?” Vic teases. “Ollie, you have to end it now.”
Yup, right on cue.
“Why is that a big …” Clark’s words trail off as something akin to recognition crosses his face. He’s able to quickly cover his reaction, but everyone in my family is looking at us like they’re about to pounce. “What? Can’t a hockey player take his boyfriend to watch a football game every now and then?”
And that’s when it’s confirmed. He does know who I am.
Chapter Two
LENNON
Sweet Neil Patrick Harris, I’m fucked.
Ollie looks like he’s going to throw up, and I’m kicking myself for not recognizing him sooner. I should’ve known he was a jock with the way I immediately wanted to climb him like a tree. If he really was waiting in the bathroom for a hookup, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Closeted meatheads are my kryptonite, and apparently, I don’t even need to know that fact anymore before being drawn to them.
Maybe I have some sort of beacon or tracking system for them now.
What’s worse is I’m a sports journalist who didn’t recognize Ollie Strömberg immediately. Although, in my defense, I mainly cover football and baseball. Kevin does hockey.
While I don’t know much about the sport, I do know Ollie and his teammate Tommy Novak are an unstoppable force, but Novak gets all the credit for it, because he’s usually the one sealing the deal and getting the puck in the net.
If Ollie had any idea who I was, he wouldn’t only be nauseated but in full-on freak-out mode. He outed himself to me, and no fucking way would I ever run that story, but he doesn’t know that. I work with the bloodsucking journalists we’re notorious for being, but I’m not like that … most of the time. The one time I tried being sneaky to get a story, it blew up in spectacular fashion when Matt Jackson’s boyfriend tried to punch me out.
That was intentional. This whole situation has been brought on by some twisted turn of fate.
What am I supposed to do here?
“Can’t believe you’re dating a football fan,” Ollie’s dad says. “I’ve never been more disappointed in you, son.”
At his serious tone, I blink at him, wondering if he really said that to his kid. His face is stoic, giving away nothing. When Ollie laughs, his dad finally breaks and cracks a wide smile.
“Please don’t scare him off with your horribly dry humor where people can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” Ollie turns to me. “Which he totally is. Dad played college football back in the day. Like, you know, when they used to wear those leather helmets.”
“Watch it, boy. I’m not that old.”
There’s a round of sarcastic “Mmmhmms” from all the sons at the table, and there’s a lot of them.
Four boys. Four.
Not to mention the fucking genes in this family. Their hair ranges from light blond to strawberry, and Ollie was blessed with the darkest shade out of all of them, but even his ashy blond hair is still blond. His dad is gray, but I’d bet my left nut he used to be blond too.
I wasn’t joking when I said they all looked like Norse gods. As soon as I walked into the restaurant, the group of tall and wide—not to mention hot—guys by the bar caught my eye. Two of them, twins by their resemblance, look like John Cena on steroids.
The other is the polar opposite. He’s tall and lanky.