Not a faggot

Ashford

The fucking prig.

A slur? Really? That's his best shot?

But my expression isn't exactly one of annoyance as It should be, instead I feel surprise.

the cool wave of it washes down the slope of my back and I feel my lips tug into a sneer

This is the 21st Century for heavens sake!

Who the fuck still uses slurs like that?

It seems the British bastard is actually a bigger homophobe than I thought possible.

I clench my fist in annoyance. "Excuse me?" I give him a stony glare, that I remember Cole calling cute once.

The memory makes me even more annoyed.

Because of my softer features, it’s sometimes a bit hard for some people to take me seriously.

Case in point, my glares don't actually look like glares, but angry pouts.

"You heard me. Get away from me, I am not a faggot." He doesn't even deem it fit to look back at me.

Instead, choosing to stare at the glass in his hand like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

It almost makes me feel like I'd imagined everything—the way his eyes have been following me since I stepped into this bar.

How dare he act like I'm the one preying on him?

A breath of air whooshes out of me, and I let out a fake chuckle, hoping he can't detect how uneasy he's making me.

"Are you calling me a faggot, then?" I say through clenched teeth.

This man is extremely infuriating.

Is he acting like this because I scored a goal against his team?

For someone who's been playing as long as he has, why is he so easily ruffled by losing one game?

I wasn't even upset when he called me a show baby, or said I'm not a good player, but calling me slurs?

I want to shove him so far back that he—ugh, I don't even know what I want to do to him.

The man actually has the audacity to scoff, and finally turns to me, practically knocking all the air out of my lungs.

Fuck.

His green eyes are even more intense up close, and are those flecks of blue in them?

Have British men always been this hot or am I just feeling a weird reaction to this man?

The carefully tousled black hair frames an angular face that bothers on wicked and angry, yet helplessly sexy.

There's a grim look on his face, like just the simple act of looking at me is upsetting him, and it causes me to smile.

What?

They're not a lot of people who can't stand me.

In fact, I'm pretty sure everyone who's ever seen me instantly likes me. With my charming deposition, and carefully curated effortless smiles.

I've spent a lot of time cultivating my public image, so imagine my surprise when this man stares at me with an angry look that doesn't immediately melt when his eyes meet mine.

"I'm not calling you anything. I just said I am not one. I don't know why you'd want to buy a drink for another man, but—"

God, his voice.

I imagine that voice spluttering out deep moans under or maybe on top of me.

I have to close my eyes briefly to stifle my reaction to that mental image.

This guy is a raging homophobe, and not the, ‘I-don't-care-who-you-fuck-as-long-as-you-don't-come-close-to-me-kind’

He looks more like the, ‘I’m-going-to-bash-your-face-in-if-I-see-you-close-to-another-man-kind’

Technically, the worst kind.

But something about him has me wanting to toe those lines with him.

To see how much it'll take before he actually loses his cool, and tries to make a go at me.

I might be lean, and not as muscular as he is, but I've worked hard for every hard edge of my body.

If he starts swinging, I'll make sure to break that beautifully straight nose of his.

"Stop thinking so highly of yourself, man. Men can buy drinks for other men. We're not living in cave times. I could just want to be friends, no?"

He gives me a pinched look, like cutting him off is the greatest crime that has ever been committed to man, and I can't help giving him a smug one in return.

Of course I'm lying.

I sent that drink his way because I want to fuck him. Hell, he can even fuck me if he wants.

That thought brings me to a staggering halt, and I actually have to process it more slowly.

I always top men.

That's my one rule.

There's a certain closure I get from knowing I don't have to submit myself to anyone just because I'm having sex with them.

Sex is cool. Sex is safe.

But to let another guy fuck me?

I doubt I'll ever trust another person that much, after the last time.

So I am beyond confused that I'm even considering letting this infuriating man top me.

No, it's probably the lust talking.

If we walk into a room together, he’ll definitely be the one under me. I am hundred percent sure of that.

If we do.

But the hard look this man is giving me says we definitely won't.

"So you sent me a drink because you want to be friends?" He gives me an inquisitive look, like he isn't buying what I'm selling.

I nod, continuing the lie.

There's no point in telling him the real reason anyway, because he might actually attack me.

He looks good enough to try it.

"What? Never made a friend at a bar before?" I try to joke lightly, but his expression turns even more pinched.

He looks behind me at Jake, or is it Josh, who's still sitting languidly on the stool, clear lust in his eyes.

I totally forgot about him.

Fuck, how distracted am I by this guy, that I forgot that a more willing man is waiting for me.

I don't even have to ask Christian Thompson out, because I can still get sex tonight.

That thought makes me feel more confident, and my grin widens.