He shivered as a gust of wind engulfed him. He pulled the thin parka closer around him and retracted his fists inside the sleeves of the jacket. The air played with his hair, the long strands tickling his forehead and settling in unflattering positions.

He didn’t care though. Why should he?

The water moved quickly beneath him. It was gray and white and brown. It was swirling, with little waves that crashed into each other and made the stream look much fiercer than it actually was.

Sort of like him, trying to be something he wasn’t.

He wasn’t fierce necessarily. No, fierce wouldn’t be the word to describe him. If asked (which they never were) the guys would have called him a teddy bear, the affectionate one never slow with a hug or a smile.

But the guys never were asked. And why should they be? He was the flirt. It had been established early on. That was all the world needed to know.

MTV had said it best. There are five types of guys in every boy band and while flirt wasn’t one of them exactly it was close enough. It should have been one of the types. Hell, everyone knew he corresponded to AJ in the “boy band types” and AJ was more of a flirt than a bad boy (even with multiple tattoos and piercing, bad boys just didn’t do charity tours.) What was the phrase used to describe them both? Sex on legs? Something like that.

“Goddamn flirt,” he muttered. His eyes stared down at the flurries of spray the stream was trying so hard to create. It was almost succeeding. Anymore rain and the stream might have a chance to show it’s wrath.

Any more girls wanting a plain old one night stand and he might show his wrath.

He’d tried so hard. So hard to be someone the media thought he wasn’t. And what had happened? He’d been rejected.

“Fuck her,” he said. He slammed one clenched fist down onto the metal railing of the bridge he was standing on. The nylon of the parka crinkled as the flesh and bone in his hand told his brain that was something he shouldn’t do again. His other hand left the safety of the jacket to rub the pain away. “Fuck her.”

That was what he’d done. That was what had stared everything. He’d fucked her.

How was he supposed to know he’d fall for her? The girls were supposed to be so star struck they’d agree to date as well as fuck. If perchance he actually decided to ask one of them out, that is. Which he rarely did. And they all went out with him until he decided he really didn’t want to see (or be seen with) them anymore.

Not her though.

Her voice echoed around his brain. The tinkling laugh, the sparkling eyes. “We both knew this was just one night.” That damn laugh, those maddening eyes.

Just one night, which had turned into two, and then she’d been his date to the MTV VMA’s. And then they’d fucked like rabbits instead of going to the after parties where he could have picked up three or four numbers. Or more. Definitely more.

“But it wasn’t just one night,” he’d said.

She’d rolled her eyes. Those insipid sparkling eyes that made him lose track of his thoughts. “So it was an extended one night. This was just for fun.”

Fun. Oh yes, it had been fun until he’d gotten that warm fuzzy feeling when he woke up beside her in the morning.

He was the flirt. He was the one with the supposed commitment issues. He wasn’t supposed to ask girls out to dinner. He wasn’t supposed to do any of the romantic shit.

But he’d done it. He’d asked her out. He’d brought her a flower. So what that it was a flower a ten year-old had shoved at him when she realized who he was? It had been a flower and he’d given it to her.

It was what fans dreamed of doing. Taming the player— making him a one lady man. But she wasn’t a fan. He didn’t date fans.

And she’d laughed. She’d put her hand on his cheek and rubbed the slightly scruffy surface. “That is so sweet, but we both knew this was just one night.” She’d fucking laughed.

He’d laughed too, after a few moments and reclarified his question. Dinner and then more fucking. Get energy for the long night. He’d laughed while inside he was crying.

That wasn’t new though.

She’d smiled in that way that made him ache and shook her head. “This has been fun, you know, but it’s time for me to move on. Too much fun and I’ll start getting attached. We don’t want that do we?”

Attachment. It was a bad thing. He knew that. He should have known that. He did know that because he was the flirt. The one who took home a different girl every night. Sometimes two, if they were friends and didn’t mind sharing him.

He felt the wet drops beginning to fall from the sky. They landed heavily on the pavement around him making the air smell like dirt and grass and winter. They plastered his hair to his scalp and his forehead. They mixed with the single tear that ran down his cheek.

He leaned against the metal railing and watched the stream accept the new water, mixing it in with the flowing current. The miniature waves crashed together finally creating their tiny amounts of spray. The white foam settled on top of the increasingly brown water.

“She’s just a girl,” he said to the stream. “Just a girl who I had fun with.” The words sounded reasonable, true, but fake. Because he knew he was fooling himself.

Yes they’d had fun. But they could have had more.

It had been a long time since he’d had more. Or wanted more.

He pushed away from the railing and began walking towards the body guard standing at the end of the bridge. The big man looked silly under a little yellow umbrella.

“Bout time Fatone,” the guard said.

Joey smiled reluctantly. More at the image the guard created than at the semi joking statement.

“You okay now?” the guard continued when Joey didn’t make a smart remark back.

“I will be,” Joey said. “Do you think that I’ll settle down? Ever?”

The guard looked at the smaller man. “You’re a good guy, Fatone and some day you’ll find someone who appreciates the player and the guy who we all know you can be.”

“I thought I’d found her,” Joey said. He didn’t even know why he was saying this. It made him sound weak, vulnerable. Not the flirt. “Maybe.” Why had she been the one that he thought he might be looking for? Why hadn’t she.

“But you didn’t,” the guard said. “Just means you have to keep looking.”

Joey nodded and wiped a hand across his forehead, brushing the wet mop of hair off his face.

Looking. That was what players did afterall. They looked. They touched. They fucked. And they didn’t get attached.

Attachement was overrated anyway.

Sure.