Jealousy Jealousy

Christian

My ears ring when I hear his words.

Actually, they start ringing when I process them, because I can't fucking believe my ears.

But even as my mouth falls open in shock at his offer—proposition, whatever the fuck those string of words mean, my mind whirled as it tries to fill in the blanks.

Ashford Ryder—a literal stranger, albeit celebrity, a hot one to booth, wants to hook up with me.

Taking in the guy more closely, the age difference between us couldn't be more obvious if we tried.

He's ten years my junior, ten years.

That's as close to jail bait as I've ever come, and men this young have never really been my type.

Mainly because they remind me too much of myself when it comes to relationships—unsure of what I want from them.

The thoughts hit too close to home to be what I'll be interested in, so I've strictly kept my dick to myself and out of men his age.

Yet Ashford isn't looking at me like he realizes the age difference we have. No, he's staring at me with a hungry look in his eyes that I read to mean 'fuck it, I want what I want' in other words he just doesn't care.

That should make me happy. I should feel flattered, that a young tall glass of hottie wants a piece of me.

Looking back at him, He clearly wants sex, and I'm wind up pretty tight enough to want to give it to him. Not to forget that the guy is incredibly attractive.

That's not the problem.

It's what makes him him that bothers me.

Frankly, I'm fucking jealous of him.

It's pathetic and stupid, and I've never felt more foolish in my life, but I can't help it.

Every time I look at him, I'm transported back to my hotel room, hunched over my chair, lazily browsing him.

'The best striker in the world'.

Some tabloids call him that, and my blood practically boils when I think about it.

That should be me.

It should, and not only because I've been playing for sixteen years, but because I am still this good.

If men like Ashford Ryder didn't meet the hot and trending quota, maybe actual players like me would get a chance in the spotlight.

And all these makes me ultimately hate the kid.

So, no.

I'm not fucking him. Not now, not ever. No matter how much he wants it, begs for it even.

"I thought you said you wanted to be friends? If I remember you correctly, I should stop thinking so highly of myself because men can buy drinks for other men."

I drone out the lame words he'd thrown at me when he first made the proposition.

Of course it feels incredible to have been right.

He winces and gives me a faint shrug, before rubbing a spot behind his neck. "Can't blame me, man. Did you see the way you looked at me when I approached you? I thought you were gonna box me in."

He laughs lightly, a small airy sound that matches everything about him.

Everything about Ashford screams gentle and charming, down to the way he laughs.

I groan and divert my gaze back to my drink. "I'm not completely unsure about boxing you in. I've said I'm not interested, why aren't you taking the hint?"

Despite the way my eyes have been roaming his lithe body, he can hear me rejecting him, can't he?

Or is he just too conceited to process the fact that someone doesn’t immediately want him?

That thought causes me to glare at him some more.

The arrogant dick.

He bites his lower lip, and my eyes follow the action against my will. "I know, I just thought—I—uh, I thought you might have been a little shy at first."

He stutters the words like he can't believe them, and I raise a brow up at him.

Shy?

Is he kidding me?

My eyes snap back to his partner at the other end of the table, and I realize that his invitation might include that guy.

Suddenly, the thought of sharing him with that dude grates more on my nerves than anything. I've never been a jealous or possessive person, so I don't understand this strange feelings.

Ashford makes a small sound like a snort, and I glance back at him, my brow raised.

"What?"

He looks down at his shoes, and back up at me. "What are you looking at?"

There's a small frown on his face, that makes it look like he's pouting. He resembles a small child when he makes that expression, and I have the urge to ruffle his golden curls.

I don't.

"Your friend. Won't you invite him?" I ask, even though that's the last thing I want, but there's a strange look in his eyes.

Mild irritation is what I would assume, but I don't know the dude well enough to make any such assumptions.

He starts to shake his head, but then stops as if suddenly realizing himself. "Uh, if you want? Do you want me to introduce you two?" He peers at me intently.

His gaze is too deep, too piercing, too invasive.

Is this how he looks at other men?

There's an unwitting innocence about his gaze that makes a man want to rough him up.

Makes me want to pin him to this bar stool, and have my way with him—it's so strong a reaction that I wonder just how many men have given in to it.

"Don't bother. I'm not staying here for long, and I don't need the company." I shrug noncommittally, pretending like thinking about what he's going to do with that guy when I leave doesn't bother me.

It doesn't.

I'm just disgusted by it, that's the only way it can bother me.

Or maybe just jealous—but it's not because I'm jealous of the other guy, or anything.

I'm just jealous that he gets to walk out of here with a guy on his arm like it's nothing, and I'll never be able to do something like that.

I'll always be in that box, the box I shoved myself in sixteen years ago, the box I've painfully grown accustomed to.

“Then stop looking at him.”