Limited Edition Husband: A Fake Marriage MM Standalone Sports Romance (Winner Takes All Book 4) by L. Blakely

Author:L. Blakely [Blakely, L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Top Notch Boyfriend Books
Published: 2023-05-02T16:00:00+00:00

23

BIG HANDS

Nate

I can’t avoid Hunter any longer. I’ve tried all day. I worked out and talked to Amy. I tried after dinner too. I rounded up my teammates for a drink at the lobby bar, though I ordered water.

His text message—we need to talk—has repeated on a cruel loop all day. Guys only say we need to talk when they’re about to dump you.

Sure, it’s possible—maybe even probable—he meant we need to talk about the wedding news getting out. But after he dropped that awkward I can’t stay at my flat, I haven’t been able to shake the conviction that his talk involved telling me hasta la vista. He might need to stay married to me for appearance’s sake, but he doesn’t want to be with me even for a week.

Maybe he’ll be asleep when I return to the hotel room.

Or better yet, maybe he won’t want to talk anymore.

I hate talking. I hate the bullshit that comes with serving up your guts to someone and then it turns out oops—the guy who’s been accusing you of cheating every time you go on the road is the one banging someone else.

Several someones.

But I can’t put Hunter off any longer. I say goodnight to Jason, Devon, Xavier, and the other Hawks and head to the elevator and take it to fourteen. When I get to the floor, I step out, but then lean against the wall by the elevator banks.

Get over it, man. So what if he’s not into you? It’s a fake marriage anyway.

Except I’d foolishly hoped to steal time with him this week. Before the chapel, before the bet, before I even took a single drink in Vegas, I already liked the guy. I wanted more.

But it’s time to stop stalling and start walking. I head down the hall to my room, unlock the door, then swallow my hurt and go inside.

Hunter is stretched out on the bed in the half-light, his eyes fluttering closed. I kick off my shoes, but as I pad across the room, he stirs, pushes up, and blinks his eyes open.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

“Hi,” I say, halted in my tracks.

We’re both quiet. I stand ten feet from him. He stays on the bed. We are statues. Frozen married men.

What the hell do I say next? I go with a bland, “How was your meeting?”

“Good. Productive. Did you have practice?”

I shake my head. “No. Just worked out, reviewed game video, and then we had a dinner with the press.”

“How was it?”

Are we doing this? Talking about our day? I guess married couples do that.

I cross the room and sit on the couch across from him, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the cushions. “It was good. Yours?”

“Busy,” he says, scratching his jaw.

“Is it good to be home?”

“Great. Real great,” he says, smiling too widely.

The tension between us is so thick you could slice it like a pie.

“Nate.” He says my name thickly, full of regret, and I can’t deal.

I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. I get it.

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