THE BOYFRIEND COMEBACK

LAUREN BLAKELY

CONTENTS

Also by Lauren Blakely

About The Boyfriend Comeback

I.  The Boyfriend Kickoff

About The Boyfriend Kickoff

The Boyfriend Kickoff

1.  The Players and The Pets

2.  Snow in August

3.  One of Those Kitchen People

4.  I’m Getting The Distinct Impression You Have A Crush

5.  I Like To Gamble

6.  Dirty Everythings

7.  My Quarterback Crush

8.  Unfinished Business

9.  Fool Me Once

II.  The Boyfriend Comeback

1.  Better Luck Next Time

2.  Reading the Cards

3.  It’s A Small World

4.  My To-Do List Just Got Shorter

5.  Such a Nice Guy

6.  Another Day, Another Gin Joint

7.  Scratching an Itch

8.  Low Key Icons

9.  Pre-Game Rituals

10.  Quarterback Sneak

11.  I’ve Got His Number

12.  Mister Right

13.  The Buffer Zone

14.  Multitasking is Hard

15.  Night Walkers

16.  Kings of the Couch

17.  The Best Laid Plans

18.  Bluster in the Bedroom

19.  The Guy with the New Name

20.  Everything Sucks

21.  Make Me a Match

22.  Dirty Magic

23.  Fan Boys

24.  The Man with a Plan

25.  First Date Woes

26.  Fuck Timing

27.  Nude Sewing

28.  Saint Dick

29.  God Bless Black Cars

30.  Dirty Little Liar

31.  See-Through Man

32.  A Hat Is More Than a Hat

33.  My Secret Boyfriend

34.  The Truth About Mashed Potatoes

35.  The Brotherhood of the Traveling Hat

36.  Getaway Driver

37.  Zombie Days

38.  Can I Say Wazoo?

39.  The Trouble with Skidding Cats

40.  You

41.  Screw the Rules

42.  Throw Down

43.  Heavy Lifting

44.  You Had One Job

45.  Changing of the Guard

46.  The Chore List

Epilogue

Epilogue

Behind The Scenes

Also by Lauren Blakely

Contact

Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by TE Black.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY

Big Rock Series

Big Rock

Mister O

Well Hung

Full Package

Joy Ride

Hard Wood

Happy Endings Series

Come Again

Shut Up and Kiss Me

Kismet

My Single-Versary

Ballers And Babes

Most Valuable Playboy

Most Likely to Score

A Wild Card Kiss

Two A Day

Plays Well With Others

Rules of Love Series

The Virgin Rule Book

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The Virgin Replay

The Virgin Scorecard

Hopelessly Bromantic Duet (MM)

Hopelessly Bromantic

Here Comes My Man

Men of Summer Series (MM)

Scoring With Him

Winning With Him

All In With Him

The Guys Who Got Away Series

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

The What If Guy

Thanks for Last Night

The Dream Guy Next Door

The Gift Series

The Engagement Gift

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The Decadent Gift

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One Night Only

One Exquisite Touch

My One-Week Husband

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A Guy Walks Into My Bar

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The Bromance Zone

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Once Upon a Real Good Time

Once Upon a Sure Thing

Once Upon a Wild Fling

Boyfriend Material

Asking For a Friend

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One Night Stand-In

Lucky In Love Series

Best Laid Plans

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Come As You Are

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Seductive Nights Series

Night After Night

After This Night

One More Night

A Wildly Seductive Night

ABOUT THE BOYFRIEND COMEBACK

A sexy, emotionally-charged, rivals-to-lovers, second chance sports romance…

Some men are just off-limits. Like, say, all the other football players in the league.

But I’ve been crushing hard on one quarterback in particular for the last year. When Jason invites me to his place the night before my first pro football game, I say yes so fast. Our white-hot time together answers a lot of questions I’ve had about myself.

Then life happens, and I don’t show up for our second date. The worst part is that he’ll never know how much it meant to me.

And when I’m traded to his cross-town rivals, I know that’s not the time to serve up my secrets either. My team’s PR department wants to double down on our rivalry.

And they’re right. I need to focus on football, not on my interest in men. But the more time I spend doing media appearances and charity events with the generous, quick-witted, popular guy, the hungrier I am for him.

It’s a bad idea to knock on his door late one night. I could lose everything. He’s probably not even home.

But then the door swings open, and I have a choice to make.

PART I

THE BOYFRIEND KICKOFF

Dear Reader,

Beck and Jason’s romance begins with a novella, The Boyfriend Kickoff. If you already read the novella when it was released on its own, go ahead and start at THE BOYFRIEND COMEBACK! If not, then start right here and turn the page.

Xoxo

Lauren

ABOUT THE BOYFRIEND KICKOFF

When I finally meet the sexy quarterback I’ve been crushing on, I promise myself I won’t let on that he’s the object of my late-night fantasies.

And when he invites me to a party at his house that night, I swear I won’t drop a hint then either. He doesn’t need to know how curious I am about him, and about myself.

Besides, I need to ask him for help with the media since I’m the other quarterback in town.

That’s my one and only goal.

But when everyone leaves and it’s just the two of us alone in his home, I start to break all my promises…

The Boyfriend Kickoff is a novella in the The Boyfriend Comeback series. You’ll enjoy the Boyfriend Comeback so much more if you read this!

THE BOYFRIEND KICKOFF

A BOYFRIEND COMEBACK PREQUEL NOVELLA

By Lauren Blakely

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Content Warnings: Prior death of a sibling, off page, before the start of the book. Estranged from mother. Anxiety. Additional content warnings can be found on author’s web site.

1

THE PLAYERS AND THE PETS

Jason

I knew this day was coming.

Saturday, August 15th, ten a.m., has been on the calendar since training camp began.

But as I stand on the sidelines of the San Francisco Hawks facility with my receivers, staring at the field, slack-jawed, I am thoroughly unprepared for the onslaught of cute.

“Those furballs are so damn adorable.” I smack Nate’s rock-hard shoulder. “Just look at them,” I say, pointing at the kittens on the fifty-yard line.

“Like I can look anywhere else,” Nate says, as if he’s been injected with sunshine.

Volunteers from the Furry Friends local animal rescue have escorted a dozen or so adoptable critters to the final practice before our first preseason game tomorrow against the Los Angeles Mercenaries. Until this second, I had no idea I wanted a kitten in my life. I’m a pro baller who’s on the road a ton, with no need for that kind of responsibility in my very single life.

But now?

Sign me up. Starting with . . . that one.

The black-and-white cat with tiny white gloves. “Dude, that tuxedo is all mine,” I shout, laying claim to my favorite.

Nate points at another crate. “Dibs on the orange one!”

The tight end, Orlando, joins us and calls out, “I want the Siamese, then.” Orlando peers around me, then Nate, like he needs to protect his turf from some of the most competitive guys on the team. It’s just receivers and quarterbacks here while the defensive backs are running drills on the far end of the field.

Nate and I trot over to the crate with the black-and-white one. The little critter meows, sauntering to the door to say hi. Bending to one knee, I offer a finger through the crate wires. “Hey there, sweet little thing,” I say, and he nibbles on my finger.

I look up at the sound of sneakers on spongy grass. A friendly blonde makes her way toward us. Reese Kingsley is the publicist for the team and its charitable efforts, including the Furry Friends Weekend. All proceeds from that game will go to the animal rescue, and soon our team photographer will snap pics of the players with the pets to get fans excited and try to rehome some animals.

“You two ready for the first pics?” she asks as she arrives next to me.

“I am ready for my close-up,” I say.

“And then he wants two kittens for the road, please,” Nate puts in, smart-ass that he is. His eyes twinkle with humor.

“So does Nate,” I add.

Reese shakes her head in amusement. “Every time. Every single time we do one of these events, the guys all melt.”

That perks my interest. “You’re saying the other athletes go home with armfuls of kittens?”

With a smirk, Reese nods. “They do. But listen, don’t feel obligated to adopt. We always clear the shelters with the promo. Just the pics will be more than enough,” she says.

Nearby, a woman with a camera around her neck, her black hair piled on her head, waves to Reese.

Reese waves back to the photographer and turns to me. “Looks like we’re ready. We appreciate you doing this with the opposing team.”

Shielding my eyes from the bright morning sun, I scan the field, looking for the Mercenaries—some jog out from their tunnel, also in practice gear.

A guy in a Furry Friends T-shirt walks over from a nearby crate and reaches into the one housing my favorite tux-wearing feline.

Reese sets a hand on my arm. “Jason, we’ll get you first, along with some shots of you and the Mercenaries QB. We want a picture of you holding Bandit. He’s six months old and is part gymnast already. The shelter handler will be off-camera in case the little dude treats you like you’re a vault.”

“I’ve got pretty steady hands,” I say with a grin. If I can carry a ball downfield, I can handle a high-flying kitten.

The T-shirt guy hands me Bandit, who greets me with an upbeat meow.

Aww, hell. My heart squishes, all helpless. Forget gusto. I turn to mush as I scratch the little guy under the chin. “Aww, look at you with your cute little gloves,” I coo.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

The team photographer is already on it. Guess she knows a good moment when she sees it. The little fella asks for more, lifting his furry head higher. Then, dear God, the kitty purrs.

I’m. Dead.

“Oh, I get you, Bandit,” I say to him. “It’s sure nice to get a massage.”

A voice rumbles from near my right shoulder. “It is.”

I don’t recognize the gravelly tone, so I turn to the guy who just materialized by my side.

I catalog him. Brown eyes that are broody and intense. A jaw lined with stubble. Dark hair that’s thick and a little wild. Borderline unkempt. His jersey sports a number nine.

It’s the Mercenaries’ new quarterback.

Beck Cafferty.

Since it’s my job to know the other quarterbacks, their skills, and their weaknesses, I’ve read up on him and watched some game film, but there’s not much to see or know. He has a few less years than my twenty-six. This is his first season starting after he warmed the bench last season as a backup. Cafferty didn’t go to a big football school, and the Mercenaries didn’t draft him till round six.

We’ll see what he’s made of.

“Hey, Cafferty.” I give a chin nod to my opponent and a pleasant enough greeting.

“McKay,” he says, not quite warm, but not cold either. More like . . . he’s figuring out what to say next.

Bandit interrupts with a demanding meow. He no longer wants to hang out in my arms; he clambers onto my shoulder. I reach for the wily cat, tugging him back down. “I guess it’s time for quarterbacks and very busy kittens,” I say lightly, hoping to make the moment easy for both Beck and me. No need for him to feel awkward as the new guy, even though I plan to pummel his team tomorrow.

Beck’s quiet, though, as he watches me maneuver the kitten around. “You’ve got a live wire,” he finally says.

I glance at the fur monster scrambling up my chest. “I think this dude wants to be our new mascot. Pretty sure he’s a hardcore Hawks fan,” I say as Bandit attempts to secure a perch on my shoulder again.

“Maybe he’s part parrot,” Beck says drily.

“You might be right,” I reply.

Reese returns to us with an orange ball of fluff in her arms. “Here’s Creamsicle for you, Beck.”

The other quarterback nods and takes the kitten. “Thanks.”

Reese shifts her attention back to me, snorting with laughter when she sees my predicament. “Do you need a different one?”

No way am I giving up on this creature. That’d be admitting defeat in the face of both a four-pound animal and the guy leading the opposition tomorrow. “Nah, Bandit and I are just working out the terms of our arrangement,” I say, as I adjust the kitten once more.

Reese pats my free arm. “Whatever you say.”

I make another effort to settle the little dude down, scratching his chin again. Bandit purrs a second time. Whew. There we go.

I steal a glance at Beck and Creamsicle. The fluffy orange guy is chilling in Beck’s arms, calm as can be. Damn, someone has cat magic.

The photographer clears her throat. “Can we get you two shoulder to shoulder?” she asks.

I hardly want to move now that Bandit’s settled down, but I do it anyway, shuffling an inch to be a good sport. Beck moves a drop closer but then stops, standing his ground.

“A little closer,” the photographer says.

I shift again. Beck moves maybe a millimeter. I sense the tension in Beck as if he’s holding himself back. I’m unsure why, and I don’t want to read into his restraint. I just stay where I am, cradling a squirmy cat and smiling for the camera.

The shutterbug doesn’t ask us to slide any nearer to each other. Good. Beck’s giving off some serious don’t stand so close to me vibes.

Reese says thanks when we’re done, then reminds us that we have media questions after practice.

“I’ll be there in the briefing room, ready for anything,” I say.

“You always are,” Reese adds with a smile, then looks at the other quarterback with a more serious expression. “Beck, you’re all good to join us?”

Beck’s eyes flicker, maybe with annoyance or possibly frustration. He doesn’t say anything that helps me figure out which one—just gives a quick nod. Then he walks off to join his team.

What’s his deal? He’s drily sarcastic one minute, then coldly uncomfortable the next.

I don’t need to be pals with every other quarterback I play against, but it’s a small club. There are only thirty-two starters in the league, and there’s no point in being this standoffish.

Whatever. We don’t need to be friends. We’re opponents, after all.

2

SNOW IN AUGUST

Jason

A little later, after our separate practices have ended and everyone’s showered, Reese escorts Beck and me to a media briefing room inside our facility. Reese chats about baseball and a new food truck she and her husband are obsessed with. I trade some food recs and weigh in on some pitching changes, and our small talk makes it even more glaringly obvious that Beck barely says a word.

Maybe he’s just a quiet guy. This is my turf, after all. I could try to make him feel more welcome, but we’re at the room a few seconds later.

“The usual crew is here,” Reese says when we reach the doorway.

“I’ll be sure to invite them all to my barbecue later,” I say to her with a wink.

“Have fun, Jaybird,” she says.

I bound up the steps to the podium on the low stage. “Hey, there,” I say with a smile as I reach the mic. I ask Megan from the local radio station how her daughter’s doing, then ask Jon from a popular sports site whether his fantasy baseball team is still killing it.

Once that’s done, Megan stands and sticks out her phone to record. “Opponents have been trying to figure out your weakness for the last few years. Is it . . . kittens?”

I just shrug helplessly. “I was hoping to keep that a secret, but it seems the cat’s out of the bag.”

Several reporters groan, but they’re laughing at the dad joke too. That’s the thing about handling the media—jokes that are so bad they’re funny can make you likable.

That’s my goal when I talk to the press. Charm them, keep them on my side, and win over more fans day by day. It’s not easy being the only openly gay starting quarterback in the league, so I made it my mission when I won the coveted job to be accessible to the press and as upbeat as possible. The latter’s not hard—I’m a glass-half-full guy.

After a few more questions, I’m done at the lectern. When I pass Beck, I give him a murmured good luck and a smile.

Least I can do, I suppose.

He simply nods. He keeps his eyes forward and his shoulders square.

I head to the doorway, watching from there as the broody guy drags his feet toward the steps. When he reaches the mic and lifts his face, he looks like he wishes a fire alarm would go off.

Ohhh. Maybe that’s his issue? Public anxiety?

A sports talk host goes first. “You seemed to get along well with the orange tabby. Are you an animal person?”

That’s a softball question for the newbie if I ever heard one. But Beck just nods awkwardly for an answer.

He says nothing.

Silence follows from the press corps like they’re waiting for more.

Beck glances at the doorway, a flicker of longing in his eyes.

Another reporter sticks up a hand. “Did you have pets growing up?”

They’re still going easy on him. Makes sense since this is a presser about kittens.

Beck shifts on his feet, tugs at his T-shirt. “Yes,” he says.

Megan pipes up. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow’s game?”

He might be breaking out in a cold sweat. “Yeah.”

I cringe for him. This is like having a dream where you go to school naked. Now I feel bad for thinking he was hot and cold. He’s just . . . really fucking uncomfortable.

Jon’s arm goes up. He clears his throat. “Jon Bastion. The Sports Zone.”

Stop, please stop. Someone should put Beck out of his misery. I glance at Reese, who stands a few feet away. Her brow is knitted, a sign she’s going to nix this Q and A soon.

“Tomorrow is your first game as a starting quarterback,” Jon begins. “Your dad and brother were quarterbacks too, but you’re the first to play in the pros. How are you feeling about hitting the field?”

Beck blinks. Straightens his spine. Grunts out, “Fine.”

Oh, man.

I’ve got to do something. I can’t wait for Reese or anyone else. I bound back up the steps to the podium and lean into the mic. “Out on the field, Beck was saying he looks forward to beating us tomorrow, but c’mon. I told him there’s a better chance of snow in San Francisco in August, didn’t I?”

He cracks a small smile. “You did. Get ready for it to snow.”

After I do a quick one-on-one interview with Megan at the end of the presser, I double back to the locker room to grab my phone and keys from my stall. Time to get out of here. There’s a grill in my backyard calling my name.

As I walk down the corridor to the players’ lot, Beck pushes open the visitors’ locker room door and steps into the hall, peering both ways as if checking for lurking press. When his gaze lands on me, I brace myself just in case we’re back to the “get away from me” routine.

Instead, he waits for me to approach, his expression slightly rueful. When I’m a few feet away, he says stiffly, “Hey, McKay.”

I stop. “What’s up?”

He gestures in the direction of the briefing room. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for that back there. You didn’t have to help me, but I appreciate it.”

“No biggie,” I say, relieved he’s saying thanks rather than fuck off, you presumptuous asshole. “Your first presser?”

“That obvious?” He rolls his eyes. But not at me or the question. It’s one hundred percent self-directed.

I’m glad I did what I did. “You’ll get there. It takes time.”

He sighs and drags a hand through his messy hair. “Thanks, man. That was . . . cool. I needed it.”

Glad we’re good. I gesture toward the doorway. “I’ll see you around.”

But Beck doesn’t make a move to leave. He scrubs a hand across his jaw as if he wants to say something else. Finally, he does. “I grew up with dogs. I trained our Border Collie to high-five, play hide-and-seek, salute, and even sit quietly in a room when we had guests over. I don’t know why it’s hard to just say that.”

Ah, hell. I feel for the rookie. I was in his spot a few years ago. It can be suffocating—the pressure to step into the role of the team leader. No wonder he’s been all over the place today. “I’m throwing a barbecue this afternoon. Guess I’m in a charitable frame of mind because I invited some Mercenaries too. I’ll make sure everyone is gone well before curfew. You’re welcome to join.”

His eyes light up. “We’re allowed?”

An evening away from the team hotel is a big deal. Teams are seriously strict about what players do the night before a game. But my shindig is a late afternoon event. “Since it’s a charity game, the teams have relaxed the rules a little. You can come.”

Beck gives a flicker of a smile. “Thanks. That’d be great. What’s your address?”

“108—” I begin, then stop. No way his recall is that good. “Do you want me to text it to you?”

“I have a photographic memory,” Beck says with all the confidence he lacked at the podium.

Okaaaay. I give him the rest of my addy.

He taps his temple then repeats it back to me like a showoff. “It’ll be right up here with the playbook.”

I’m a little thrown for the first time today, but I cover it up with a laugh. “Cool. See you later.” I turn toward the door, then remember some of the guys are bringing dates. “Bring a friend if you want. Or an SO – significant other.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

Then I turn and leave, wondering if those last words mean he’s bringing a girlfriend. Or a guy friend.

Wondering, too, why I care.

He’s attractive, sure, but I didn’t even like him at first. But here in the hallway, he’s kind of opened up, admitted he feels awkward, and that vulnerability is sort of endearing. Maybe that’s why I’m a little curious if he’s gay or single.

Except, I really shouldn’t care.

3

ONE OF THOSE KITCHEN PEOPLE

Beck

You can learn to teach a dog to high-five from a YouTube tutorial. You can figure out how to tie a bow tie with a video. Hell, you can even learn how to throw a football in a few simple steps courtesy of an amateur coach on Instagram.

But fuck if there’s anything useful on the Internet about how to act when your crush invites you to his home, where you’ll be surrounded by his and your teammates.

It’s a quandary. But I’m not going to the barbecue to hit on Jason. I’m going because I desperately need a favor, and Jason McKay’s the only one I can ask.

After I change into shorts and a T-shirt at the team hotel, I stop by the nearest Whole Foods on my way to Pacific Heights. I text my friend Rachel as I cruise the aisles. What do you bring to a last-minute barbecue?

She replies quickly. You can never go wrong with potato salad. Also, who the hell invited you to anything?

I roll my eyes and type, Shocking, I know.

Um, you didn’t answer me.

I reply, Don’t read anything into it, Rachel. Just another football player.

Then I go to the deli counter and ask for a pound of some gourmet salad with purple potatoes and fancy pickles. No idea if Jason likes potato salad.

Why would you know, dipshit?

Maybe I should bring beer. That’s what you can never go wrong with—beer. It’s too late to kibosh the salad, but when the woman at the deli counter hands me the tub, I say thanks then head to the beer aisle.

I can bring both beer and salad, right? That’s not too much, is it? I suppose I could ask the Internet, but the World Wide Web has already proven useless today.

Quickly, I track down a local wheat ale that sounds delish, and I grab a six-pack.

There.

I zip through the self-checkout, then order a Lyft, inputting Jason’s address. Once I’m in the car, I peer at my reflection on my phone. Run a hand through my hair. Check my teeth. Consider my scruff.

Then I roll my eyes. It’s a barbecue, not a date.

When the Lyft turns down Jackson Street, I gawk at the sweet homes. Swank townhouses line the block, their three-and-four-story facades signaling “you need money to live here.” Must be nice to go in the first round of the draft and land a fat signing bonus.

The car arrives, and I thank the driver and climb out, then draw a deep breath as I face the townhouse. I can hunt wide-open receivers under pressure, but walking up the steps to this guy’s home makes me more nervous than anything on the field.

I do my best to slough off the nerves.

Jason doesn’t know I think he’s hot. That I’ve admired him from afar. That I sometimes wonder what makes him tick. He’s not going to find out either. Those are the benefits of having an excellent poker face and a propensity for saying little.

I bound up the steps and rap on the door, then peer through the bay window and into his living room as I wait. A big U-shaped couch fills the space, and there’s a huge screen on the wall. No one’s walking around inside, but I wait patiently.

It’s been a minute, and no one has answered.

I hit the doorbell. A loud chime rings, and moments later, footsteps echo from inside. The door swings open.

Jason fills the doorway, all good guy charm and welcoming blue eyes. With that grin and that dimple, you could put the All-American guy on a cereal box, and Cardboard Crunchies would sell out of groceries stores across the country. His gaze lands on the potato salad and beer in my hands. “Good choices. I’ll allow entry,” he says drily.

His humor relaxes me the slightest bit. “Good thing I didn’t come empty-handed,” I say.

I step inside, and he closes the door. “I would have let you in even if you had. No one else brought anything. The fuckers.”

Great. I listened to my friend and showed up with potato salad like it’s a freaking Tupperware party in 1967 Suburbia.

“Oh, really?” I hope it sounds casual, but I’m groaning inside.

Jason claps my back. “It’s all good, Cafferty. I should have told you earlier that I’d handle everything. But this is good beer. So you get a gold star.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I feel awkward. As I sometimes do.

I follow him as he heads into a state-of-the-art kitchen. He takes the salad and puts it in the fridge. As I set the beer on the kitchen island, I try not to gawk, but this kitchen is a palace. It’s all stainless steel and pristine appliances. The Sub-Zero fridge is a thing of beauty. The meals I could make here . . .

I pull myself back before I get lost in a cooking daydream. “Your fridge is to die for,” I blurt, then I want to kick myself.

Who the hell says that? You have a nice fridge? Why don’t I just tell him he has a lovely-sounding doorbell too?

As he shuts the door, he shoots me a smile. “Are you one of those kitchen people?”

Jason makes it sound like a secret club that believes aliens explored our prehistoric planet. When Kitchen People Walked The Earth. His exaggerated horror eases my “nice-fridge” embarrassment.

“Kitchen person in the house,” I declare, patting my chest, trying to muster some coolness, some chill. “I’m a card-carrying one.”

“Sweet. My brother is a kitchen person. I have zero skills in that arena, but I love good food,” he says.

I wave a hand around the room. “Why do you have all this kitchen bling then?”

He shrugs affably. I suspect he does everything affably. “Came with the place. What can you do?” The question is rhetorical, but he’s dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and his tone is just shy of sexy.

Which makes it all kinds of dangerous.

Jason points to the six-pack. “You want one of those wheat ales?”

“Sure,” I say, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.

With the smoothness I’d expect from an athlete, he snags a bottle opener from a drawer and pops off the tops of two beers. He hands me one, then tips his toward mine. “To destroying you tomorrow,” Jason says as we clink bottles.

This I can handle—football and the trash talk that comes with it.

I give him my best dirty glare. Channeling my in-the-huddle glower makes me feel like I can manage anything, including this mix of lust and admiration. The gridiron is the one spot where I feel completely comfortable, where I don’t overthink or worry. “To you eating your words,” I toss back.

“Damn, those are fighting words, Cafferty,” he says with an appreciative smirk. “But I bet they’ll taste as delicious as this beer when you have to congratulate me on my win.”

“I’m feeling a friendly wager coming on,” I say, and I fight like hell to rein in a smile. This is so much more enjoyable than the press scrum earlier.

“You like to gamble?” Jason asks, taking a drink of his beer.

“Well, not on my own games. Or any football games, for that matter.”

Jason chuckles. “Obviously.”

“But anything else . . .” I trail off then give an easygoing shrug for my answer. “I do.”

“Good to know.” It’s kind of a throwaway comment, but I want to pounce on it, ask what he means, why he said it.

Except, that’s not why I’m here.

Lively music and laughter drift in from the yard, along with the mouth-watering smell of grilled chicken. A get-together unfolds beyond this room, but Jason hardly seems like he’s missing it. For a few delirious seconds, I let my mind wander to the idea of just him and me, here on a date.

Then I stop that bullshit.

As tempting as hanging here in the kitchen with him is, I may not have a better opportunity to ask my question.

But a blur of black and white leaps onto the counter, skidding across the black island, then stopping short at a butcher block cutting board.

Holy shit.

The tuxedo kitten is here.

I point. “That’s Bandit!”

In case he doesn’t know.

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool. He adopted me earlier. Evidently, he can also jump onto the stool and then onto the counter. But he isn’t supposed to be in the kitchen.” Jason scoops up the kitten. “Dude, who let you out?” he reprimands the critter, but he doesn’t sound the least bit mad.

More like . . . smitten as he scratches the animal’s chin.

“You took him home?” I ask, still a little shocked that he opened his home to a pet just like that. Jason moves fast.

“How could I resist him?” The question is almost a statement. And I suppose it fits his roll-with-it personality. Jason’s the guy who adopts a kitten on a whim, hosts a team barbecue and invites the rival players, and owns a fridge fit for a chef even though he doesn’t cook. I could see him teaching himself to cook someday just because he feels like it.

Also, he charms cats, judging by how Bandit rubs his head against Jason’s chest. “You’re supposed to be in the guest room,” Jason chides him.

“I know,” a pretty voice calls out from the hall. A brunette pokes her head into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Jaybird! I was looking for the little girls’ room, and I opened the wrong door.”

“No biggie, Lucy. I’ll take Bandit upstairs,” he says.

“The off-limits area,” she says playfully.

“You know me so well,” he says.

“Yes, yes. No one goes upstairs at your parties,” she says.

“Rules are rules,” he replies.

As Lucy leaves, Jason turns to me, blue eyes twinkling. “Think you could teach Bandit to sit quietly in his room while guests are over?”

I smile. “That might be out of my realm of expertise,” I say, though I wish I could. It might be easier to ask for a favor if we could make a fair trade.

But, for now, I’ve missed the opportunity to ask. Instead, I say, “I’ll go outside.”

“Grab some grub. Orlando makes the best barbecue,” he says. “Since—as I may have mentioned—I don’t cook.”

Kitten in his arms, he heads down the hall, turns up the staircase, and disappears.

I go outside, joining some of the guys I already know. Travis is here. He’s one of our receivers and a favorite target of mine. Our kicker’s here too. So is Nate, the top receiver for the Hawks and one of a handful of openly gay players in the NFL. Lucy, the woman who let Bandit escape, turns out to be Orlando’s girlfriend. A bunch of Renegades—the city’s other NFL team—are here as well, and I say hi to Cooper, the quarterback, and Harlan, the just-retired wide receiver. The crew welcomes me, introducing me to people I don’t know as we chat and down beers and soda.

For the next few hours, we eat and talk, diving into barbecued chicken and gourmet burgers, chowing down on kale salad, potato salad, and corn on the cob.

The afternoon is laid-back, with Jason floating among the guests, making sure everyone has a drink, a bite to eat, some dessert.

Eventually, the sun sinks in the sky, and the guests filter out. Harlan claps me on the shoulder. “Do your best to kick ass tomorrow, rookie. The Hawks are our biggest rivals, and I’d love nothing more than to see them lose every single game.” He winks at Jason as he says it. Because the message is really for him, Renegade to Hawk.

“I’ll try my hardest,” I say with a small smile.

Jason flips Harlan the bird. “I get it, Harlan. It’s tough being second best to the Hawks.”

With a roll of his eyes, Harlan takes off.

Nearly everyone is gone. I hang back, gearing up to make my request. I can’t keep being Mr. Awkward with the press now that the starting job is mine to lose.

Nate and I are the last to leave. After he says goodbye, it’s just me standing in the doorway with Jason.

Now or never. “Can I ask you a question?”

Jason’s expression goes serious, his gregariousness vanishing. “Sure.” He sounds like he has his guard up.

I want to reassure him that my favor is nothing too personal. For him, at least. I’m the one who needs help. “You might have noticed I suck with the media. Any chance you could give me some pointers?”

His face clears, and he’s back to playing the gregarious host. With a smile, he gestures to the living room. “Let’s do it, Cafferty.”

When Jason shuts the door, the two of us are alone in his home. Something I’ve imagined more than a few times.

But I can’t go there now. I’ll get flustered, and I desperately need his help with the media. Not with my crush.

4

I’M GETTING THE DISTINCT IMPRESSION YOU HAVE A CRUSH

Jason

Since it’s the night before a game, we switch from beer to LaCroix then settle onto the couch in my living room with our drinks. Beck takes one end of the U-shaped couch, and I grab the other.

“Talk to me,” I say, relieved he wants to chat about something easy. For a second, I thought he was going to throw me an awkward curveball. It happens, anything from can you introduce me to your agent, which I’ve gotten from other players, to were you hitting on me earlier, something I’ve had to deal with a couple of times from homophobic assholes in college.

Fortunately, I haven’t had that in the pros. Representation has grown, and now, major sports count plenty of out athletes among their players. But you never know when you’ll run into a bigot. I take nothing for granted.

Beck drags a hand through his dark hair, then sets his drink on my coffee table. “So, I guess the question is—how the hell do you do it?”

I laugh, appreciating how forthright he is now compared to earlier today. He’s not a dick; he just has stage fright. “It’s an art form,” I joke. Then, I exhale deeply, setting down my drink too—time for some real talk. “Listen, I’m presuming we’re not exactly in the same situation, but I had to make a choice a few years ago. Be open, be accessible, be available.”

Beck nods intently, as if he’s taking mental notes or maybe snapping pics with that photographic memory. “Sure, I get you.” Then in a quieter voice, he adds, “On most of that.”

Wait. Hold on. Is he telling me something without telling me something?

But I don’t want to read into his most of that remark. I’m just glad he’s picked up on my overall meaning. “I’ve had some mentors over the years,” I continue, focusing on his question. “Guys I could look up to who had to face some of the same scrutiny. Like Grant Blackwood,” I say, naming the out catcher for the local baseball team. “From talking to him and others, I sort of figured out I needed a shtick with the press.”

Beck’s brown eyes flash with understanding. “Got it. I need a shtick, you’re saying?”

I reach for my can on the coffee table and raise it to punctuate my point. “Bingo.” I take a drink.

Beck nods, absorbing my advice. “And your shtick is . . .”

He’s not so much asking a question as waiting for me to finish for him, so he doesn’t have to be the one to identify my press persona.

But I’m not going to let him off so easy. “You can say it.”

He laughs, shaking his head. He’s not touching the answer with a ten-foot pole.

“C’mon, Cafferty. Say it,” I goad him as I set down the drink, then stretch an arm across the back of the couch.

More laughter, then he holds up his hands in surrender. “Can’t do it.”

I sigh in over-the-top disappointment. “How can I help you come up with a shtick if you can’t say what mine is?”

He dips his face, maybe worried he’ll offend me. But he finds the guts to mutter, “Bad dad jokes.”

“Dude! There’s no other kind of dad joke.”

He laughs. “I won’t argue with you there.”

“But I also kind of go for the whole mayoral routine,” I say, a touch more serious as I share what’s behind the lame jokes. “Know what I mean? I glad-hand. Ask the reporters how they’re doing. It works, and it helps me stay on a good footing with them.” I rub my palms, getting down to business. “So what’s yours going to be?”

He laughs, a little helplessly. “Hell if I know. Got any ideas?”

I scrub my chin, giving him a once-over. Damn, he’s handsome. But that’s irrelevant. I shake off the thoughts of his good looks. I’m not interested in admiring straight men and their stubbled jaws, intense irises, and full lips.

“You’re a smart guy, right?” I ask.

“I like to think so,” he says, uncertain.

“You think so, or you know so?”

This time he owns it, saying with confidence, “I know.”

“Lean into that then. Maybe your shtick is the thoughtful QB. Play around with some options. Because the reality is this—when you’re the quarterback, you can’t shy away from the media.”

“True words,” he says.

A chime rings from my smart home on the table. “Unfinished Business starts in ten minutes,” a cool, robotic voice announces.

I sit up straight, hunting around the cushions for the remote. “Sweet! I’ve been waiting for the new season to binge,” I say.

Beck’s quiet for a beat, looking down, but a smile seems to tug on his lips. “Me too.”

It comes out soft but with a hint of hope in it.

Maybe this is ridiculous, but it sure sounds like he wants to watch it. With me. When Beck turns my way, the look in his deep brown eyes borders on sexy, maybe even dirty.

A little like the show. Unfinished Business is one of those romantic comedies that centers on several different couples—some gay, some straight. Watching a show like that together is kind of date-y, especially when the show gets kind of sexy, as it does.

But I’m probably reading something into nothing. Lots of people like the show. And I have heaps of straight guy friends. Maybe Beck is just a straight dude who wants to hang. Nothing wrong with that.

Don’t overthink this. Just be the mayor. “Want to watch it?” I ask in my best cool and casual voice.

Before he can answer, Bandit skids into the room, leaps onto the back of the couch, and jumps onto Beck’s lap.

The other quarterback scratches the kitten’s chin. “Hey there, little dude,” he says, then, without meeting my eyes, Beck says, “Let’s watch it, Jason.”

Not McKay.

Jason.

The back of my neck prickles. I find the remote behind a stack of books on the coffee table, and out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Beck’s watching me, looking at me.

I point the clicker at the flat-screen and turn on the streaming service, grateful to focus on the show. The soft light of dusk streams through the window. Curfew is a couple more hours away for him.

As the opening credits roll, I put the clicker on the cushion and settle into the couch. Beck looks cozy with my new kitten curled on his shoulder. “I told you. He’s part parrot,” he says, in a hushed tone, like he doesn’t want to disturb the kitty.

I don’t respond to his parrot comment. I don’t know what the hell to say.

I focus on the show. One of the characters leashes up her dog for a walk then bumps into the cute guy, Jamie, in the apartment lobby. If this were a date, I might remark on how absolutely fucking adorable Jamie is, and he might agree, but I zip my mouth closed.

When Jamie meets up with his work buddies later—two guys who just started dating each other—I keep quiet too and stare harder at the screen.

But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Beck looking at me. Then he swallows and darts his eyes away.

What the fuck is going on? My straight friends don’t steal glances at me when we watch TV. And I’m not going to check him out, no matter how soulful those brown eyes are.

Nope. Won’t go there. I am too much of a sucker for great eyes to even risk a peek.

I try to concentrate on Jamie and Zoe, Garrett and Carlos, but I’m too keenly aware of Beck on my couch, mere feet away. His can I ask for your help with the media request is suddenly loaded with new possibilities.

Midway through the episode, Beck clears his throat and rises, the kitten in his arms.

Oh, okay. I guess he’s done. That’s fine. If he’s taking off, that puts an end to my confusion. I kind of want him to go so I can stop wondering, but I don’t want him to leave either.

Ugh.

“Bathroom down the hall?” Beck asks.

Oh. He’s not going at all, so I get to stay confused. Great.

“Yup. Down the hall,” I repeat.

He bends closer and hands me the cat, his fingers brushing mine.

He did not just touch me intentionally. That was a cat handoff, that’s all.

As he heads away to the bathroom, I drag a hand through my hair, trying to process the shift in the mood—the date-like feel of the night, the way he’s giving off flirty vibes.

But then, I press the brakes.

I don’t know Beck from Adam. Don’t know his agenda, so it’s best to assume it’s truly just this TV show he’s staying for.

“I’m getting the distinct impression you have a crush on my dog.” The feminine voice from the TV show reconnects me to reality. Well, TV reality.

Shit. I didn’t even pause the show when Beck left. The clicker’s in the middle of the couch, so I scoot over and grab it, point it at the screen, and back up thirty seconds.

Beck returns to the living room, circling the couch. To get back to his seat, he has to go by me, and his dark eyes are on mine as he slinks past. “You stole my cat,” he says, his tone teasing, flirty, his eyes sparkling.

What is going on?

He sits down.

Closer to me.

He’s a whole cushion closer.

I don’t know what to do.

“Anything good happen while I was gone?” he asks.

I swallow, trying to form words. “I rewound it,” I say, stating the obvious since the screen is paused.

Then I hit play, and I do my damnedest to watch Unfinished Business. When Jamie and Zoe stop in the stairwell, I don’t move. I laser in on the screen. The kiss gets a little hot, a little heavy.

No idea what Beck is doing, and I refuse to peek, even when Bandit leaves my lap to curl up in his.

Lucky cat.

When the episode ends, I bet he’ll say thanks and take off. But once the credits roll, he clears his throat, takes a breath, then blurts out, “Want to watch another?”

His question is Mach speed, as if it’s fueled by hope.

A spark slides down my spine. I’m supposed to be in control. But I don’t feel that way right now.

And I like that feeling too much.

“Sure.”

5

I LIKE TO GAMBLE

Beck

I should leave. Really, I should. But I can’t seem to find the will to say a simple goodbye. Thanks for the advice, man. I appreciate it.

I just don’t want to.

Maybe this is what happens when you meet your crush, and he exceeds your expectations. Jason sure did this morning, saving me from those reporters, all uber-competent and kind-hearted at the same time. In one swift move, I went from crushing from afar to crushing in person—on a guy who clearly cares about others. Then my crush ballooned when he invited me over and freely shared pointers.

I came here because I needed his help. But I stayed because he’s so easy to talk to.

And easier to look at.

And fun to hang with.

I glance at the clock on his wall. Curfew’s in two hours. I need to get back to the hotel soon.

But not yet.

We finish two more episodes, the cat purring in my lap the whole time. When the last one ends, Jason gestures to Bandit. “It’s official. The cat prefers you.”

I smile, petting the soft creature. “Like I said, I grew up with animals. I think they know I’m an animal person.”

I’m not that social. I’m not good with crowds. I relied on my older brother for so much growing up. As a result? I have an easier time with animals. And animals seem to know it. Animals also make great fodder for conversation, and I need that sometimes. Like, right now. “But is Bandit the name you’re keeping?”

Jason arches a brow. “You harshing on my cat’s name now?”

Maybe a little. “It’s a good name, but . . .”

He growls in mock annoyance. “But what, Cafferty?”

“It could be better. I’m just saying.” I tease him a little and enjoy it far too much.

He wiggles his fingers, the sign for me to give up the goods. “You already romanced him out from under me. Now you’re challenging my cat’s name?”

“Yes, yes I am,” I say, and I don’t make a damn move to leave. This night feels too good. Even though one voice says, Go, before you do something dangerous, another voice whispers, Go on. Do something dangerous. “I’m saying there are better names.”

“Such as?”

I glance at the sleeping cat. “He kind of reminds me of a supper club singer, with his tux.”

“Hmm.” Jason lets that sink in. “So, Leisure Suit Larry?”

“I like that. Or Frank Sinatra,” I offer.

He tilts his head, considering the name. “Frank isn’t bad,” Jason admits. Then he grabs his LaCroix can from the table, waggles it. “I’m going to grab another. Want one?”

I want to spend more time with you.

Instead, I say sure, then set down the cat on the couch and follow the host to the kitchen. He stops short in the doorway. “Shit.”

The counters are a mess, full of plates and dishes, tubs of half-eaten food, and bowls of mostly finished salads. “I forgot I need to clean up,” he says as he enters the room.

“Let me help you,” I say in a split second.

“You don’t have to,” he says generously.

But I’m not ready for this night to end. “I don’t mind,” I say, and it’s a borderline plea. “You helped me, so it’s the least I can do.”

Jason takes a moment to weigh my offer, then with a friendly smile, he says, “If you insist.”

He opens the dishwasher, and we fall into a rhythm. After rinsing the plates in the sink, I hand them to him, and he lines them up in the rack. We’re a couple feet away—close but not too close.

I want to be closer.

As I near the end of the stack of plates, time starts to tick faster. The night is going to end soon. I’ll need to leave. The pressure to learn if he’s attracted to me mounts. As I hand him the final plate, I let my fingers graze the tips of his.

He flinches in surprise. But the slight hitch in his breath tells me the surprise isn’t a bad one.

Do I keep going?

When Jason closes the dishwasher, another minute has slipped by. I try to figure out how to move this evening into something else.

Something daring.

I can’t stop thinking about his mouth. Or his chest, and the way I might feel if I could touch him.

Jason grabs a Tupperware container from the counter, puts it in the fridge. I reach for another one, slide past him to set it on a shelf. My arm nudges his.

A flash of desire rushes through me from the contact. I close my eyes for a hot second, then open them.

When he shuts the fridge, he’s looking past me—around me, anywhere but at me. Fuck. I’m making this worse with my unsophisticated touches. I’m making him uncomfortable now.

I should let this night end. “I should . . .” But my head’s so hazy with desire I can’t finish the sentence the way I ought to.

I try again. “I should wash my hands,” I say to buy some time before I can ask him one more thing.

Jason just nods, then gestures to the sink. “Go for it,” he says.

Those words reverberate. They wrap around me. They drive me on as I walk to his sink, wash my hands, then turn off the tap.

I hunt around for a towel. Jason holds one out to me.

His face is unreadable, and it’s clear I need to ask for what I want. He probably doesn’t know I’m bi. I have to be the one to take the chance.

I reach for the towel he’s offering, wipe my hands on it, then set it down on the hook.

I weigh my options. I could chalk this up to one weird night with some flirty tension. Or I could go for it.

But really, I’ve known my choice since I walked in that door, telling myself I was only here to ask for media help. “Jason, remember when you asked if I liked to gamble?” I ask.

“I do,” he says evenly, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his shorts. His whole demeanor says the ball is in my court.

I toss the ball in the air, and I serve. “I’d like to roll the dice right now. And I have another question for you,” I say.

This time, he doesn’t speak. He just nods, letting me make the next move.

One more glance at the clock. I have twenty minutes. I don’t want to waste them. “Can I kiss you?”

6

DIRTY EVERYTHINGS

Jason

When I first met Beck, I had no idea he was into dudes. I didn’t get a vibe whatsoever. Until he said he wanted to watch the romantic comedy too, but even then, I didn’t want to entertain those ideas. And once he started inching closer on the couch and checking me out, I still didn’t want to presume he was into me.

Now that he’s shown his hand, I’ve got a ton of questions for him.

Like, is this what you meant when you said, ‘most of that’? And did you come over for this reason? And did you really want media tips? Because, damn, I believed you. And the biggest question too—are you out?

But as I rake my gaze over the man in my kitchen, I keep those questions locked up. This moment is so surreal I don’t want to break the spell by talking.

Or by thinking about what a bad idea kissing another quarterback might be.

Beck struck the match with his question, and now I’m burning with lust. I want to fan the flames. I step closer, press my hand against his firm pecs, and whisper a smoky answer, “Yes.”

“Good. That’s good,” he says with a staggered breath.

For a few hot, horny seconds, we stay poised inches apart, caught in the anticipation.

How the hell did I get here?

I had no plans to make out with him. All I wanted this afternoon was to help a dude who was floundering. But dammit, Beck’s sexy and smart and weirdly, sort of charming. The way he’s been looking at me is scrambling my brain.

And turning me on.

He licks his lips, the tip of his tongue flicking over the corner of his mouth.

But his hands hang at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them. Is he unsure after all? Regretting his can I kiss you question?

He silences my worries in a second as his mouth crashes down on mine.

He isn’t slow. He doesn’t take his sweet time. Beck jams the gas pedal. The race car peels away onto the track at one hundred miles an hour.

Sparks fly down my body. Electricity flares in my bones. He kisses me hard and harder still, his hands grabbing my face, his lips bruising mine.

Beck is fire and fury, and that cranks my engine. This is how I like it.

I don’t want sweet nothings. I want dirty everythings.

He growls as he kisses me, which makes me hotter and harder. He sucks on my bottom lip. I bite the edge of his mouth. He thrusts his tongue past my lips and devours me.

My head spins with lust as I taste him—he tastes desperate for me.

And determined too.

Letting go of my face, he pushes on my chest so I back up against the counter. The edge of it digs into my back. It hurts, and I don’t care.

His hands travel everywhere on my body, artlessly gripping my pecs, then grabbing my jaw, and sliding down my arms. Cataloging me. Seconds ago, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Now, he doesn’t know how to stop touching me.

At last, he returns his palms to my face, holding me hard as he kisses me relentlessly. I slide my hands around to his ass, curl them tight over his cheeks, and slam his hard-on against my dick.

We make out like that, grinding and groaning, erections rubbing.

Till he wrenches away from me, panting, catching his breath. He stares at me like he wants to fuck right here, right now.

Well, yeah.

Then reality taps me on the shoulder. I’m not opposed to sex with a stranger. There’s nothing wrong with a one-night stand. But Beck isn’t a stranger. We work in the same, small world.

He’s not out, at least as far as I know. And that raises some questions. Is he just a straight guy wanting to mess around with a gay dude?

That’s a hard pass for me.

I set a hand firmly on his pecs. “Is this an experiment for you?”

With a frustrated huff, he shakes his head, then nods. I jerk my gaze back, my hand becoming a stop sign on his chest. Do not pass GO. “Which one is it?”

He sighs heavily. “Shit, sorry. It’s not an experiment,” he mutters as if it’s hard for him to say.

That’s not entirely reassuring, his half answer. I don’t want to be some straight guy’s walk on the dude side. Been there, done that. A lot of things suck about getting dumped, but getting ditched by a guy who never really liked guys is one of the worst.

I push him away by more than a few inches. “Are you sure you’re not just messing with me?”

Adamantly, he shakes his head. “No. Definitely not. I’m not.”

“So then are you . . .?” If he can’t say gay or queer or bi or pan, I don’t want to fool around anymore.

His gaze drops to my hand on his chest, to the distance I created, as if looking for the answer there. He raises his face, his dark eyes flashing with vulnerability. “I’m . . . bi.”

My lips quirk up. Now we’re in business. Any variety of queer works for me. And while I’ve never known him to be out, I also don’t know him. Nor do I keep a list of newly out players. Plus, I just met the guy, and I don’t want to turn this into an inquisition with any more questions—like are you out to your teammates, or does your family know. Now, when we’re both hot and bothered—and both into guys rather than experiments—isn’t the time for a deeper discussion on how far out of the closet or not he is.

Now is the time for getting off.

But just to have a little fun, I lift a hand to his jaw, run my thumb along his face. “You sure about that, Cafferty?”

That seems to ease whatever nerves he felt in speaking his truth. He wiggles a brow, gives me a cocky smirk. “Positive. Want me to prove it to you?”

I lift my chin, seeing his bet and raising it. “I really fucking do.”

With speed I didn’t see coming, he unbuttons my shorts, yanks down the zipper, and fondles my cock.

7

MY QUARTERBACK CRUSH

Beck

He’s silky to the touch and all steel underneath. My mouth waters. My chest tingles.

I want to play with his dick all night. To stroke and tease. To lick and suck.

But the clock is ticking, curfew is coming, and I don’t want to stop this make-out train.

Don’t think he does either. A few seconds later, he undoes my shorts and shoves his hand into my boxer briefs to grasp my dick.

I hiss in a breath. We’ve got our hands on each other, and it’s bone-meltingly good.

I groan at the twin sensations—the high-voltage charge from him touching me, and the heady thrill of me touching him. The man I’ve crushed on for the last year. The man I’ve fantasized about too many times to count.

Now it’s real, and I’m acutely aware that it’s go time. I don’t want to fuck this up. Don’t want to ruin this sexy moment with the wrong move.

But I’m pretty sure I’m making the right ones. Jason’s moaning and his cock is dripping. I try to toss all my worries aside. We’ve got seven minutes, tops, before I turn into a pumpkin. Dirty Cinderella, indeed.

Gripping him tight, I slide my fist along his hot length, spreading my thumb over his crown, lubing him up as best I can.

“Yes,” he grunts. “I like it rough.”

And I like it crystal clear. A little direction goes a long way. I let go for a second, spit in my palm, then return to his dick and give a nice, tight jerk.

Jason shudders, pumping into my fist and showing off his multitasking skills, too, as he strokes my dick, using my pre-come to ease the way.

Lust shoots down my spine in fast, pulsing waves of pure pleasure. I grit my teeth from the sweet agony of his hand shuttling up and down my length. My dick is leaking, but even as he spreads the liquid arousal on my shaft, that hardly feels like enough glide.

This tandem hand job would be a little easier with help. I glance around. Maybe there’s lotion nearby? Trouble is, I don’t want to stop to go hunt down lube. And I don’t want to sound high-maintenance either.

I’m not ready to ask for a blow job. Maybe my own arousal is enough to get the job done. I focus on how good it feels, jerking him as he jerks me.

I lift my hand to coat my palm again for him, and Jason grabs my wrist, stopping me.

“What?” I ask, nerves skittering down my spine, hoping I didn’t mess up.

But in two seconds, he’s down on his knees, hauling my dick into his mouth, and holy fuck, yes.

My hands rope through his hair as he sucks me to the root, cupping my balls and playing with them. His mouth, dear God, his mouth.

And this view—it’s almost too much, the way his lips stretch and his eyes twinkle.

Before I know it, I’m moaning and groaning and fucking his face. But Jason surprises me once more, dropping me from his lips with a long, lingering suck, leaving a trail of saliva behind on my dick. Then he pops up, grips me again. “Just helping matters along,” he says, all sexy and flirty and reading my needs completely.

That. Is. Hot.

And I am this close to losing it.

As he jerks me, I reach for his dick, play with him loosely. It’s hard to fully concentrate on his pleasure when I’m this close to the edge with his hand. I squeeze my eyes shut and give in to the lust charging down my body. His hand flies faster on my dick, then faster still.

My balls tighten, my vision blurs, and I unload in his hand, shuddering as I release. Holy fuck. That felt . . . out of this world, and it was just a hand job.

When I open my eyes, my orgasm is dripping over his knuckles. With a smirk, Jason lets go of my cock and grabs his dick, giving a long, lingering stroke with the hand that jerked me.

My eyes pop. I shudder out a breath. No fucking way. He’s coating his dick with my orgasm, and I could nearly come again from the sight. He gestures to his dick with his free hand, all casual and sexy. “Finish me off, Cafferty,” he says.

I grip him, the evidence of my climax paving the way. In seconds, he’s grunting, pumping his hips, and fucking my fist hard and fast.

I remember his direction. He likes it rough. I tighten my grip, then tug on his balls with my other hand.

His lips part. He shudders out a breath, tenses, then comes in my hand.

My entire body is alive—lit up.

I am electrified. All my senses are working in overdrive as I memorize this deliciously sexy moment. The sight of our orgasms. The sounds of our pleasure. The smell of our sweat.

It’s everything I’ve wanted.

And I want it again. But I glance at the time. “I should clean up.”

“Ditto.”

We both make quick work of straightening up. The ticking clock rules out those awkward after-sex moments, like cuddling and talking—shit I don’t know how to deal with.

But I know this much—as tough as the last few months have been for me, tonight was a welcome break from the hard stuff.

This feels like it was necessary for my sanity. For my mental health. Somehow, this hookup eased the pain of the rougher days.

My mind is lighter, and I want more of this good feeling.

After I order a Lyft, which will be here in two minutes, I draw a soldiering breath. “Can I ask you one more question?”

Jason laughs, shaking his head. “You and your questions.”

I’m glad I can make him laugh. That’s a good start. “Yeah, I have a lot of questions, including this one. Was tonight a date?”

Jason’s smile is so warm and genuine, and it doesn’t seem like bullshit when he says, “I think so. Did it feel that way to you?”

So much that I want another. “It did. And our flight back to Los Angeles is at eight tomorrow, so there’s time after the game. A couple of hours.”

His smile grows. “You asking me on a post-game date, Cafferty? After I destroy the Mercenaries, that is.”

Holy shit. I am. And it feels so right. “Yeah. But it’ll be the other way around. We’ll annihilate you.”

He scoffs. “Don’t bet on it.”

That gives me a wicked idea. “I’ll bet you a blow job. When I win, you finish what you started when you were sucking me off.”

He cracks up. “We’re betting for blow jobs?”

“We are.”

Jason sticks out a hand. “Fair enough. Winner gets a blow job.” He glances around. “Back here at my place. Tomorrow. Five-ish. We should have time for a blow job and a bite to eat.”

That sounds like a perfect date. “It’s on.”

My phone beeps, telling me that my Lyft is here. No time for anything more. “See you tomorrow.”

I’m tempted to plant a kiss on his lips. But I don’t want to presume he’d like that, so I leave without kissing him goodbye.

I don’t really know how to play this game. But I’ll have to learn because it seems I have a second date with my quarterback crush.

And, I suppose, for the first time, I want to figure it out.

In the morning, my stomach is twisted into knots before I even leave the hotel, and it loops into even tighter ones in the locker room as kickoff nears.

Soon, I’ll take to the field in my first professional game as a starter. This is big.

My stomach jumps again. I’m not made of iron, but I’ve had a lifetime of practice dealing with my pre-game anxiety. I’ve learned how to handle my nerves. I have my rituals, and they help. Mostly.

But this game is different for so many reasons. It would be easy to dwell on those reasons, but . . . nope.

Can’t go there.

Need to stay in the moment.

Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the present, not the past.

When game time rolls around, I leave the locker room and trot to the field after kickoff.

Then, I narrow my focus until it’s entirely on the field and shut off everything else.

8

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

Jason

This is my favorite kind of game—one that ends in a win for the home team. As my Hawks jog off the field, victorious, we smack palms with the line of Mercenaries.

My game face is on, so when I near Beck, I don’t crack a smile as I smack his palm or show an ounce of excitement over what’s to come tonight. Fine, maybe I do steal a glance at those lips.

In a couple hours, they’ll be wrapped around my dick.

Yes, this is a seriously good day.

And it’ll be an excellent evening. Maybe, if all goes well, I’ll ask him a question. How about a third date?

We can probably pull off another one during the season. I’ll check our schedules and figure it out. But I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. First, there are things to buy. Like food and stuff.

After I leave the facility, I get in my car and swing by Whole Foods. I don’t know his likes, but he’s an athlete and a foodie, so I make some educated guesses at the deli counter. A chicken salad, a quinoa dish, and since you can never go wrong with cheese, I snag some Gouda and crackers and olives.

I might not cook, but I can make a charcuterie board almost as well as I can play football.

At home, I change into better casual date attire and consider my reflection in the mirror. Trim shorts and a tight navy-blue polo. It’s all good.

Then I head downstairs with Bandit at my heels. He performs his counter jump again in the kitchen, skidding a few inches but then steadying himself. “And it’s a nine point two from the American judge,” I say. “But rules are rules.”

I scoop him up and put him on the floor, moving the stool away so he can’t reach the counter again. Then I set up the food. “Damn, I impress myself,” I say to my new roommate, who’s circling my feet.

I head to the living room with my buddy, grab the clicker, and point it at the TV. I’m tempted to watch another episode of Unfinished Business, but maybe Beck wants to watch with me.

It’s past five, so I click to my texts, about to fire off a note to Beck, asking if he wants to see an episode tonight, then I stop and laugh.

I never got his number.

He did the whole I have a photographic memory thing. And last night, I didn’t ask for it when he left because . . . we made plans. We set a time and a place.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Is he . . .?

Did he play me?

He should have arrived already.

I sit up straighter and peer out the window. Maybe I’ll spot him heading down the block or bounding up the steps.

Or maybe he’s just late. That happens. That’s way more likely than him standing me up. After all, the guy did ask me out.

I flop down on the couch, all casual and chill with my cat, certain Beck will be here any minute.

9

FOOL ME ONCE

Jason

It’s eight o’clock, and I’m the schmuck standing in my kitchen, stabbing a fork into the chicken salad with one hand, scrolling through Insta with the other. Beck has no social so I’ve resorted to checking for pics of the other Mercenaries to make sure that, yup, the team plane has left the tarmac.

The fucker ghosted me. He came over, hit on me, got me off, asked himself over again, and then actually ghosted me.

I set down the fork with a loud clang then click over to my messages. I text Nate to see if he wants to play some late-night mini golf. He says yes, so I leave and meet my friend, grateful to get far away from my home.

“Whoa. You look pissed,” Nate says after a quick appraisal at the golf check-in counter.

I shake my head, still annoyed. “Ghosted.”

He winces. “Ouch.”

“Tell me about it,” I say as I grab some balls and clubs.

He pats my shoulder. “Been there. It bites.”

“It sure does.”

As we hit the mini links, I do my best to forget about Beck. I refuse to nurse the wound.

Just like I refuse to track down his number to ask what’s up. He obviously didn’t want me to contact him—that’s why he played the whole photographic memory bit.

Fine by me.

I don’t want to talk to him. I have nothing to say to a guy who stood me up.

But it turns out he has something he wants to say to me. The next morning, I’m at the gym, running on the treadmill when an LA number pops up in my texts.

It has to be him. I guess he got my digits somehow.

“Asshole,” I mutter. But curiosity gets the better of me. What does he want? Cursing myself, I click on the message.

Hey, it’s Beck. I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night. Next time I see you, I’ll explain.

I snort at the vague note. Give me a break. There won’t be a next time.

But the world is small, and I don’t want to develop enemies, so I write back. We’re all good. Best of luck with the starting gig.

Then I block his number.

I don’t need an explanation. Maybe he’s embarrassed his team lost. Maybe all he wanted was to get his rocks off before a game. Maybe he’s so far in the closet he plans to hang there forever with his clothes. I’m not anywhere close to the closet, so it’s also possible he just can’t handle a guy like me who’s all the way out.

Whatever. I don’t need his explanations. And I don’t want to know his reasons anymore. The one thing I know for sure is this—I definitely don’t need to deal with guys who ghost me.

Whatever Beck’s issue is, it isn’t my issue. I won’t let it be.

With no distractions, I play my heart out for the rest of the season. I don’t hear from Beck or see him. Lucky me. Our teams don’t play each other in the regular season.

I leave everything on the field, but it’s not enough for a playoff berth. There’s always next year, though. And when the new season rolls around, no distractions will be my mantra then too.

Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m getting good at wearing blinders.

A year after the ghosting, following the Hawks’ first regular season game, I stick to my usual routine in the evening—I hang out with friends. Nate and I join some of our teammates at our favorite watering hole, grab a bite, and watch the sports news.

As we’re debating our favorite karaoke tunes for when we hit the stage in a few, the anchor’s voice catches my attention.

“And in trade news today, Beck Cafferty has been traded to the San Francisco Renegades,” she says.

And boom. I’m not debating the Backstreet Boys or Ed Sheeran anymore.

My heart’s racing, and I’m scrambling for just the right play to call when I run into the quarterback I kissed.

Because I will, and I need to be more than ready now that my one-time hookup has become my cross-town rival.

So much for luck and putting our history behind me. Seems like a life with Beck Cafferty in it is just about to kick off.

Beck and Jason’s romance continues in THE BOYFRIEND COMEBACK!

PART II

THE BOYFRIEND COMEBACK

One Year Later

1

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME

Jason

I’m not taking any chances today.

The second I hit the gym on the first Sunday morning of football season, I tune into my pump-me-up playlist, the same one I listen to before every game.

I blast the swagger music in my earbuds throughout my workout with my buddy and teammate Nate.

When we finish, we head to our regular coffee shop for his post-workout coffee. It’s part of our routine—gym, swagger-mix, Nate getting a cup of joe, and me getting something that doesn’t taste like mud.

Except . . . check out the new menu.

Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium has finally, after months of begging from yours truly, gotten into the breakfast smoothie business with its Good Luck Morning Mango Smoothie.

I’ll have to try that smoothie tomorrow. Can’t risk changing any pre-game rituals today. Too much rides on turning things around.

Wait. Hold the fuck on. I’m doing today all wrong.

I’m giving one hundred ten percent to the old standby routine, but it’s a new season today. The team sure could use a Good Luck Morning.

I smack Nate on the shoulder. “That smoothie is calling our names.”

Nate’s as flexible with drinks as he is with a change of plays in the huddle. “Sold.”

I order two smoothies and pay for them when our drinks are ready.

That’s new too.

Nate clutches his broad chest like he’s overwhelmed. “Whatever did I do to deserve this?”

“You catch my passes, dude. Also, I’m feeling generous because I’m positive we will have a great game today,” I say, drumming up the enthusiasm the whole team needs.

The enthusiasm I haven’t felt all summer.

I don’t place too much stock in luck, but I believe in attitude. Like every guy on the Hawks, Nate’s been in a funk lately. I’ve got to change that with Nate, then the team.

Outside the shop, I take a long slurp through the straw and give a satisfied sigh. “This is now our official good luck beverage. We’re going to get this every day of the season.”

As we head up Fillmore Street, Nate takes a drink, shooting me a doubtful look. “I hate to be all logical and whatnot, but aren’t you putting the cart before the horse, Jaybird?”

I shake my head, dismissing that notion. “We lost our preseason games. We had a shitty training camp,” I say, farewelling the dark days so we can move past them. “From here on out, everything needs to be new. This smoothie will reset the order of balance in the football universe, and we’re going to destroy the Seattle Wolves on the field today.”

Nate is more pragmatic. “That’s a lot to ask of a drink.”

“It’s not a drink. It’s a mindset,” I point out. “We need to have faith and confidence and kick-ass-itude.”

Nate lifts his cup in a toast. “Now that I can get behind.”

I wiggle my brows. “You can definitely get . . . behind,” I say, then punctuate the pun with a drumroll.

My buddy groans, like he can’t believe I went there. But I need him all aboard the Good Vibes train today. As two team captains, we can set the rhythm for a game. “I’ll have to dock you a full point for that horrible pun,” Nate adds.

I’ll happily take the hit in our ongoing tally of zingers and duds. At least he’s starting to smile. The last few weeks have been miserable at the Hawks facility.

We shoot the shit until we reach the small-batch ice cream shop on the corner of my street, where we part ways. He heads to his place in the Marina, and five minutes later, I bound up the front steps to my home.

I get ready for work, shaking everything up like it’s Opposite Day.

I shave. I didn’t shave before the last few home games.

I hunt down my red college T-shirt. Didn’t wear that to those bouts.

Then, I fly downstairs and search my kitchen and living room for the cat formerly known as Bandit.

Taco thinks he could be an all-star in a Cat Hide and Seek League, but before long, I spot his furry tuxedo face from behind the books on a shelf in the living room. I march over to give him a smooch on top of his head. That’s another new routine—I didn’t kiss this wily critter before the other home games.

When my lips touch his precious feline fur, he rears back, then instantly licks his front paw to rub his head. Of course. Must scrub the evidence of human affection off his coat. “Excuse me, your royal cat-ness,” I say. He’s ditched all his kitten sweetness and has gone full cat.

But hey, I landed the smooch, so it counts in the Opposite Day Tally.

Then, I hop into my car and head for my dad’s place in Russian Hill.

Because the one ritual I won’t mess with is picking up my dad on the way to the stadium. He’s been to every home game of mine since I was a kid.

I make good time and manage to snag a prime parking spot on the hilly street right outside his home, then jog up the steps, right when he swings open the door. He hobbles out onto the landing on his crutches.

“You beat me to it,” he grumbles, tucking a book and his tablet tighter under his arm. “I was going to show you what I could do and wait for you on the sidewalk.”

I laugh. “You’ve got to wake up early to get the jump on me, Pops.” I wiggle my fingers at the book and tablet. Begrudgingly, he hands them to me. Then, I reach for his crutches, too, and offer my arm. Don’t want him to take any chances going down the steps. I feel bad enough that he broke his leg mountain biking in Costa Rica earlier this summer—on a trip I sent him on. Talk about a dream vacay turned into a nightmare.

After I help him into the car, I pull into Sunday mid-morning traffic, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in an upbeat rhythm. “What’s cooking this morning?”

But Dad doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he peers at me like he’s not buying what I’m selling. “You okay?” he finally asks.

I keep my brave face on because I’ll need it when I arrive at the stadium, where Coach will be prowling around. “Yep. Had a good night’s sleep at the team hotel before I hit the gym this morning for a great workout,” I say, as cheery as can be, transformed by the mango smoothie, my veins flowing with pep.

But it feels false.

Especially when I slow at the light and give him my best it’s all good grin—a smile that would fool anyone but Dad or my brother.

Dad doesn’t smile back. Yup. He can see through me. Always has. He squeezes my arm in a most dad-like way. “Jason, it’s okay to breathe. And it’s okay if you’re not sunshine and roses every second of the day before a game.”

But is it okay if the team knows I’m massively fucking worried we’re going to suck it again this year? Is it cool if Coach knows he’s stressing us out? The fans certainly don’t need to know the pressure I feel from the clipped tone Coach Killfoyle has taken lately with the team or the speculation in the media about changes for the Hawks. “I’m not nervous, per se,” I point out, dodging his statement.

“Didn’t say you were nervous,” he says calmly as the light changes. “I know that’s not your issue. But you’ve got a ton of manic energy, and I think I know why.”

I grip the wheel tighter as I drive. “Why is that?”

“I know you want to turn things around this season. But you’re taking that all on yourself when this is a team sport. And the great thing is football starts over every year. You don’t have to carry the bad seasons with you.”

It’s good advice.

Truly, it is.

But it’s not so easy with the media breathing down our necks. A local sports talk host named Pigskin Jimbo said our D-line couldn’t stop turtles from crawling.

On the flip side, our local rivals are kings. The Renegades won the Super Bowl last year on the shoulders of their retiring Hall of Fame quarterback, Cooper Armstrong. The Hawks didn’t come within spitting distance of the past postseason or the one before. Doesn’t matter that we went to the playoffs twice in my first five years on the team. Football is a “what have you done for me lately” sport.

When we arrive a few hours before kickoff, I pull behind the stadium, park in the players’ lot, then walk Dad to his regular section by the fifty-yard line.

Seeing him in the same seat he’s had for every game I’ve played here does settle the jittery feeling inside me. “Thanks, Dad. For coming today. And for the pep talk. I needed it.”

“I know, kid.” He gives a warm smile that feels like a calm hand on the ship’s rudder. “Remember, every game is a fresh start.”

I hold on to that thought when I hit the field later.

It’s every nightmare I’ve had since training camp.

Four quarters later, Killfoyle prowls through the locker room, ready to rip heads off. “Blowing a twenty-one to three lead? In all my years, this is one of the shittiest of shitty season openers.”

No one can look at each other. The guys hang their heads, eyes on the floor, and it takes all my willpower to keep my gaze on the coach, but I have to because I’m the team leader.

“I’ve seen turtles play football better. We don’t have time for that kind of sloppy bullshit you left on the field. Clotheslining? Gimme a break. And all those offsides penalties.” He stops, draws more fueling breath for his evisceration. “Do better. A lot fucking better. Do not play sloppy on my watch, ever.”

We lost to the Seattle Wolves thirty-five to twenty-eight.

Coach turns at the end of a bench of sweaty, banged-up players and stalks the other way. “Management isn’t going to be happy with a repeat of last year.”

He stares daggers at the defense, landing on Elroy and Johnson, who both missed tackles. I cringe in sympathy.

I get it, though. Coach’s job is on the chopping block too. If we don’t get our shit together, he could be out, just like any of us.

“Do I make myself clear?” he barks at the fifty-three of us.

“Yes, sir.” It’s more of a collective mutter than a rallying cry.

Coach heads to the exit. “Hit the showers,” he orders without looking back. “And when you come to practice tomorrow, show all the way up.”

After I’ve done my best to wash off the stink of defeat, I escape the dreary locker room with Nate as fast as possible.

“There’s only one thing to do tonight,” I say as we head up the steps from the locker room level to the stands. A casual night with some of the guys might help us forget that game. “What if we—”

“—never order your Good Luck Smoothies again?” Nate asks drily.

And the cheerleader routine dies a swift death. “Sorry, man,” I say heavily.

Nate slugs my arm. “Jay. I’m just messing with you. It’s not your fault, or the mango’s. It’s one game.”

I get that on a big-picture level, but I’m frustrated that I failed so horribly at engineering attitude. I push open the door to the stairwell, then out onto the first level of the stadium, ready to find my dad. “I got ahead of myself. I was trying too hard,” I say honestly.

Nate pats his chest. “I’m right here with you, buddy. I feel the pressure, too, this season. But maybe ease up on yourself tonight?”

Nate has the right attitude. I should try to adopt some of his chill. When we take my dad home then head to The Spotted Zebra for burgers and karaoke, that’s my plan. Devon and Orlando join us. Orlando’s the tight end, and Devon’s the other wide receiver, so we tend to stick together.

At a corner table, we break down the game until Nate finishes with, “Let’s focus on winning in New York next Sunday.”

“That is a most excellent game plan,” Orlando agrees.

“And if we don’t, you know they’ll trade me first,” Devon adds with a laugh, even though I bet he’s covering up some real fear. As a rookie, he’s the easiest to trade because his salary is league minimum.

His comment hits me differently tonight than it would have this morning. I don’t need to be Mary Sunshine like my dad said. Instead, I can lead off the field with confidence rather than manufactured pep. “Try not to let that worry you, Dev. Unless you have a no-trade clause, we’re all fodder. It’s just part of the game,” I say, then we leave football in the dust as the server brings our food.

We’re eating and debating potential karaoke tunes for the season when a sports clip on the TV behind the bar snags my attention. A replay of Beck Cafferty throwing a beautiful, game-winning pass for the Los Angeles Mercenaries earlier today.

My one-time secret hookup.

I slip back in time to when I met him.

The night before we played the Mercenaries a year ago, Beck hung behind at my house after a barbecue. We talked about handling the media, then binge-watched Unfinished Business on my couch, him inching closer with every episode. He was easy to talk to—awkward at first, then friendlier as the night went on. Then flirtier. I was surprised but stoked to learn he was bi, and one thing led to another. We had a hot make-out sesh in my kitchen and then made a dirty bet as we planned a second date the next day.

But after all his eager interest, Beck didn’t show for our rendezvous.

The foolishness I felt waiting for him curls through me like it’s happening again.

Shaking it off, I snap back to the present, catching the tail end of the report by the local sports anchor. “And in breaking football news, Los Angeles’ second-year starting quarterback Beck Cafferty has just been traded to last year’s Super Bowl winner, the San Francisco Renegades.”

If I were holding a drink, it’d fall out of my grip and crash on the floor.

The no-show from the blow job bet has just become the rival quarterback for the city’s better, more decorated, much more popular team.

Today can suck all the mango smoothies in the city.

2

READING THE CARDS

Beck

I didn’t want to leave my hometown. But if I’m being analytical, San Francisco suits my personality. Los Angeles was too sunny. Too warm. The skies were too blue.

Fog is more my style.

And I’m hoping this one-bedroom furnished apartment will be my style too. This ground-floor place in the Hayes Valley hood is the sixth rental I’ve seen today. Focusing on the necessities of relocating keeps me from obsessing over the enormity of my new job. I’m still shocked over the trade, but if I dwell too long on the massive change, I’ll be up in my head way more than usual.

Good thing I have a long to-do list, starting with picking a new place to live.

Portia, the landlady, shows me around the ground-floor apartment. First, she ferries me into the living room, outfitted with a faux fur bean-bag-style chair. Next, she ushers me to the bedroom, home to a king-size bed, right under a massive window.

She flicks her long, curly brown hair off her shoulder, then waves me closer to the glass. “Come, come. Do you like birds?”

Well, besides Hawks . . .

But I don’t know her football allegiances, and I like the furnished pad so far. “I do,” I say.

“Take a look.” She beckons me again, the swishy sleeves of her maroon dress flowing as she moves.

I cross the room and peer outside at the birdhouses hung on trees and wooden posts in the yard. Finches and sparrows dine on their afternoon snacks. It’s a surprisingly rustic sight in the middle of the city—a homey touch—and it makes me feel welcome.

Something I’ve been looking for.

“But they do sing in the morning,” she adds with a frown. “So if you like to sleep in, that might be an issue. I just wanted you to be aware.” She sounds like she’ll be sad if that’s a deal-breaker for me, but like she couldn’t sleep at night if she didn’t tell me.

“I don’t mind. I’m an early riser,” I say as I gaze at a yellow bird hanging out on top of a mini red barn-style birdhouse.

“Oh, good. I wouldn’t feel right if you were surprised by the chirping one morning,” she says.

“I wouldn’t feel right about myself if I hated the sound of birds singing,” I say drily, appreciating her candor.

“Also, birds are auspicious. We all need a little auspiciousness in our lives, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.” I could use a touch of fortune as I step into my new job.

Since the news hit on Sunday, I’ve been living outside my body, as if I’m watching all these wild events happen to someone else.

You’ve been traded!

You’re moving!

You’re running the offense on the Super Bowl winner!

It’s mind-boggling—this chance—so I laser in on my to-do list. Finding a new home. I step away from the window. “Could you show me the kitchen, please?”

“Absolutely.” As she heads down the hall, she turns and glances, a sneaky smile on her lips. “You have big shoes to fill, Beck. Cooper Armstrong was our city’s GOAT.”

Her team loyalties are quite clear now. “I take it you’re a football fan,” I say evenly. I don’t assume her fangirling of Cooper means she’ll fangirl over me. Cooper’s beloved. I have earned nothing in this town.

“Every Sunday, I host a wine and cheese football party with my friends, and we watch the Renegades. We light candles to bring good fortune to the team. And we read the Tarot cards for the game.”

Wow. That’s a new level of fandom—the candles and the cards, that is.

“I guess they’ve been working,” I say.

She wags a finger at me playfully. “And they better keep working. I have the candles ready for this Sunday.”

Her excitement starts to kick me out of the daze I’ve been in since my agent tracked me down three days ago at the Mercenaries stadium.

Mere minutes after we’d won our first game of the season, I headed through the tunnel, riding the high of the victory, congratulating Ángel, the kicker, on his two field goals, when I bumped into my agent, waiting for me in the corridor.

Vaughn hauled me a few feet away, all spiffy in tailored slacks and a dress shirt. “Are you sitting down?”

I snort-laughed. “Dude. I’m right here. Standing in front of you. Are you high?”

“Honestly, a little bit. And you will be too.”

He was giddy to tell me the news. I didn’t believe it.

I still don’t quite believe it. I’ve pinched myself five hundred times in the last three days as I packed up my meager possessions, flew to San Francisco, and checked into a hotel for the first few nights. But picking out a new home makes the change start to feel real.

And sorting out the practical details of my new life here makes the trade feel less . . . overwhelming.

We reach an arched doorway, and I stop short as I drink in the kitchen. It’s a total hog of a room that gobbles up most of the space in the apartment, like a giant advertisement for size matters. I head in and walk around, running my hand along the counter. The fridge isn’t quite appliance porn, and the stove won’t make a chef moan, but it’ll suit me just fine.

“It’s a good kitchen, isn’t it? You can throw dinner parties here if you want,” Portia says.

Huh. I suppose that’s a thing people do. I’m more of a solo chef.

“I doubt I’ll do that,” I say. I have maybe one person in town to invite: Carter, an outgoing receiver on my new team. I don’t think the rest of the guys on the Renegades are jonesing to come to my dinner party. They want what everyone in this town wants from me—a repeat of last season.

Another shiny, fat ring.

Portia shrugs knowingly. “You might,” she says, hinting like she’s already asked the cards.

But if she had, the cards would be wrong.

“Take your time, Beck,” she adds. “Look around. And if you decide to sign the lease, I’ll give you a discount for every game won.”

Is she serious? But the please say yes look tells me she’s not joking. “Take your time. Think about it. I’ll look out for you,” she says in a kind tone that surprises the hell out of me.

Maybe it shouldn’t.

Maybe this is my new normal, this level of fandom.

But it’s not just that. There’s something about Portia that’s reassuring. She seems to want me to rent so she can protect the new guy in town.

“Thanks, Portia,” I call out. I haven’t had much support in my life lately. Everyone’s far away or gone.

As I putter around the kitchen, opening the fridge, testing the appliances, I’m no longer in a daze. I’m not numb. I’m this shy of . . . excited for real.

This is happening.

I’m in the limelight.

Fans will cheer, haters will jeer, and I won’t go unnoticed like I often did in Los Angeles, with its laid-back football vibes. Los Angeles has so many sports teams that no one ever got too excited about the Mercenaries. There’s baseball and basketball, plus the beach and the movie stars. They were all more interesting than a sometimes-decent-but-sometimes-not football team that has never won a championship.

Now, I’m the epicenter of a football-obsessed city. I can hear the stomping of feet, the rally cries. I can feel the intense weight of the wild, wonderful, terrifying responsibility of leading this team.

The Renegades are a dynasty, having won four of the last twelve Super Bowls, and they’d already anointed Cooper’s heir when he retired last season. His backup, Trevor Washington, was all set to take the throne. But Trevor tore his shoulder in practice the day before the first game.

Less than twenty-four hours later, they’d traded for me.

It’s humbling and awesome all at once.

I’ve been trying to keep all these feelings in check, but now they’re clawing their way out of me, and I want to tell someone—to say holy shit, this is my life!

My parents are nearly impossible to reach since they relocated to Australia when I was in high school, leaving my brother to finish raising me. My friends in Los Angeles are at work. But Portia’s down the hall.

I march out of the kitchen and find her by the door, fiddling with her phone. She looks up, her hazel eyes expectant.

But I bet she isn’t expecting me to blurt out: “It’s daunting to replace the city’s favorite son.”

She pats my arm warmly. “Aww, honey. You’re going to do great.”

“As long as I win,” I say.

She brings her hand to her chest, alarmed. “Did I make you feel bad? I don’t want to pressure you.”

I shake my head. “The job comes with pressure. It’s literally part of the role. And you didn’t make me feel bad. You’re making me feel welcome. I appreciate that. A lot,” I say.

I think I need to feel welcome too.

I also need this apartment. I’m still earning the salary of a second-year player who went in the sixth round of the NFL draft.

“I’d like to sign the lease,” I say.

She gasps. “I’m waiving the security deposit right now.”

Well, then. That is an auspicious start.

And finally, I feel a little more like myself again. Like maybe my humor is coming back. Some of my native sarcasm. “By the way, when I said I liked birds, I meant all birds, except Hawks.”

Her eyes gleam. “We’ll get along just fine.”

I move in the same day. It takes all of an hour since I have no furniture, only suitcases.

So, there’s something checked off my list: unpack.

I grab my phone from the kitchen counter to text Carter.

The day I was traded, he reached out to welcome me. So I wouldn’t have to start from zero, the Renegades wide receiver told me about his fave restaurants and hangouts in town, and his gym. I joined it this morning.

I’m heading to the gym in thirty minutes. Up for a workout?

His reply is instant. Dude, you’re a mind-reader. I’m walking over there now. I’ll be doing cardio and weights because I have this badass new quarterback, and I want to impress him.

I laugh, rolling my eyes as I grab my gym shorts from the bureau. I think it might be the other way around. I need to impress you and the other guys.

That is true. Better get here soon, he writes.

I’ll be there in thirty.

I tug on my workout clothes, reviewing my game plan as I get dressed.

I’ll work out, then devise a plan to find Jason McKay.

That’s the hardest task of all. The one that makes my stomach churn.

But my brother, Griffin, taught me to own my fuckups, and this one still hangs heavily over my head.

I need to find Jason so I can apologize for last year. I desperately wanted to explain then why I didn’t show up at his house, and I still want to explain it to him now.

Jason never returned any more of my texts, though. After his it’s all good and best of luck, he went radio silent.

I don’t want to start the season with bad blood with my local rival, especially when I’m the new guy in town.

But even now, one year later, just the thought of Jason still makes me shiver.

The things we did in his kitchen have taken prime real estate in my mind for the last three hundred and sixty-five days. I don’t need porn when I have the clip of him and me bookmarked.

But another hookup is not in the cards, and I don’t need Portia to tell me that.

3

IT’S A SMALL WORLD

Jason

On Wednesday, I wrap up a visit to the LGBTQ Alliance by facing two bloodthirsty teenagers in an epic battle of table shuffleboard.

Jonah takes no prisoners as he fires the puck at the end of the table, hitting twenty-one points and winning the final round, beating Whitney and me.

The high school debater thrusts his arms in the air. “Geeks rule. Beat the pro baller and the track star,” he declares.

Whitney slugs his arm, shooting him a defiant look. “Maybe Jason let you win.”

I gasp like I’m so very offended. “After years of coming here, you think I can just check my competitive nature at the door?” I stab my finger on the table. “I gave it my all.”

Jonah smiles like a champion. “Exactly. That was fair and square. I officially rule at the Alliance Table Shuffleboard Games.” He gives a fist pump.

We put the pucks away, and once the game room is spick-and-span, Jonah says goodbye first, then takes off. Whitney hangs behind, and when we head into the hallway, she gives a grateful smile. “Thanks, again, for chatting earlier.”

“Always, Whit.” I’m glad we could grab a minute to talk about her plans to ask a girl to homecoming, a big step for her. “I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”

She crosses her fingers. “Me too.”

I was once one of these kids, and the friendships I made here helped me come out to my teammates in high school, then again in college, and again in the NFL. Seeing these teens grow and gain confidence means the world to me. I never want to miss the chance to offer a shoulder or lend an ear.

“See you soon,” I say, then head to the nearby parking lot.

I drive home to change for my afternoon workout, then set off on foot for the gym, checking my messages as I walk. I’ve missed a text from the team’s publicist. Reese’s note says to check my voicemail and then call because she has something “fun” to discuss with me.

Ugh. Please don’t let it be another media request asking how I feel about the Renegades’ chances with their new starting quarterback. Reese and I have already crafted a bland, stock answer.

I look forward to playing all the teams in the NFL and am thrilled the league has such a high caliber of talent.

The truth is I have no opinion on the new QB except that his dick is nice, and I’m certainly not going to say that.

As I walk along Jackson Street, I play her voice memo.

“Hey, Jay! So, I’m calling because Megan Choi’s radio station is launching a new podcast, Monday Morning Quarterback. It’s standard post-game analysis, and those tend to do well since fans generally want to hear from the quarterback,” she says, and

a flash of black hair catches my attention at the next house. Zena Palladium sets down her watering can in her front yard and waves me down with an excited grin.

I smile back and point to my earbuds, so my neighbor knows I’m on the phone.

But Zena is undeterred. She mouths, Well?

The tech goddess started a new dating app, and she’s determined to get me to give Date Night a whirl. I pause, smile, and say, “I’ll get back to you soon, Zena. I promise.”

I owe her a favor since she hooked me up with a new cat sitter after my last one failed to show up when I was playing in Phoenix. But I’ve been dragging my feet on answering her on her app, and I’m not sure why.

For now, I keep walking and play the rest of Reese’s message. “It’s once a week for the rest of the season, and naturally, we think you’d be great for it. Call me for the details.”

The show sounds cool, but the timing is odd. I dial Reese right away, and after we say our hellos, I fire away: “Isn’t it a little late to be lining someone up for this show? The season has already started.”

“They were going to have Trevor Washington do it, but he couldn’t do it this past week,” she says, then hesitates, like there might be more, before she adds cheerily, “And now they want you.”

There’s something unsaid in her pause. I almost don’t want to go there, but the question is welling up inside me. “Did Cafferty turn them down first? Am I the backup to the backup or something?”

Like hell am I going to be Beck’s sloppy seconds.

She jumps on my question as if it’s a grenade. “No!”

“Then what’s the story?” I like Reese. She’s a straight shooter. But I want her to be blunt with me.

“Look,” Reese begins like she’s leaning in to confide in me, “Nadia worked the deal with the station herself.” A request from the team owner doesn’t happen every day. Nadia Harlowe doesn’t ask much of me directly other than to win, something I didn’t do for her last year. “Nadia wants more press. She thinks putting you out there more will help with the team’s overall marketing, and that’s one of her big goals—more marketing to drive attendance. And you’re great at interviews and public speaking in general. You’re perfect for this. Also, from what I hear, they didn’t ask Beck.”

I rein in a laugh of schadenfreude. I shouldn’t gloat—even in my head—over being picked first for the show. I shouldn’t derive any glee from being better with the media. Beck’s with the better team, so life has a way of evening things out.

“I’ll do it, and thanks for asking me. Please let Nadia know I will not disappoint her,” I say sincerely as I reach the small-batch ice cream shop, then turn onto Fillmore.

I hang up, passing the familiar mix of high-end and hipster boutiques on this hilly street as I try to figure out why I don’t want to take Zena’s offer, besides the obvious—do I really want to be the face of a dating app?

As I debate that choice, I head into the gym, pop music blasting and weights clanging. The gym is huge, with row after row of machines and a faintly chlorinated scent drifting in from the adjacent pool. Smells like hard work and discipline: two of my favorite things.

Once I reach the weight bench, I pick some heavy dumbbells, and while I do bicep curls, I replay the handful of dates I had in the off-season. They all fizzled. Maybe that’s the real problem I’ve had with apps. I can’t spark with someone online. I’m a physical kind of guy. I work with my body. I like to use my body on and off the field.

Like with Beck.

The memory of that night flashes white-hot. Annoyingly so. His fiery mouth. His questing hands. His barrage of eager questions.

The guy was a fun puzzle, and he was also hot as hell.

But lots of guys are hot. And the whole encounter ended with more questions than answers when he didn’t show up for our second date.

Maybe I dodged a bullet, though, because he’s in the closet as far as I can tell.

When it comes to guys I date or hook up with more than once—I’m only into dudes who are out.

Because I’m out.

There’s no halfway as a pro athlete. Our job is in the public eye. If Beck were out, I’d know. Everyone would know. No shade from me on his choices. People decide on their own time when to walk out of the closet, and I’d never pressure someone.

But if that’s what he wanted to explain to me, he could have said that in his text. He didn’t need to wait to tell me in person. So, his I’ll explain later felt like the coward’s path to ditching me.

Just man up and say I didn’t want a second date.

Plain and simple.

I won’t let a guy walk all over me. Not after the way Wyatt, my ex, tried to manipulate me. We had a good thing going for a while until he gave me an ultimatum about my job.

That didn’t fly.

Football is my first love, and it deserves all my attention.

I’ll turn Zena down. I’ve got a busy season ahead. My dad to look out for. My volunteer work at the Alliance. And this new podcast.

There’s no time for dating. No time for sex. And no time to worry about Beck.

Eventually, I’ll run into him around town, and when I do, I’ll just smile and wave.

With that decided, I finish my weights routine and head for the cardio equipment, ready to claim a treadmill.

Then the door swings open to the gym, and Beck walks in.

What. The. Fuck? It’s like I just summoned him.

Rationally, it makes sense that our paths would cross in a gym, but holy shit. I was not prepared. For any of my reactions. Both the desire and the annoyance as I take in the sight of his chiseled jaw, his broody eyes, his broad frame.

I don’t wave. I don’t smile.

I do the opposite.

I clench my jaw and breathe out hard. My entire body is strung tight.

This is a big problem. With this powder-keg of irritation inside me, I can’t smile and wave at Beck.

If I were in the pocket and saw a play would fail, I’d call a new one.

Because . . .

What if there’s another reason Beck stood me up? What if he’s trying to figure out how to come out? I think of Whitney and Jonah, learning who they are and what they want. I think of my younger self and the angst I went through before I came out to my teammates.

I’ve got nine years of being out in public under my belt. Beck doesn’t have any, as far as I know. What if that was what he wanted to talk about when he texted me to explain?

Do the right thing.

I make a line of scrimmage decision as I cut across the treadmills to catch up with him.

4

MY TO-DO LIST JUST GOT SHORTER

Beck

I arrive at the gym and swipe my card. The place is packed, teeming with fitness warriors attacking StairMasters and spinning fast on bikes. Making my way past the rows of cardio equipment, I hunt for Carter like I’d search for him on the field. Fair skin, trim beard, hands like oven mitts.

There he is, at the back of the gym, working out with some guys who look familiar. I’ve just started toward them when a voice I last heard in my fantasies calls out: “Cafferty.”

I shiver.

I fucking shiver.

I turn around to face him. I’m battered by the unfairness of my reaction to Jason McKay. It’s instant and unmistakable like I’ve been zapped with electricity.

Crack. Pop. Sizzle.

He’s as handsome as ever, those blue eyes the color of a clear sky. They laser in on me, and in a heartbeat . . . my chest heats up.

Don’t think about that night.

And maybe while you’re at it, don’t think about how good he looks, all that determination in his gaze, the sheen of sweat at the neck of his shirt, the curve of his lips.

And that dimple. That stupid, fucking, adorable dimple. I could stare dopily at him for my whole workout.

But I won’t.

I snap back to this moment, not on memories and not on foolish wishes. “Hey, McKay,” I say, but that sounded weird. The rhythm of those words. “It rhymes. Hey, McKay.”

Talk much?

That’s not what I wanted to say either. Why is this so hard with him? Oh, right. Attraction this strong trips me up. Thanks, lust.

“That it does,” Jason says, then holds out a hand. “Congrats on the trade, man. Exciting stuff.”

I take his hand and pump, doing my damnedest to erase other images of his hands. On my chest, my face, my cock.

My cheeks burn. “So, this is your gym?”

He glances around and nods. “Yup. My turf,” he says, then flashes a grin. “Of all the gin joints in San Francisco.”

I recover quickly. “They serve liquor here? Who knew it was a full-service gym.”

“Oh yeah, this place has everything. Full bar, driving range, and facials,” he says with a wink. “What more could you want?”

To talk like this.

Except banter with Jason isn’t on my to-do list. And while now probably isn’t the time for sorries, it might be my only chance.

But Jason speaks first. “So, listen—”

“Do you have a second to talk?” I ask because I’m going first.

He startles but recovers quickly. “Yeah, sure.”

One speedy look around says I spoke too soon. Jason’s teammates are here. So are mine. Fans probably too. We’re standing by the water fountain, near a row of treadmills, ten feet from the weights. This was a mistake. This is not where I can explain what happened that night a year ago.

But I called this meeting. “There must be a quiet spot somewhere,” I say softly.

Jason coolly nods toward the hallway that must lead to the lockers. He’s so smooth with everything. I bet this sort of thing is routine to him. He’s Mister Easygoing, moving through life, chatting casually with guys he once hooked up with like it’s no big deal.

But whatever his story is, I need to say my piece, for myself.

I follow him. There are small exercise rooms on each side of the hall for personal training sessions, with mats and balance balls. Jason gestures to an empty one and opens the door. At least it’s nice and quiet in here, even if it does feel like a fishbowl, with anyone passing by able to look in.

I speak before I lose the nerve. “I wanted to explain what went down after the game last year,” I say.

Jason shakes his head, offering me a warm smile that spreads to those blue eyes. “Like I said, we’re all good. There’s no need.”

But there is a need. I need to tell him. “I want to clear the air. About the . . .” I don’t want to presume he’s even thought twice about what happened. “The situation. My situation,” I say to jog his memory.

Jason smiles again. Shakes his head again. “Seriously. We’re all good.”

He sounds so genuine, so real. Like he did that night when he gave me media tips. When we laughed and talked and teased.

I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, buying some time.

Jason, though, is so good at off-the-cuff. “Listen, I don’t know you well, and that’s cool. But if you need someone to talk to, or someone to turn to for advice about being an athlete and being bi, I’m happy to put you in touch with some good people.”

What?

My head spins.

“What do you mean, exactly?” I ask carefully. Is he offering to connect me with other queer folks? Why the hell does he think I need that?

“You gotta do you, Cafferty. Whatever works for you, but if you need support or advice or anything, at any point in your journey, just know that I’m out, Nate is out, and a bunch of baseball players on both the Cougars and the Dragons are. And there’s a great LGBTQ Alliance in town. We’re all here if you need anything.”

Whoa. My brain is ping-ponging, trying to follow this unexpected conversation.

My journey?

He doesn’t know my journey. He doesn’t know who I am. I’m not in the closet. My football buddies from Los Angeles, like Drew and Ángel, know I’m bi. My agent knows. Most of my former teammates knew. And so did my last girlfriend, Rachel.

I’m just not on fucking social media. That’s all.

“I appreciate that, but I want to . . .” Clear the air dies on my tongue as Jason points to the clock on the wall.

“I need to hit the treadmill, and then I have a date at my place with a very special guy. See you later. And best of luck this season.” Then he gives me that crooked smile that melts my heart and balls. “And I can’t wait to destroy you on the field.”

On that throwdown, he leaves, strutting down the hallway like that was easy for him. Reeling off advice. Grinning casually. Taking off to work out and get ready for his date.

What a lucky guy to have a date with Jason McKay.

I didn’t get to say my piece, but the window has closed.

I leave and find Carter on a treadmill. When my teammate spots me walking toward him, he holds out his hands in a what gives? then tugs out his earbuds. “Where did you disappear to with McKay?”

My face burns again. My stomach flips.

Not only did I gain zero resolution, but now I’m also hot and bothered. In just a few minutes, he turned me on and shut me down.

That man has too much of an effect on me. I’ve got to get it together. I put on my poker face as I claim the machine next to Carter, slapping my towel on the bar. “We were just trading trash talk. You know how it goes.”

He offers a fist for knocking. “Excellent. You’re already trying to psych out the city’s other QB. You’re gonna fit in here just fine, Caff.”

That’s what I’m here to do. To slide into this well-oiled machine of a team and take them to the postseason once more.

As I run, I cross apologize to Jason off my to-do list. I tried. He said we’re good. That’s all that matters.

But as I run, I feel weirdly unfulfilled.

Like I didn’t close the loop.

And I hate incomplete passes.

5

SUCH A NICE GUY

Jason

That was painful but necessary.

If Beck thought I was icing him out because he’s closeted, I could not sleep well at night. I might not date guys in the closet, but I’m not a dick about how people run their lives. Everyone has their comfort level with their public image and private business. Mine is mine. Beck’s is his.

With that done, I find a treadmill at the end of the row and crank up the speed and incline immediately.

I run with blinders on, though I’m aware of Beck two machines away. I keep my eyes ahead, but I know his pace is hard and fast. My senses tune into the rhythm of his running. I can pick out the slap of his sneakers on the belt even in the busy gym.

There’s nothing awkward about this. I don’t need to find a new gym. Beck’s barely a former hookup. He’s just another baller in the same town.

That. Is. All.

I set a personal record on the treadmill—forty-five minutes at an incline of, like, three thousand.

With my heart racing, I hop off the machine, grab a towel from the front desk, and head to the locker room, wiping my brow. At the row of sinks, I wash my hands as someone comes around the corner. I look up and lock eyes with Beck in the mirror. For a second, I see that hungry look he had at my house a year ago, sneaking glances at me as we watched episode after episode of Unfinished Business on my big screen. His eyes flicker with heat, but the fire dies so fast that maybe I imagined it.

Was there no other gym he could have joined?

“Good workout?” he asks as he turns on the other sink and then splashes water on his face.

“The best,” I say because I don’t know what to talk about other than this . . . bullshit.

We should be able to talk without getting riled up. Clearly, I’ll be seeing him around.

I turn off the water. A moment later, he does the same, then—“Carter told me about this gym,” he blurts.

Dude seems to have two speeds with his mouth—Mach and molasses.

It takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. He’s worried I think he signed up for me.

Yeah, Beck, it’s fucking clear where you stand on me.

“Carter’s a good guy,” I say. Then, since someone needs to set the pace, I shrug as I dry my hands on the towel draped over my shoulder. “I like him well enough . . . for a Renegade.”

That teases a smile from Beck’s lips as he pats his face with his towel. “It’s weird, hearing Renegades and knowing I’m one of them now.”

“I imagine so,” I say. I don’t know how I’d feel if the Hawks traded me. I hope like hell they don’t.

“But then, I wasn’t a Mercenary for long.”

“This is, what, your second year?” I ask as if I don’t know the stats of every gridiron signal-caller in the league.

Beck pauses significantly, and I feel like he’s waiting for me to catch up or catch on. “I was a rookie a year ago,” he adds.

Well, no shit.

But then I focus on what he seems to be trying to tell me without words. He was a rookie when we hooked up that night. Or maybe I’m reading into that because of my bruised ego. Maybe he’s just struggling to adjust to a lot of changes. The least I can do is be a good guy when he’s looking lost.

“And how was your first year?” I ask.

Beck’s eyes stay locked on mine, and I wish those soulful browns didn’t flip my chest. But damn, his eyes just do it for me.

“Good. But hard. That’s the job, though, right?” He sounds like a protégé asking a mentor. Not sure I want to be his quarterback buddy, but maybe that’s all he ever needed from me.

“As long as you win, the fans will love you here,” I say with a smile.

He laughs softly. “Football truths one-oh-one,” he says, and there’s that light side of him that I saw at my house.

“Winning covers all manner of sins,” I add, and I should go. But I don’t make a move to leave quite yet. He doesn’t either.

“It’s a lot,” he says, relieved.

Yup. He’s feeling the pressure of the job. I’m tempted to pat his shoulder, give a reassuring squeeze, or something. But touching him is a bad idea. I’m still too attracted to him, and that frustrates the fuck out of me.

“It sure is,” I say.

Beck swallows and meets my gaze once more. The locker room is quiet. No one is near us. “Jason,” he says like he said my name that night at my house. It comes out so personal, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll ask to kiss me again. I’d probably say yes, even though it’d be a huge mistake.

“Do you want me to find a new gym?” he asks.

Crossing my arms, I stare at him. “Dude. No. We’re all good. Do you really think I’m that kind of a dick?”

“No, no, no,” he says, backpedaling. “I don’t. Not at all. I didn’t want you to think . . .”

Think what, Beck? That you were stalking me? I understand context clues, and yours are coming through loud and clear—you’re not into me.

But I’ve got to let go of my stupid resentment over being ditched. “I’m not going to pull my switchblade and tell you to get off my turf,” I say casually.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging his hand down his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

The two of us are getting off to a great start, putting that hookup in the past. But someone has to try to make this exchange easier.

“Caff, go get yourself that facial. Hit the driving range. You’ll love this place, and don’t think twice about joining, okay?” I say with a smile. No matter what went down with us—or didn’t—I don’t want to make any guy uncomfortable just because he’s not as attracted to me as I am to him.

At last, Beck gives a playful nod, chased by a smile. “Okay. I’ll think about the driving range, even though I suck at golf.”

“Stay in the league long enough, and that’ll change. Golf is life,” I say.

“If you say so.”

“I do.” We’re finally having a nice enough moment, so it’s time to go. End on a high note. “And, I’ll see you around,” I say, turning to leave.

“Have fun tonight,” Beck calls after me.

It’s not till I exit the locker room that I remember I told him I was off for a date with a very special someone tonight.

Too bad it’s not in the way he thinks.

I smile as I leave the gym.

Darn, I’ll just have to let him picture me as a man about town.

Maybe I’m not always such a nice guy.

6

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER GIN JOINT

Beck

I’m climbing my thirteenth floor when I spot him.

Seriously? He’s an early riser too?

Jason strolls into the gym the next morning, swipes his card, and then scans the equipment. When he spots me, he rolls his eyes. He’s smiling too, acknowledging the irony of the universe’s sense of humor. He gives me a chin nod. I nod back as he claims a treadmill in the row in front of me.

Great.

Fucking great.

I get to watch him. He’s probably logging his second round of exercise for the day after a morning workout in bed with his special guy.

With Beethoven blasting in my ears, I shove thoughts of his date aside and stare out the window instead, cataloging this block of San Francisco. There’s a card store, the kind that carries stationery with quirky sayings like You deserve orgasms and cake. Next to it is Pups and Cups. Caffeine- and canine-lovers gather at the sidewalk tables with their mugs and contraptions for their pets. I’m amazed at the things people use to tote their small dogs—a purse, a grocery bag, a BabyBjörn, even the kangaroo pocket of a sweatshirt.

Next to that is a candle shop. Maybe I should get one for Portia as a thank you. It’s probably not open this early, but I can come back after our practice today.

Am I done yet? It’s been forever. But when I check the machine readout, I’ve only hit eighteen floors.

Dammit.

As the stringed instruments swell, my traitorous gaze returns to the man in front of me.

My pulse kicks, not from the pace on this machine or the intensity of the classical music blasting in my ears.

Jason’s on the treadmill now, walking slowly, adjusting the settings. And I can’t help but admire the shape of his back, the outline of his shoulders, the way his muscles stretch that teal-blue T-shirt, and how his waist tapers into his gray shorts.

But even as the heat stirs in my chest, so does that unfinished feeling from yesterday. The desire to say something more, starting with—I’m not closeted.

But do I want to say that to him? Or to others?

I grit my teeth, annoyed. The nagging sense that I need to do something lives right next door to this inconvenient lust for my rival.

I deal with the lust first by tearing my gaze from his body, then fiddling around on my phone. Clicking over to YouTube, I tune into a Bob Ross video and turn off Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. I finish the cardio watching the curly-haired artist paint tiny trees, his mellow voice wrong for a workout. But he gets me to the fiftieth floor on this StairMaster, helping me ignore my lust.

When I finally leave the gym, I don’t say goodbye to Jason. I don’t even see him on the machines.

As I head up the block, I catch the scent of roasting coffee, and the rich aroma lures me to the door of Doctor Insomnia’s. Once inside, I weave around comfy, rumpled couches and go straight for the counter, my eyes on the menu. When I drop my gaze, though, it lands on . . .

. . . Are you fucking kidding me?

Of course.

Jason’s here, drumming his fingers on the counter, smiling like the happiest-go-luckiest dude. Well, sure. He probably got laid last night.

He lifts his chin in greeting. “Of all the gin joints in the city,” he says when I reach him.

“They serve gin here too? I had no idea San Francisco was such a gin-loving city,” I remark, then ask the barista for a coffee, black, and slide my phone across the card reader.

“So, what do you think of my fine city so far?” Jason asks. Emphasis on my. Like I’m encroaching on his turf, after all.

Maybe he’s okay with us sharing a gym, but his coffee shop is a step too far? Fuck if I know. I’m unfamiliar with the post-hand-job rules when bumping into my new crosstown rival.

“Your city will do,” I say drily.

“I’m from here. That’s why I say my city. I fucking love this place. I might be addicted to San Francisco.”

Ah, okay. He’s the kind of guy who wants me to like his hometown. It’s pride, not possession.

“It’s cool so far,” I say. “I’ve only been here for a few days.” He probably knows that. It’s Thursday, and I was traded on Sunday. “But I got a place already,” I add as the barista brews my coffee.

“You move fast,” he says.

I frown. Is there a double meaning there? Like I moved fast that one night?

Shut it, Cafferty. Just because you can’t get past that encounter doesn’t mean he’s obsessed with it.

“Yeah, well. I sort of needed to. I found a nice spot in Hayes Valley,” I say.

“Sweet. There’s a great boba place there. Also, a fun pinball arcade I go to with my friends,” he says.

Is he an ambassador for The City by the Bay? I’m not even sure why he’s making small talk . . . except, didn’t he mention this when he gave me media tips? This is his press persona—Mister Glad Hand, who gets along with everyone. I try to let go of my annoyance. His playing tour guide doesn’t have to frustrate me.

“I’ll check them out,” I say.

The barista hands Jason a cup full of thick blue goop. “Thanks, Ben,” Jason tells him.

“Anytime.”

Jason lifts the cup, tapping it with his finger as he turns to me. “I’m back on blueberries. The mango smoothie did me dirty in my first game,” he says.

“Maybe you should order the mango smoothie, then,” I deadpan, giving him an evil grin.

If we’re going to be two rivals who rib each other, I will lean all the way in.

His bright blue eyes widen in disbelief. “Can’t believe you want me to lose,” he says, in faux shock.

“Says the man who wants to destroy me on the field,” I counter.

The barista clears his throat and holds out my cup as if he’s been waiting for more than a few seconds. Oh.

“Your drink,” Ben says, then nods for me to get out of the way.

With the coffee in hand, I do, stepping toward the door.

Where Jason is heading.

Fuck my luck.

I hunt for an innocuous topic as we happen to exit together. “How’s Bandit?”

Jason grins like a fool in love. “He grew up to be an asshole cat. I named him Taco. We had a date last night watching A Gentleman’s Deal.”

My lips twitch, but I don’t let it turn into a grin. The special guy is his cat, not a dude. That’s fucking adorable. “Why’d you change his name?”

“He seems like a Taco,” Jason says, but it’s too laid-back.

I don’t buy it. There’s a reason for the new name, and I think I know what it is. “What makes a cat seem like a Taco?” I ask—because I want to get to the bottom of what happened to Bandit.

Plus, this exchange is so much more enjoyable than the uncomfortable ones yesterday. And sure, I could take advantage of the relaxed atmosphere to tell him why I never showed up for our second date—but I don’t want to ruin this moment.

Jason takes a long pull of his smoothie. “Now you doubt my cat-naming abilities?”

“It’s not a now thing, McKay. I’ve always doubted your cat-naming abilities,” I point out.

“Yes, you have, Caff,” he says.

“So, you realized I was right about the cat needing a better name,” I add.

He arches a brow. “I believe you suggested Frank. Not Taco.”

“And I believe it’s safe to say Taco is better than Bandit.”

“I can’t believe you’re a Bandit hater. All around the world, cats named Bandit are crying in their coffee.” He flicks his fingers toward my drink. “By the way, I knew you’d be an I take my coffee black type of guy. See you around.”

He turns the other way, getting the last word in.

But maybe I did too.

He changed his pet’s name because of something I told him that night. Maybe he thinks of other moments from that evening, like how we kissed and touched.

But as I head home in the opposite direction, I sweep those dangerous thoughts away.

I can’t focus on one guy.

I have a game to win this weekend and a city full of fans to woo.

7

SCRATCHING AN ITCH

Jason

I have a few free hours in New York on Saturday afternoon before our curfew at the team hotel that night.

There’s only one way to use that time—I plan to catch up with my brother first, then see some of our good friends for a behind-the-scenes TV set tour.

I’m stoked about both, but especially seeing Nolan. I’ve missed him, big time, since he moved to New York a year ago, settling into a new pad and a new life with his girlfriend, hosting a food show on Webflix. Before then, he’d lived with me in San Francisco, working his ass off trying to build up his YouTube show. Helping him out with a place to live when he needed it felt like I could finally say thanks for all he’d done for me in high school.

He’d been an awesome brother I felt comfortable coming out to at age fourteen, three years before I told anyone else. I’ve missed him more than usual in the last week, and I’m not entirely sure why.

This afternoon, I’m meeting him at a converted laundromat that peddles do-it-yourself quinoa bowls made on the fly in vending machines.

Only in New York.

As I head down the block in Hell’s Kitchen toward The Automat, I peer above the line of New Yorkers in front of me since I’m tall enough to get a peek.

I grab my phone to text Nolan when a hand lands on my shoulder. A Darth Vader-esque voice rumbles in my ear. “I see we meet again.”

I startle, ready to tackle whoever is breathing down my neck.

When . . . of course.

Brothers are such turkeys.

Nolan points at my expression, grinning like an evil six-year-old prankster. “Gotcha.”

“You’re such a dick,” I say, but I’m laughing too. Then I haul him in for a hug he doesn’t deserve.

Still, I don’t want to let go. “It’s good to see you, asshole,” I say when I finally separate.

“Aww, I love you too, shithead,” he says, and my heart expands.

He adjusts his askew glasses, then holds up a paper bag. “Already grabbed the food.”

We head to nearby Hell’s Kitchen Park and grab a picnic table. Nolan unpacks the bag, plunking my bowl in front of me. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Quinoa, beets, kale, pumpkin seeds, and tofu. Boom.”

“It’s like you read my food diary.”

“I might possibly, maybe, miss cooking for you,” he says a little sheepishly.

I can’t resist stretching an arm across to mess up his hair, then I open the bowl and take my first bite.

As we eat, we chat more about his girlfriend, Emerson, and the places they’re checking out for upcoming episodes. It’s like swinging in a hammock, chatting with my brother. But even as we shoot the breeze, I feel that itch again, like there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him. Or maybe it’s a question I want him to ask me. Met any guys lately?

I could tell Nolan about Beck. Not specifically, but generally.

But what would I tell him? There’s this guy, and I’m trying to play it cool with him and failing miserably. I’m still stuck on that first gym encounter and whether I handled the if you need guidance on your queer journey thing the best way I could.

Ugh. Probably not. I might have been too . . . poster boy.

I’m dying to ask Nolan’s advice, but I don’t want to reveal a shred of Beck’s identity. That’s not my story to tell.

So my brother and I talk more about his show and tomorrow’s football game, which he’ll come to.

When we finish eating, Nolan fixes me with a more serious stare. “How’s Dad doing? Will he be off the crutches soon?”

I sigh, still feeling like it’s my fault Dad broke his leg in the first place. “Supposedly, the doc says he can wear a walking boot in a couple weeks. But you know Dad. He’s working too hard. Trying to do it all. Not wanting anyone to help him.”

“So, the way he’s been since Mom left?”

“Gee, do you think the two events are connected?”

“Just a little,” Nolan says sarcastically, then his smile disappears. “He still thinks he has to do it all.”

After Mom took off when I was eight, moving to Florida with a new guy and becoming a summer-vacation-only parent, Dad worked damn hard to single-handedly provide for us. He started Mister Cookie, then grew it into a nationwide cookie franchise business. He wanted us to have everything we needed, from football equipment for me to pots and pans for Nolan. He’s basically Dad of the Year every day.

“He’s sixty-two. I want him to consider retirement a lot more seriously. But I’ve had no success convincing him,” I say, wishing our dad weren’t so stubborn. “I just want him to be happy.”

“That’s how you are with everyone,” he says, no judgement, just truth. Then he glances at the time on his phone on the table. “We’ll come up with something for Dad, but for now let’s head to the studio.”

Thirty minutes later, our friend TJ and his actor boyfriend, Jude, are taking us on a tour of Unfinished Business, Jude’s TV show that films inside a block-long concrete slab of a building on Tenth Avenue.

Once we’re past security, and inside the show’s studio, I gawk. Slack-jawed, I point excitedly to the brick exterior wall of Jude’s character’s building. “Dude, that’s where Jamie lives!”

With a delighted smile, Jude gestures to another area of the set. “If you like that, let me show you the infamous stairwell.”

Jude ushers us past a café set to the plain, white walls and concrete steps. “That’s where you and Zoe had your first kiss,” I say, sounding like a certified fanboy, and I don’t care.

“Good memory,” TJ puts in.

Then, Jude’s expression turns a little more serious. “But I hope what happened there this season didn’t taint your memory?”

Embarrassment crawls through me. “I haven’t seen the new season,” I confess. “When did it premiere?”

Nolan squeezes my shoulder, shaking his head like he can’t believe I missed it. “A month ago, Jaybird. Your favorite show premiered a month ago.”

“Shit, sorry,” I mutter.

TJ points to the door in a huff. “Leave. Now.”

I laugh to cover up how much I feel like an ass for missing my friend’s show.

The new episodes must be in my queue, but something keeps me from clicking.

Oh, shit.

The show reminds me of Beck. Did I really like the guy so much after one stinking date that I’ve been avoiding my favorite show because it makes me think of him?

The evidence adds up.

But I don’t want my friends to think I’m some jackass who ignores their work. “I’ll catch up on it, I promise. It’s not the show, Jude. I watched it a year ago with this guy, and then he never showed for our next date, and that kind of sucked,” I admit, feeling a little lighter as I get closer to the things I want to, but can’t, discuss.

Jude smiles sympathetically. “That twat didn’t deserve you.”

I appreciate the support, though that’s not the issue with Beck. He’s not undeserving. But I might have jumped to conclusions. Maybe I’m the twat.

I’m dying to unpack the Beck run-ins with Nolan or TJ and Jude. But there’s no way I can talk about what happened without saying why it was so messed up—because Beck and I play the same sport.

“Show me the rest of the set and I promise to catch up soon on the season,” I say to Jude with the same excitement I used with Nate when I ordered the mango smoothies.

I shove Beck out of my mind one more time.

The New York Rebels’ defense is predatory. I swear their linebackers have fangs.

But we’re only down by seven with two minutes left in the half. As the crowd stomps their feet and demands my head on a platter, I get in the pocket, take the snap, and scan for the tight end. But Orlando is swarmed, and so is Nate. As I hunt for a free man, I scramble away from a bloodthirsty Rebel hellbent on sacking me, and then the heavens part.

Nate escapes a cornerback trying to reroute him, and I have enough time and protection to fire the ball his way. The fast motherfucker catches it with outstretched arms, then spins away and takes off.

All the way down the field.

And into the end zone.

Yes!

We switch out, and I meet Nate at the sidelines to high-five him before he rips off his helmet. Our kicker evens up the score, and when our defense staves off the Rebels until the clock runs out, we head into the locker room at halftime, feeling like maybe things can go our way.

C’mon, c’mon.

I pace the sidelines. Jaw clenched, hope strung tight. All we need to do is hold the Rebels to a field goal, and then I can return to the field. Five minutes remain on the game clock, and the score is tied again, seventeen to seventeen.

When our so-called turtles show their mettle and stop the drive, I pump my fist. The Rebels kicker nails the field goal, and then it’s our chance to salvage this game on offense.

I’m not going to let my team start the season down two.

We take possession. With determination and a relentless focus on quick, short passes, we encroach into Rebels’ territory.

The crowd noise is deafening. But I’ve spent my whole life drowning out the sound and the fury from the stands.

When the center snaps the ball, I scan downfield. As Orlando dodges the coverage, I gun the football his way . . . and boom. He makes a beautiful catch five yards from the end zone, then scrambles out of bounds.

One play later, Nate runs it in.

Yes!

We hold them back for thirty-five seconds as the clock runs out, then we walk off the field with a hard-won victory.

I am ecstatic and so damn relieved.

This is the best post-game shower ever.

The best suit I’ve put on after a game ever.

The best high-five with Nate ever.

Fine, fine. It’s only one game, but we needed it. I’m pumped full of adrenaline when I find Nolan waiting outside the locker room. “Lucky charm!” I call out.

He smiles, thrilled we won too. “Thanks for the ticket.”

I’ve only got a few minutes, but I want to say goodbye before heading to the team plane. “No, thank you for coming,” I say, still riding the post-game high.

Nolan waves a hand like it’s nothing, then gives me a serious look. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I laugh in disbelief. “Did you watch the game? Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

He nods down the corridor, and we step away from the locker room. “I was just thinking about what you said yesterday when Jude showed us around,” he says quietly. “For you not to watch your favorite show because of a guy . . . that’s a big deal.”

My cheer drains away. I’ve stopped myself from talking about Beck and his situation enough already. I’m flying home in an hour, and I need to work through my situation.

I glance around the hall, checking for Rebels and Hawks, then duck to a quiet corner. My stomach’s in knots. I feel queasy even opening my mouth, but I’d feel worse saying nothing. “He’s another athlete,” I say softly, beginning a careful confession. “And I should not be so . . . out of sorts over a hookup. But the thing is—and this is vault—he plays football. And no, it’s not Nate.”

Nate’s separated from his husband, but he’s trying to work on the marriage, and I don’t want Nolan to think I’m interfering. I fully support my buddy and the effort he’s making with Oliver.

Nolan breathes a big sigh of relief. “Good. I mean, Nate’s a great guy, and I know he’s sort of available, but that’d be hard, being teammates.”

Try being rivals.

“Wait. Is it Luke?” Nolan asks, mentioning a friend of mine who’s a second-stringer for New York’s other football team—the Leopards.

Reasonable question since Luke’s out and proud. “No, not Luke Remington. But this guy—I think I might have been kind of a dick to him,” I admit.

That’s what’s weighing on me. I was so eager to do the right thing at the gym that I barely paid attention. I didn’t listen to what Beck needed to say—not like I listen to Whitney or Jonah or the kids at the center. “He seemed to want to explain why he didn’t show up for our second date, and I didn’t give him a chance,” I say, and I feel like shit about it no matter how cordial and happy-go-lucky I was the next day at the coffee shop.

Nolan smiles gently. “There’s a solution for that. Let him get a word in next time.”

Sounds easy, but I don’t know how to pry that conversation open at the gym. Or the coffee shop. Those places are public and not great for asking hey, about that queer thing . . .

But I’ll have to find a way because I’ll undoubtedly run into him again.

8

LOW KEY ICONS

Beck

Here’s another thing that’s different in San Francisco compared to Los Angeles.

The stadium is packed.

I don’t know if the Mercenaries ever sold out a single game. But as I stare down the tunnel before kickoff, ready to run onto the field in my first game as a Renegade, all I see are fans decked out in blue and gold.

Filling every seat.

The decibel level is insane, and somehow it cranks impossibly louder when the announcer warbles my name. “And now, your new starting quarterback, number nine . . . Beck Cafferty.”

My stomach jumps, a last warning shot of nausea. But the second I put one foot in front of the other, it vanishes.

There’s only football in front of me. I run out to the field and put all my nerves behind me.

Game on.

Three quarters later, we still have the lead, and I come out of the huddle ready to take the snap.

The crowd might be even louder now. I’m not sure anymore because I’m like Zach Galifianakis playing blackjack in The Hangover. Nothing else matters. I scan the field, assess the coverage, and make a decision. The play we planned won’t work.

But this one will.

I throw to Carter, he connects, and three plays later, we pad our lead with another touchdown.

Carter hoots and claps me on the back, but I keep my head down.

I can celebrate later. Football comes first.

At 7:43 that evening in the Renegades stadium, our defense fends off Miami one last time. I watch from the sidelines, my heart climbing into my throat as the clock winds down to zero.

Carter’s next to me, and the second the word final flicks on the scoreboard, registering my first Renegades win, he grabs me in a bear hug.

“You’re the man! The new fucking man! I knew it!”

I can barely speak, I’m so psyched. But I’m even more relieved.

I want to point out that he scored two touchdowns, that he’s the man too. But all I can choke out is, “This was a great game,” and hope Carter doesn’t catch all the emotions in my voice.

Thankfully, the din of the stadium drowns out the gravel in my tone. Coach Greenhaven jogs over to me, offering a hand to congratulate me.

“Good job, Cafferty,” the man says.

“Thanks, Coach.”

I steal a quick glance to the stands, wishing my brother were here, but knowing he’d be proud of me. Not for winning. But for giving it my all.

The kicker, Hayden, swings by, patting my shoulder. Isaiah, a tough linebacker, follows and high-fives me. More players congratulate me, and it’s overwhelming in the best of ways.

But it’s only one game. I need to keep doing this every Sunday.

I head along the sidelines, and the team’s PR guy meets me, congratulating me on the win. I met Ian earlier this week—a stylish Black man dressed today in trim charcoal slacks and a purple button-down.

He ferries me through a few post-game interviews. I’m still in a happy daze, which makes it easier to answer questions from the reporters. But I’ve also made a ton of progress with handling the press during the last year, thanks to Jason’s advice that night at his house. Find your shtick, he’d told me.

I chose to be the thoughtful quarterback, focusing on strategy as I answered questions, and it’s worked well. I should thank him next time I see him, but I’m still a little irritated at his assumptions about me.

And I’m also still hot for him.

It’s fucking annoying, these warring emotions—desire, frustration, admiration.

When I’m done with the interview, Ian flashes me an I’ve-got-a-good-secret smile. “You’re not done yet. The owner wants to see you.”

I flinch. “Wilder Blaine?”

“That’s the one and only owner.”

I gulp as we head into the tunnel. At the end of the corridor, the billionaire who owns the team waits for me, looking like, well, like a billion bucks in his Tom Ford suit, tanned skin, with a hint of ink on his wrists.

Wilder’s smile is electric. This is a man who loves you when you win. I hope he loves me forever. “Cafferty, nice to have you on the team.” He extends a hand to shake.

“Thank you for, um, having me.”

“Listen, I have a favor to ask,” he begins. “There’s a weekly podcast launching tomorrow, and I pulled some strings with the station to get you on it too. I’d love to have you out there with the fans and the media. This town loved Cooper, and we want them to love you too.”

There’s only one podcast he could mean. Monday Morning Quarterback launches tomorrow. The show is getting some serious pre-launch buzz, and it’s co-hosted by none other than media darling Jason McKay.

Shocker. Our paths are crossing again; what an extraordinary coincidence.

“Of course, I’d love to do Monday Morning Quarterback with McKay,” I tell Wilder.

The owner thanks me and leaves, and I let out a deep breath. Ian smiles, then pats my arm. “It’s like being called into the principal’s office when you were a kid, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I agree, but that’s not the only reason I’m catching my breath.

Ian nods toward the corridor. “Let me know if you need anything before tomorrow. I’ll text you the address and meet you there in the morning.”

That’s exactly what I need. A buffer before I face Jason again. “That would be great,” I say, then his phone buzzes in his hand.

Ian peeks at it, then back at me. “That’s my hubs. The kids are going to bed. I need to call and say goodnight to my littles.”

With a wave goodbye, he heads down the hall, phone to his ear, a happy bounce in his step.

I stand in the corridor staring after him, thinking about how casually Ian mentioned his husband. So smoothly it feels like his orientation is a fact I already knew.

Jason’s words from last week walk up behind me once again, whispering in my ear.

Your journey.

I don’t want to be on a journey.

But for the last five days, I’ve been noodling on Jason’s assumptions about me.

At first, I hated it. But I realized I’m only irritated because he’s onto something—something I need to deal with sooner rather than later.

I’m not ashamed of who I am. But, and I hate to admit this, I can see why Jason thinks I’m in the closet. I can see why others might too. The last person I dated was Rachel, my college girlfriend.

I wish I didn’t have to think about how people view me. But I’m a visible player in America’s favorite sport.

I grit my teeth, pissed I didn’t see it sooner.

Fans are going to assume I’m straight. The team is going to assume the same. Or, on the flip side, they’ll think I’m closeted.

Whether I like it or not, I’m in the public eye, and the public will try to tell my personal story.

If they tell it the way they see it, I look like a liar. Like someone ashamed.

I need to say something and to say it soon.

Just like that, that weirdly unfinished feeling that’s chased me these past few days starts to fade.

Thirty minutes later, I’m getting dressed at my stall, weighing what to say and how to say it when Carter jumps onto a bench in the locker room. He cups his mouth, making a megaphone. “And now, in the time-honored tradition of the best damn football team this city has ever seen, we’re taking our new QB out for . . . wait for it . . . the city’s best-kept secret!”

Isaiah groans, tossing a jersey at Carter. “No way, man. Can’t we go to a bar to celebrate Caff?”

“Or a restaurant?” Hayden suggests, patting his stomach. “I’m so hungry I could eat . . . ten seared salmons.”

“Dude, you kick,” Isaiah says to Hayden with a scoff as the kicker buttons his dress shirt. “Try tackling and blocking.”

Hayden arches a how-dare-you brow. “I kick well, and I rarely miss. Is that what you meant to say?”

Isaiah waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. You score the most points. But the job doesn’t make you hungry enough to eat ten salmons. Also, what the fuck? Who craves seared salmon?”

“There’s a new fish place I want to try,” Hayden grumbles defensively as he reaches for his tie in his stall.

Their conversation is like a good tennis match. As I slide on my suit jacket, I can’t tear my gaze away from their need to one-up each other. It’s, admittedly, a welcome distraction from the plans rattling through my head.

“Ah, the truth comes out,” Isaiah taunts. “Hayden the Foodie wants to try another one of the fancy-ass restaurants that he researches when he’s on the sidelines most of the game.”

Carter blows out an annoyed breath, then whistles. The shrill sound breaks up the rhythm of their argument. “We’re getting ice cream. And anyone who doesn’t like ice cream is officially a monster. Plus, they have burgers, you numbnuts. Now, who’s a monster here?”

Carter pins his gaze to Hayden, then Isaiah, then Miles, the center, then Evan, the left tackle, daring them to defy his ice cream plans.

I like Carter. He’s made me feel welcome on the team. If I say yes to ice cream and burgers, everyone else will go along. They won’t give Carter a hard time, even in jest.

“I’m not a monster,” I put in.

Carter punches the air. “Boom!”

About ten or fifteen starters pile into cars, and we caravan to the shop. Carter claims me, so we cruise through the city in his Audi, blasting a Taylor Swift breakup anthem, an odd choice post-game. But hey, he likes what he likes, so I don’t give him hell as he sings along at the top of his lungs.

We turn onto Fillmore, and he points to a small-batch ice cream shop on the corner—The Sweetest Spot. Looks like we’re the first guys here. He pulls over and cuts the engine.

“This place is my church, and I need it after today,” Carter says, stepping out of the car.

That doesn’t sound like a dude who’s thrilled we won. As we hit the sidewalk, I turn to him, worried he’s not doing okay. “What do you mean? Why do you need it?”

He frowns. “My girlfriend dumped me Friday night. Only a bucket of ice cream will soothe my broken heart.”

“Then we’ll get you the bucket of your dreams,” I say, and I give him a sympathetic smile as we head to the door. “Sorry to hear about the split, man.”

“Yeah, me too. I was seeing her for the whole summer. But it’s her loss. I am a stellar boyfriend.” He lifts his chin defiantly. “So there. But still, I need some burgers, fries, and two scoops of chocolate popcorn potato chip fiesta to make it all better.”

“Sounds like if anything will do the trick, that will.” But when we reach The Sweetest Spot, the sign says closed, and the lights are dim.

“Um, Carter, I hate to break it to you . . .”

“Watch this, bro! It’s magic!”

A bespectacled man in a leather apron scurries through the shop, flicks on lights, and unlocks the door. Abracadabra indeed. The man swings open the door and gestures like a butler inviting guests. “Welcome! Free ice cream anytime for Renegades,” he says.

Holy shit. This town is the motherfucking best.

Carter winks at me. “Stick with me, QB.” Then to the man, he says, “And thank you, Shep.”

Soon, the other guys pour in. Hayden and Isaiah join Carter and me on stools at the counter while Miles and Evan grab tables.

Shep and a few staffers serve us food and dessert. I thank Shep for the ice cream, then dig into a cup of dark chocolate with cinnamon.

Carter tastes his everything ice cream, then gives a satisfied sigh and hoists his cup victoriously. “And with one bite, I’m over Izzy.”

The other guys chime in with hear-hears, and you can do so much better. “But I’m getting back on the apps,” Carter says. “Like, tonight.” Then he turns to me. “What about you, Beck? Are you seeing someone?”

The place goes weirdly quiet. I half wish I could live off the radar. Get a little cabin somewhere, fish all day, read all evening, and cook a gourmet meal.

But these guys are my teammates.

When I was in Los Angeles, I didn’t get up on the bench in the locker room and announce my orientation, but I didn’t hide it either. It came out in conversations, the way it always has for me. I’m not the only queer pro athlete in San Francisco. I hope no one has a problem with it, but if they do, that’s on them.

As the guys look at me, waiting for an answer to an innocuous question, that unfinished feeling swims up once more.

But the only way to complete a pass is to throw the ball.

“Nope. I haven’t dated in a while. A woman or a man,” I add.

Carter pauses, spoon in midair.

Isaiah knits his brow, maybe connecting the dots.

Then Hayden flashes a grin. “Same here,” he says, his smile growing even wider.

I blink. Wait. Our kicker is bi?

“Yeah?” I ask the wiry, curly-haired guy who rarely misses the goalposts.

“Yes,” he says, then picks up his burger and takes a big bite.

I try to hide a grin, but I have little luck with that. “Cool,” I say.

“Totally cool,” Carter seconds, then clears his throat. “Also, did you know ice cream cures everything?”

Including nerves. I finish the dark chocolate, and it’s delicious. It tastes like a reward.

The team is just the start. But for now, I’ll let myself enjoy that important step.

Shep won’t let us pay, so I stuff several big bills into a tip jar when he heads to the back to clean up. When we leave a little later, I glance at the street sign on the corner.

An address flashes through my head, thanks to a photographic memory.

Jason lives on Jackson Street.

I can picture his house perfectly.

I can feel, too, how much I wanted to go back there a year ago. Maybe how much I still do.

When I hop into Carter’s car, I hope he has to take this route to drive me home.

I rein in a private grin as he turns onto Jason’s street.

As soon as we hit his block, I’m stealing peeks to the left. Once his home comes into view, I catch my breath. A light shines in his living room. The blinds are down. But he walks past the window, and I can make out the shape of his shoulders, the silhouette of his strong body as he moves through his house.

Later, I picture the rest of the scene once I’m home alone.

I’m naked in bed, under the covers, imagining another silhouette in Jason’s window—me on my knees, him on the couch, his hands wrapped tight around my head, his noises and grunts guiding me home as I make good on our bet.

9

PRE-GAME RITUALS

Beck

The next morning, I sink onto the oversized beanbag in my living room, breathing out to a count of four, then in for a count of eight, visualizing being calm and competent. And also not vomiting.

Hey, everyone has a pre-game ritual. Until high school, mine was barfing.

When my brother Griffin found out, he told me it ran in the family.

Not vomiting, but anxiety.

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret that can fix that issue,” my brother said one Friday when I’d been a mess of nerves before a game.

“Seriously? There’s a solution for this?” I’d figured if I ever made it to the pros, I’d be known as the barfing quarterback.

“Meditation will do you wonders. It did for me. Did for Dad too.”

“You’re just telling me this now? Yakking before kickoff is a trait the men in this family pass onto each other?”

He’d laughed in the kitchen as he made a sandwich. “Now you’re old enough to know. And good enough. Wait, make that better than Dad or I ever were.”

Griffin introduced me to guided meditation, and, holy shit, it worked.

Now, this is my pre-game ritual—so much better than vomiting—and I find it works before big media interviews.

On Monday morning, once I’m settled into the comfy chair in my apartment, I open one of my apps and click on a five-minute session.

Taking a deep breath. Letting it go. Picturing myself giving intelligent comments to the listeners.

When I open my eyes, my body is relaxed, and I almost believe I’ll ace this interview, even with my sexy rival sitting across from me.

I hop out of the chair. My Lyft will be here any minute. I spot my landlady in the yard on my way out, refilling the birdseed in a mini red barn feeder.

“Hi, Portia. I think the birds had a concert this morning.”

“Because they’re Renegades fans too, and the Tarot was right,” she calls out.

“Hope the wine and cheese was good,” I say with a smile as I lock the door.

“It was delicious. And thank you for the lovely candle. That was so sweet.”

“Glad you liked it,” I say, then head to the waiting Lyft, idling at the curb.

After a quick drive through the city, the car pulls over on Market Street outside a looming skyscraper. I say goodbye to the driver as I exit the vehicle. The sidewalk is bustling with Monday morning nine-to-fivers. As promised, Ian waits outside by the burnished gold revolving doors of the building.

I close the distance. “Hey, Ian. Hope the kids got to bed easily last night.”

His smile brightens. “They sure did. Thanks for asking. Now, I’ve got a quick debrief for you.” He then shares some tips for the show, wrapping up with: “Just remember—all you have to do is talk about the game yesterday and break down the plays. Are you ready?”

That’s an excellent question.

Thanks to meditation, I’m more than ready for the interview.

But I’m also ready to take another page from Ian’s playbook. Be low-key, be casual. Like he was last night. “I’m definitely ready.” As we head into the building, I draw one more breath, and when I let it out, I out myself too. “Also, I’m bisexual. Just wanted you to know. No big deal.”

And wow.

That wasn’t tough at all. Since he’s queer, it’s easier to tell him than it was to tell my teammates.

But I did both, which puts me one step closer to my goal. Finishing the task of coming out to my new city.

“Thanks for sharing that. I’m glad you knew you could tell me,” Ian says. “Do your teammates know, or would you prefer they didn’t?”

Love the way he asks it—making it clear that being out is my choice and mine only. “I went out with a bunch of the guys last night, and it came up. But I’ll need to tell others, and I’m not on social,” I say before I lose momentum. “I don’t want to get on social either.”

I shudder at the thought. Ian smiles sympathetically but waits for me to keep talking.

“But I can say something to the media,” I say. “I think that would be a good idea.”

If telling my teammates was completing a touchdown pass, then telling the media—and by extension, the fans—will be the extra point.

Ian stops me in the lobby, his eyes serious. “Are you saying you want to mention it right now on Monday Morning Quarterback? No problem if you do. I just want to make sure I understand so I can help you.”

But I’m already shaking my head. No way. If I say it in the same room with Jason, I’ll feel like I’m doing it for him.

And I’m not.

“No. But can we talk after the interview?”

“Let’s grab a cup of joe when you’re done. I’ll have some ideas for you.”

“It’s a plan,” I say.

We’re due upstairs at the studio in a few minutes, so we march to the elevator and shoot up to the twelfth floor.

Down the hall is the podcast studio. A green light above the door signals that it’s safe to go in because no one’s recording. Jason seems like an on-time sort of guy. Is he inside the studio already?

My skin tingles as I picture him. Then I flush as I think about last night and the things I imagined doing to him.

When we’re a few feet away, Ian asks if I need anything.

“I’m good,” I say, but a mask to hide my desire would be great if he could locate one.

“Republic of Caffeine is on the corner. Meet you there at ten- thirty,” he says, then heads the other way.

I open the door and step into a tiny green room.

Jason’s parked on a small couch, scrolling on his phone and looking like he owns the place, legs spread slightly. He stops, looks up, and smiles.

Can he tell I jacked off to visions of blowing him last night? That I pictured him in this exact position?

Heat rushes to my cheeks. My flush is probably giving me away.

“Good game yesterday, McKay,” I tell him. I watched the recap this morning while I was making breakfast.

Talking shop should erase my filthy thoughts of Jason McKay, and my late-night peek at his window.

“You too, Cafferty.” He stands, stretching his arms overhead.

No fucking fair.

His navy-blue T-shirt sneaks up an inch, revealing a sliver of toned, muscular abs.

I look away.

“I guess this is the new gin joint,” he adds, gesturing to indicate the tiny green room. “Funny thing . . . I learned just this morning that you were doing the show with me. My publicist called me an hour ago to tell me I had a co-star.”

Shit. Fuck. Hell.

Why did I bother with meditation? I’m already screwed. He’s going to think I’m stalking him. Well, if he knew what I did last night, he’d be pretty much right.

But I have the truth on my side. “Wilder Blaine corralled me after the game last night and asked me to do it. I couldn’t say no to the owner,” I say, handling this encounter more smoothly than the gym one. Maybe I’m getting used to Jason and this cloud of lust he kicks up in me.

“It’s all good. I couldn’t say no to Nadia either.” Then he nods toward the interior door to the tiny studio. A window in the door gives a view of Megan, the host, setting up headphones.

“This should be fun,” Jason adds.

I don’t know if fun is the word I’d use. More like a challenge. But I echo, “Yup. Fun.”

He smiles, warm and easy. He seems different this morning. That doesn’t quite seem like his Mister Glad Hand grin.

I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he almost seems . . . more real.

Like he was at his house, maybe.

But there’s no time to parse out his state of mind, or heart, since Megan pushes open the door, then tucks her black hair behind her ears.

“I asked for a two-for-one quarterback deal, and I got it. I’m so excited to have you both here this morning. Come in, come in,” she says, ushering us inside.

Jason goes in first, and I follow, looking at anything besides the shape of his big body in front of me.

Now, if I can just get through the next twenty minutes without thinking about his hands.

Or his mouth.

Or my fantasies.

10

QUARTERBACK SNEAK

Beck

Eighteen minutes later, I’m doing a little bit better than surviving.

Dare I say it? I’m holding my own. This meditation shit works. “Beck, break down for us what you were thinking in that play in the third quarter . . .” Megan says, diving into a pivotal moment in yesterday’s game.

I meet her gaze and focus solely on answering her question. “We knew going into the game that Dallas has a tough defense. They try to wear you down, so we had to get out hard and fast.”

Shit. That sounds dirty.

Don’t think about hard and fast sex.

I clear my throat and finish. “And we just tried to play that way.”

Thankfully, Megan throws the next volley to Jason. “Jason, was that your approach against New York?”

“You know, Megan, you can never go wrong with hard or fast,” he says.

I dip my head, a little embarrassed I said those words. But coming from Jason’s mouth, they’re fun.

Still, I might need to allot an hour for guided meditation next week, so I don’t talk about penetration in the end zone.

Megan rubs her palms, her smile turning sneaky. “All right, guys. It’s the two-minute warning. I’d like to finish the show by having the two of you Monday Morning Quarterback each other.”

Whoa. That’s a play I didn’t see coming. Megan obviously left this out of her memo to Ian to get a natural reaction.

“Beck, what tips would you give Jason for his game play?”

Think on your feet, buddy. Like you’re in the pocket. “Well, I was playing against Dallas yesterday, so I didn’t watch his game,” I say. That’s half true.

“In general,” Megan adds, undeterred. “Surely, you know his style of play.”

“Yes, Beck. Tell me how to improve my style,” Jason says with a playful grin. The guy is so damn good at talking.

But with his blue eyes pinning me, it’s hard to think strategy. It’s hard to . . . think.

I draw a blank as I tug at my shirt. I’m starting to sweat. I steal a glance at the time, hoping I can just let the clock run down.

When a few seconds pass without me saying a word, Jason clears his throat. “I believe Beck was telling me in the green room that he thought my passer rating was his dream, and he hopes to come within spitting distance of it,” Jason says with too much glee.

I roll my eyes, but the jab knocks my brain back into gear. “Ah, I remember now. My advice to Jason McKay is don’t get too cocky in the pocket or you’ll get sacked.”

Megan’s face lights up like bantering guest hosts are a gift from the podcast fairy. “And on that note, join us again next Monday when the city’s two signal-callers break down the game and each other’s performance.”

When Megan stabs the stop recording button, she takes a big breath. “You two were great. The chemistry is just fantastic. That last bit was a chef’s kiss,” she says, then flies past the recording equipment around the desk. “Forgive me. I have to use the little girl’s room.” Before she can jet, she sets a hand on my shoulder and meets my eyes. Her expression goes somber. “I hope this is a better start to a season than last year.”

My throat tightens. “Me too.”

Then she darts off. Jason studies me quizzically as he puts down his headphones. Something seems to slide into place for him as if he’s been working on a puzzle and found the final piece.

“Good show,” I say, so I don’t have the chance to wallow in Megan’s sympathy, though I appreciate her acknowledgment. But I don’t want to dwell too long on how I felt last year at the start of the season.

Empty.

I stand and head to the door.

“Yeah, the show was good, Cafferty,” Jason says as he rises, but there’s an uncharacteristic weight to his voice.

I leave first, and he’s right behind me.

Once I set foot in the hallway, I spot a half dozen people at the elevator banks. I scan for a stairwell to avoid the wait—they’re faster, anyway—and spot one a few feet away. I tip my forehead to it. “I’m going to—”

“Me too.”

Is he following me? Did I say something wrong?

I push open the door to the stairs. The second it closes with a thunk, Jason says my name.

“Beck.” Full of concern. Intensity. “Got a minute?”

I stop at the first landing, my heart thudding, almost like it’s beating in my hands. He’s going to ask what happened. I’m going to tell him what I wanted to say last week. Now is the chance, so I take it.

I turn around and swallow a knot of emotion. “I—”

“I didn’t give you a chance last week,” Jason says. His voice wobbles like he’s terrified of what I’m going to say. He walks down to join me on the first landing. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I know you were trying to explain, and I just barreled over you, thinking I knew what was going on with you, and that wasn’t cool.”

I close my eyes, images flickering before me of Griffin, him and me playing with our dogs when we were younger, then him taking me to games in high school when our parents left for Australia, then him teaching me how to cook, how to drive.

How to apply to college.

He taught me everything.

Including how to play my favorite game on earth.

It’s not a secret that my brother died. Megan knew. But you’d only know if you researched me online. Dug deep into stories from more than a year ago. Found the obit on the former college football player—Griffin Cafferty, survived by his parents and a younger brother.

I meet Jason’s guileless eyes and say what’s been on my mind for a year. “My brother was killed last year in a car crash. Two months before I met you. Two months before the season started.” I take a beat, needing air. It’s still hard to say. It still hurts.

But not like the day the police knocked on the door of the house I shared with Griffin in Los Angeles, asked if I was Beck Cafferty, and said, I’m sorry to inform you there’s been an accident.

“I wasn’t in a good place last year,” I add.

Jason steps back. His eyes widen with remorse and sorrow too. He drags a hand along his chin as if he’s processing the pain for himself, then sorting out what it has meant for me. “Beck,” he says, full of sadness. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that’s like, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“Me too. Every day.” I want to say more, but I need to get a handle on the storm of emotions brewing inside me. Most days, I don’t feel this much. Time has healed the biggest part of the wound. But now and then, the wound opens, and I hurt horribly all over again.

Jason’s quiet, patiently waiting as I take a few breaths.

On the last exhale, I look over his shoulder and up the steps.

This conversation requires what privacy I can get. I point to the next landing, then head down to it, Jason following.

I’m not due to meet Ian for ten more minutes. I make use of the time, even though my stomach is churning.

But the way I feel now pales compared to how I felt when my first pro game ended.

When I couldn’t make myself go to Jason’s house.

“That’s what I wanted to explain,” I say quietly, pushing past the hurt. That day, my feelings were too raw. Too unexpected, and I’ve been trying to tell him for a year. “When I was a Mercenary and we played your team, it was my first game starting. I looked into the stands, like I always do, and my brother wasn’t there. I knew that, of course. I didn’t think he’d come back from the dead to go to my game.”

“Beck.” He speaks quietly, like he’s saying you don’t have to make a joke.

But it’s not a joke. There were so many times when I fervently hoped the coroner had misidentified the body.

“I didn’t realize how hard it would be, his not being there. It walloped me like an anvil in the gut. I’d never see him in the stands again. We’d never have dinner. We’d never fish, go camping, or cook together. We’d never talk. I was a mess. I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard after the game.” I stop, needing a moment to let the ache in my throat abate. “That’s why I didn’t show. I was a wreck.”

I stare down at my shoes. I can’t meet Jason’s eyes. I’m sure he’ll think he dodged a bullet with me. He’ll think I’m some broken guy.

“I had no idea,” he says, so somber, so tender, that I do lift my gaze. “I should have looked you up online. I should have tried to understand you.”

Jason looks devastated. For me.

“It’s fine. You didn’t need to research me,” I say, exonerating him.

He parts his lips, blows out a harsh breath, then shakes his head in frustration. “I was an asshole last week. I didn’t give you a chance to say what happened to you and losing your brother has to be so fucking hard.” Jason drags a hand through his hair like he wants to redo that moment. “I just assumed I knew your deal, and I was all wrong. And here you were, going through some serious shit.”

A part of me will always miss Griffin. I’m sure there will always be a part of me that’s hollow too. But I do understand why Jason made assumptions. I said nothing, and he filled my silence with his own story. “I should have said something to you that night. Or the next day. Even in text. But, I just . . . couldn’t.”

Jason shakes his head adamantly. “No. You’re good. I get it. Because I don’t know what I would do if I lost my brother. He’s my hero.” Then he closes the distance, widens his arms, and offers me a hug.

Ohhh.

That’s a one-eighty.

Do I want a hug from the guy I’m wildly attracted to? I think . . . yeah . . . I do. I inch closer, letting him know my answer with my body.

The second his arms wrap around me in a warm embrace, my emotions shift. Or, perhaps, they transpose. The remnants of grief slink away as the past slides out the door. Wanders far, far into the distance.

Jason’s strong arms hold me tight. His chest is flush against mine. He smells so good. Clean and soapy and a little like sunshine. That must be his shampoo, and it goes to my head.

It fries my circuits.

His heart beats against my chest. I press my cheek against his ear. Does he like his earlobe being nibbled on? Does he think about what we might have done at his home that night? Would he want me to have kissed his neck, hard and rough, the way he likes it?

He’s not letting go, so maybe his answer is the same as mine.

Yes.

When he wraps his arms tighter, I’m only in the moment.

“I wanted to go to your house. I wanted to see you again,” I whisper into the cavernous quiet of the stairwell.

Jason makes a shuddery sound, a rumble from deep in his chest. Then slowly lets go, unwinding the embrace step by step until his hands are on my shoulders. He’s an inch or two taller, and he locks eyes with me.

Yes.

I grab his chin, and I crush my lips to his. He doesn’t fuck around either. He kisses me fiercely—a deep, hot kiss that makes my bones buzz. He kisses with a wild sort of need. With hungry moans and sensual sighs. Like we’ve both craved this since we saw each other at the gym last week. Hell, I’ve craved it since I first touched him. Since the night in his kitchen.

My hand slides around to the back of his head, and I drag him closer. Our hard-ons bump, and it’s mind-bendingly good. With a throaty groan, Jason spins us around so he’s pushing me against the concrete wall. He slams his pelvis to mine.

I gasp, breaking the kiss to let loose a deep, needy sigh.

Then, he’s swiveling his hips, rocking them against me.

And wow.

I’ve never experienced anything like this. Never had a kiss where someone tells me so clearly he wants to fuck.

He grinds and presses, confident, determined, moving his hips in a sensual rhythm that will make it impossible for me to think of anything when I’m alone but his body, his hips, his cock.

The hard, throbbing length of him pushing against me.

He never stops kissing me.

He thrusts his tongue into my mouth, and I open for him, sucking on his tongue.

Yes, God, yes.

Everything feels so good. So right. And I want so much more. I want everything I’ve never had, and I want it with him.

It’s so wrong, so risky. We could get caught any second. This would be the scandal of sports scandals. I don’t want negative attention this early in my career, especially with my new team. I should focus on what’s at stake with fans and the Renegades . . .

And I still can’t break away from Jason.

Except, I have to say something. I wrench my mouth from his, panting desperately. “My team knows I’m bi,” I say. “I told them last night.”

He blinks. Then smiles. “Good for you,” he says, but I can tell he’s trying to keep some excitement in check. Maybe some relief.

I don’t want to dwell on coming out. I want to steal another few seconds of his forbidden touch. I grab his hips again.

“God, why do you have to kiss so good?” I grunt.

His smile goes crooked. “Can’t help it. Your mouth is just sooo . . .” He stares savagely at me, licking his lips.

Yeah, he doesn’t have to finish that sentence. The rest is etched in his eyes, glimmering with heat.

But he does anyway, sliding a thumb over my top lip, then whispering, “Fuckable.”

I might come in my pants.

“More,” I croak. It’s the only word I can form when I’m this consumed.

Jason answers my call with a bruising kiss, full of teeth and tongue and the promise of late nights and relentless pleasure. He kisses like he doesn’t play games in bed. Like he craves a raw, passionate connection. His hands slide up my body and then clasp my face hard.

We grind and press.

My breath comes hot and fast as he kisses me even harder.

I should stop. I’ll be whisker-burned and bruised, but I don’t want this incendiary kiss to ever end.

But then I hear a door pushed open nearby. It takes a few seconds for the noise to register, but when it does, I jump away from Jason like I’ve been burned.

The footfalls descend and fade, but they’re a wake-up call.

We’re two high-profile athletes playing on opposing teams in a football-obsessed city. This would be raw meat for the gossip blogs.

“We can’t do this,” I mutter.

Jason nods too. “I know. We’re rivals.”

“And I have to go,” I say, but I can barely move. I don’t want to move. I want to tackle him, pin him down. I want him to tackle me, pin me down.

His eyes are flames, and he stares at me like no one ever has. I’ve never felt this wanted. It’s unreal and addictive.

But I’m going to be late for Ian. “I should go,” I say again.

He tugs at my shirt, gripping the fabric, dragging my mouth to his once more. He brushes his lips over mine in a hot scorch of a kiss. “We’re cool?”

I kiss him back, barely able to think. But when I let go, I answer: “We’re cool.”

But cool isn’t the word I’d use to describe Jason McKay.

More like white-hot.

11

I’VE GOT HIS NUMBER

Jason

The second I pull into my garage and cut the engine, I call my brother.

He answers right away. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I say as I unlock the door to my house and bound up the steps. “Just wanted to say hi.”

“Aww, you miss me already, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours,” he says before a siren drowns out his voice.

“Are you going to a new restaurant?” I ask when the sounds of the city lessen.

“Emerson and I are on our way to do a piece on The Automat,” he says as I turn into the kitchen.

The news delights me. I love knowing we tried the place together, and now it’s part of his show. Makes me feel like a part of his daily life. “Because I approved it first,” I say, as I yank open the fridge and grab a bubbly water.

“I owe it all to you,” he says, then his tone shifts. “Did you sort out your thing with the guy?”

Well, we cracked open his painful past, I apologized from the bottom of my heart, then we made out like thieves in the stairwell, and if I could invite him over tonight, I would.

But I can’t.

“I did. I talked to him. It’s all good,” I say, and that covers the Beck situation well enough. I head to the couch and flop down with my LaCroix. Taco jumps on me, making use of my lap as a bed.

“Good for you. Now you can watch Unfinished Business again.”

I smile. “Yes, I can. But not with Dad.”

“Dude,” he says knowingly. “Never violate the universal rule—thou shalt not watch a sexy scene with a parent in the room.”

“You know it,” I say, then sip my drink.

We chitchat as he heads to The Automat, then he says, “I’m here. I have to go.”

“Love you, Nolan.”

“Love you too, Jaybird,” he says, and we hang up.

I don’t want to ever regret not saying I love you. I don’t want to imagine how it would feel if I never had the chance to again.

I sit in the quiet for a bit, petting the cat more than usual, maybe needing more affection than usual too.

Big brown eyes are working overtime on me tonight.

I grab a handful of popcorn from the red bowl, then sink onto my dad’s cushy couch. His dog sits at my feet, staring at me with a forlorn puppy-dog gaze, melting my resolve in seconds flat.

This Min Pin has my number.

“How do they do it? How do dogs just work me over every time?” I ask my dad as I toss a kernel for his pooch.

Snickerdoodle leaps for it and catches it midair. “Good boy,” my dad calls out. Then to me, he says, “You’re a sucker for eyes.”

Damn. Way to see inside my soul. “Guilty as charged.”

My heart still feels a little tender tonight for my family. Are Beck’s parents around? Is he close with them too?

I could ask him next time I see him at the studio, but that’d be weird. I’ll just hope he has people in his life who matter to him. “Thanks for having me over,” I tell my dad.

With a warm smile, he laughs. “You did grow up here, Jay. It’s your home too.”

“I know. I’m glad,” I say softly.

His casted foot rests on the coffee table, his hand on the remote. “Now, give my third son another piece of popcorn before I turn on the show. He’s hungry.”

I toss a piece to Snickerdoodle and scratch the dog between those big bat ears as he chomps the treat. “You love your third son the most.”

“Well, he doesn’t talk back,” my dad deadpans.

“I’m twenty-seven! I don’t talk back.”

Dad raises a gotcha brow.

I roll my eyes and then grab another handful of the snack.

He points the remote at the TV. “Ready? Or are you going to chat more and ruin my show?”

“Oh my God, the abuse,” I tease as Snickerdoodle hops onto the couch between us. The three of us settle in to watch an episode of Privilege, a family dynasty drama on LGO that has “I want an Emmy” written all over it.

It’s downright addictive.

Until . . .

No fucking way.

The heroine strips off her shirt. Her dude tears off his jeans, and he’s down to boxers.

It’s business time.

I have nothing against bodies on TV, male or female. But rules are rules. I jump up from the couch. “Goodbye,” I say, and I hightail it out of the living room.

Laughing, Dad calls out, “You still can’t handle sex scenes.”

“Not with my dad!” I shout from the kitchen. As I wait, I return a text from my writer friend Hazel, who’s coming to town in October for a book event. We make plans for golf and pinball, and thirty seconds later, Dad calls me back. “Coast is clear.”

I return, and we finish the show, my eyes unscathed.

Once it ends, I gather the empty popcorn bowl and head to the kitchen to wash the dishes from our takeout dinner. Dad follows, crutching his way behind me. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, trying to shoo me away.

“I want to, and you won’t win this battle.” I point to the kitchen table. “Sit.”

He grumbles but complies, his dog trotting gamely along, plunking down at his feet. I’m finished a few minutes later, so I dry my hands and join him.

“It’s nice to watch TV with you,” I say.

Dad is a softie too. “It is, kid. It really is.”

With both of us squishy and the mood relaxed, I take the chance to bring up an old subject in a gentle way. “But I do want you to think about slowing down,” I say. “You worked so hard when we were kids. I want to see you enjoy yourself.”

He studies me, taking his time before he answers. “Would you think it was crazy if I enjoyed my work? Does that sound like someone you know?” he asks gently, but his point is clear.

Pot. Kettle.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I won’t be playing football at sixty-two,” I say.

He pats my hand. “Bet you’ll be doing something with football. There’s nothing you’ve loved like being active. Did you know you crawled at five months? You walked at nine months? You ran around the block at age two?”

He’s only told me these stories ten thousand times. “And I threw my first touchdown pass at six.”

He smiles proudly. “Yup. You love the sport.” He takes a beat and meets my gaze. “I love Mister Cookie.”

“I know you love work. But don’t you want to have fun? Maybe date again?” He’s had a few serious girlfriends over the years but never remarried.

He waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, it’s hard out there. With the phone and the apps and the misery.”

I groan, dragging a hand along my chin, shaking my head in faux annoyance. “Dad, let me tell you something you are never allowed to complain about.”

His expression is dead curious. “What?”

I fix him with a tough stare. “Dating is never hard for a good-looking, well-off, straight man.”

“Fine, you have me there,” he concedes, drumming his fingers on the table. “Speaking of good-looking men, what about you? You haven’t introduced me to anyone since Wyatt.”

I growl. “He was the worst.”

“A man who gives you an ultimatum is pretty much the worst. So . . . anyone on the horizon?”

I picture Beck and our kiss this morning. I haven’t stopped replaying it. Guess I learned I was wrong about my attraction. It’s not a one-way street at all. But if I think about Beck too long right now, I’ll get aroused. I can’t even watch a sex scene with my dad on TV, so I’m not going to linger on how my rival felt pressed against me in the stairwell.

“Not really. There’s a guy . . . but nothing’s going to come of it,” I say, a little resigned.

“Why not?” Dad asks.

“A lot of reasons,” I answer. Beck is dangerous. Our situation is too risky. Teammates would be pissed, fans would cancel me, and Coach would ream me. Getting involved with Beck in any way would be a huge mistake. I sigh, then stand, and nod to the door. “But mostly, our jobs don’t align.”

“Sounds complicated,” he says.

That’s putting it mildly. “And after Wyatt, I sure would like something easy.”

“I hear you,” he says.

“I should go. Early practice tomorrow. Love you, Dad.”

He hugs me before I go, saying, “Love you, Jay. And maybe someday, it’ll be easier with your jobs.”

The only way that would happen is if we didn’t play pro football.

And I do love my job so damn much.

When I return home a little later, I turn out the lights for the evening and head upstairs. In my bedroom, I check my phone, some part of me foolishly hoping for a message from Beck.

Like, today was hot.

Want to do it again?

Can I come over?

But there won’t be a message. I blocked his number.

I flop onto my mattress, a silly awareness hitting me. I can unblock it too.

I scroll back to my texts from a year ago till I find it.

With one simple swipe, I unblock his number.

12

MISTER RIGHT

Jason

Beck’s not at the gym on Tuesday or at the coffee shop on Wednesday after my morning cardio.

That’s for the best. I have too much else going on. Namely, Coach’s game plan for this coming Sunday when we host the Denver Mustangs.

At the start of practice on Wednesday afternoon, he stalks the field, barking orders: “No distractions, men. Get your heads in the game this week because the Mustangs have a formidable defense.” He stops, gives me a searing look. “We need to keep their secondary on their toes. The game plan is to confuse the hell out of them about what plays we might be running. Got it, Fourteen?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. I’ve studied the playbook for this weekend upside down and inside out. Because of course I fucking have. That’s the job.

He continues down the line until he reaches the starters on defense, staring icily first at Elroy, then Johnson, then the others. “And I want you to breathe down their necks. Is that too much to ask this time?”

“No,” Elroy says.

“What was that?” Coach repeats, brow arching.

“No,” Elroy repeats, firmer now.

When we break into practice squads, I pat Elroy’s shoulder. “You got this, bud,” I say.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, and I hope he starts playing like he did a year ago—ferociously.

On Thursday morning, I swing by Nate’s home in the Marina to pick him up for practice. He’s upstairs on his balcony, shades on, savoring his morning view of the water. With a chin nod, he signals he’s on his way down. The man can fly—ten seconds later, he bounds out the front door and slides into the passenger seat, his game face on. “Jaybird, did you hear the news?”

My mind snaps to Beck and me. Did my rival and I get spotted in the stairwell? Or maybe there’s some news about Nate and his man situation? “No,” I say cautiously. “What news?”

“If we beat the ponies this weekend, we’ll have a winning record,” Nate declares as I pull away from the curb.

I laugh with relief. “Thanks for the update. I had no idea.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To catch your passes and do basic math.”

“Somebody has to,” I say as I drive past the bay, the rising sun glinting off the dark blue waters.

“Seriously, though. I’ve been thinking about Elroy and Johnson. Remember how they played last year?”

“Like motherfucking badasses,” I supply. “But they haven’t been playing that way lately.”

“I know. What can we do?” Nate asks.

I go quiet for several blocks, trying to solve the puzzle of the linebacker and the tackle. Lately, they seem tense. Like Beck was with the media before he learned how to handle questions. He’s not perfect now, but the dude turned a weakness into a strength.

With his brain.

“I’ve got it!” I tell Nate my idea, and my right-hand man agrees.

We’re early for practice, but Dwight Elroy and Leo Johnson usually are too. Before we hit the field, Nate and I head to the weight room, hoping to find them.

Excellent.

The tackle and the linebacker are racking plates by a bench.

Nate struts in, giving a derisive look at the plates. “That’s all you can bench?”

Elroy glances around, then points to his chest. “You talking to me?”

Time for some trash-talk motivation from the team captains. “Nate, weren’t you telling me this morning you’d smoke them both on the bench press?”

Nate nods exaggeratedly. “It’s going to be epic destruction.”

Elroy whistles in shock. “No way. No fucking way, Chandler.”

“I believe you mean . . . it is on,” Johnson says, climbing to his feet with a fierce glimmer in his eyes that he’s been missing on the field along with his confidence. His cockiness.

“One hundred bucks says I bench the most,” Nate says.

Johnson snorts. “Double or nothing.”

“Let’s do it,” Nate says, then goes first on the weight bench.

Soon, the four of us trade reps in a full-on weightlifting competition.

I don’t push too far. I’m strong, but I’ll never win the award for benching the most. When I set down the bar, coming in last, Elroy hoots.

“Pay up, suckers,” he says.

I don’t hide a smug grin as I fish a big bill out of my wallet and slap it into Elroy’s waiting hand. “Great job. Now do that on Sunday.”

Elroy and Johnson blink from me to Nate, who nods to back me up. “What Jay means to say is, play like that on Sunday, like you know you can win.”

“Yeah, well,” Elroy crosses his arms. “We know we don’t suck in the weight room.”

“And you don’t suck on the field,” I say. “Coach is stressed about the team and his job. Get him out of your head. Focus on what you do well—finding weak spots on the other team and exploiting them. You don’t suck. You’re in a rut. You’re Hawks. You’ve got this.”

We leave the weight room and head to the field. It’s the best practice we’ve had as a team in a long time.

After a shower that afternoon, I change back into jeans and a polo, then head down the hall toward the parking lot to meet Nate at my car.

As I near the door, I catch the distinctive sound of high heels on the pavement. From behind me, a voice calls, “Hey, Jason,” and I straighten like a student called on in class.

Swiveling around, I come face to face with Nadia Harlowe. The team owner is sharply dressed in black slacks and a cranberry blouse, and the diamond in her wedding band nearly blinds me. “I just wanted to say thank you for doing Monday Morning Quarterback. You sounded amazing, and your chemistry with Cafferty was fantastic,” she says, and my gut tightens in worry. Did she catch some sort of vibe between us?

“Very zinger-y,” she adds, and I breathe easily, glad she noticed the banter rather than any sexual tension. “I think the show will gain fans and improve game attendance.”

If the big kahuna is happy, I’m happy. “Thanks for asking me to do it. I’m having a blast,” I say.

“Also, I have news!” She glances from side to side, then whispers, “I got us Xavier Walters.”

Am I hearing things, or did she just tell me she’s acquired one of the fiercest veteran cornerbacks in the league? The dude is still at the top of his game after more than a decade. “You traded for the X-Man?”

She smiles devilishly. “We’ll announce it tonight, and he starts tomorrow. I want to win, Jason, and I especially want to beat our local rivals. If Wilder Blaine and his Renegades take home another Lombardi this year, I will stomp like Rumpelstiltskin in Louboutins.”

I laugh at the image, even as I wince at her extreme emphasis on rival. “Same here.”

She says goodbye, and I meet Nate in the lot. Once we’re in my wheels, I give him an I’ve-got-a secret smile. “Dude. You are going to freaking flip. Xavier Walters starts for us this Sunday.”

Nate unleashes an ear-splitting war cry.

The next day, the newest Hawk bursts onto the practice field, all energy, and swagger. Xavier strides up to me, points at my chest, then says, “You. Me. We’re going to do this.”

“We fucking are,” I say, matching his cocky grin with one of my own.

He spins around and turns to the starting defense. “I am here, brothers, to help you destroy the Mustangs this weekend and the Defenders the next, and so the fuck on.”

The guys lose their minds.

Damn. If he can whip the guys into a frenzy on the field, we might just have a shot at winning with defense.

That evening, I head to the gym for some quick cardio, dialing into the kick-ass playlist that TJ made for me. I’m cruising along to the music and the rhythm of the run, but just as I’m hitting my third mile, I sense a shift in the Force.

A muscular arm tosses a towel on the handlebars of the treadmill next to me, the only open machine at the gym.

Beck steps onto it, looking far too good in shorts and a purple T-shirt I want to strip off him. I want to know what he looks like in just those shorts. Then in nothing. I want to get my mouth all over him. Taste his skin.

Ah, fuck, Jason. Maybe cool it before he picks up on the horndog vibe you’ve got going on.

I pop out an earbud. “Just admit you’re stalking me.”

He scoffs. “Please. When I show up at your house late one night to surprise you, then you’ll know I’m a stalker.”

That’s fodder for some dirty dreams—Beck showing up in the middle of the night, ripping off that shirt, tearing off my clothes too, and grinding his muscular body against mine.

Great. Now I’m aroused at the gym. “Thanks for the warning,” I deadpan, then I turn to my phone, fiddling with my playlist for a distraction. The envelope icon flashes at the top of my screen. Reese Kingsley is the sender, so I click it open.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beck also swiping across his screen. The email’s addressed to Beck, the Renegades’ PR guy, and me.

Hello Jason and Beck!

Monday Morning Quarterback launched to killer ratings. The station tells me that after its first few days, it’s already the top-ranked podcast this month! Megan loves your chemistry, and the station wants to run an ad campaign around the show. Can you two do a photo shoot on Monday after that episode? Wear your jerseys, please!

Also, Go Hawks!

There’s a reply from Ian already saying, Go Renegades forever! Also, I love this idea.

I want to make Nadia happy. I want to make the whole team happy. So I reply first with Sounds good.

Seconds later, Beck’s answer lands on the thread. I’m game.

I set the phone back on the treadmill’s dash. “Beat you to it,” I say with a smirk.

“Feel free to win the fastest to answer an email award anytime.”

“Asshole,” I mutter playfully.

He smiles and flips me the bird.

“Dickhead,” I add.

He lifts his finger higher. Then whispers, “Prick.”

Oh, but I want to win this battle of words. I take my sweet time flashing him a sly smile. Then, dragging out the word on my tongue, I murmur, “Cocksucker.”

A hint of a shudder moves through his body. His dark eyes suggest he wants all sides of that word with me.

A few seconds later, he whispers, “Same to you.”

There’s a smirk on his lips—those lips that taste so fucking good. I run a mile longer than I planned to so I can erase the thoughts of his mouth and the things I want him to do with it.

When I’m finished with my cardio, I take off with a quick wave. I’m only a little disappointed that he doesn’t leave at the same time. But it’s for the best we put that stairwell session behind us and lean into our rivalry.

Like our employers want.

Like our fans want.

Too bad it’s not what my dick wants.

On Sunday afternoon, we’re down by three with five minutes left in the third quarter. The Mustangs’ offense is encroaching into our territory, but when their quarterback scrambles in the pocket too long, hunting for a receiver, Elroy smells blood. He’s ferocious as he swings around some of the biggest guys on the field, and boom—he sacks the quarterback.

I cringe in sympathy as the guy goes down, but I can’t dwell on it because the Mustangs are forced to punt, and I’ve got to get out there again.

Coach calls for a big passing play, and I nail my first throw to Orlando, who hightails it into the end zone.

That’s how you do it!

I cheer the loudest as Orlando puts us ahead. Xavier booms a yes from the sidelines.

Maybe that was what we were missing. Someone who could carry the mantle for the defense.

And carry it he does when Xavier intercepts the ball on the Mustangs’ next possession, giving me a chance to put it in the end zone once more.

We pad our lead and don’t look back.

The best part of the win? As we head off the field, Coach gives Elroy and Johnson pats on the back.

In the locker room, I invite them, Xavier, and some of the other guys to join Orlando, Devon, Nate, and me at The Spotted Zebra.

That’s what we need. To be more of a tight-knit team.

Riding on a post-game high, I practically jog through the concourse to meet my dad. The stubborn turkey is powering up the steps on his crutches.

“You need to stop showing off!” I call out.

“Never.” Then he adds, “Great game, kid. Everyone played well.”

“They did,” I say, boosted by adrenaline and pure joy. “They really did.”

We stop in at Dad’s favorite Chinese restaurant before I take him home, then I park the car at my place so I can walk to The Spotted Zebra.

Along the way, I check the rest of the scores in the league. “Fuck,” I mutter when the Renegades’ overtime win flashes on the screen.

But I’m not totally annoyed. I’m weirdly happy for Beck, and that’s not a feeling I want to have for my rival.

I don’t want to think about him too much either, so I do my best to focus on my teammates when I reach the bar.

It’s time for a karaoke sing-off.

Xavier takes to the stage, busting out some John Denver in his baritone while Elroy and Johnson cheer him on.

I opt to croon some Frank Sinatra, but when I sing the line about exchanging glances in the night, I’m picturing Beck without even wanting to.

What’s he doing tonight? How does he celebrate a win? Will they let loose on the team plane on the way home?

Thoughts of Beck dog me the rest of the night even as I chat with the guys about the game, the city, and life as we know it.

As nine rolls around, I’m spent from today’s hard-fought game, so I head to the register and ask the bartender to close out my tab.

“I’ll have that for you in a minute,” she says.

“Thanks so much. And I’ll cover the rest of my team too,” I reply.

“Sounds great,” she says.

As I return to Devon, Orlando, and Nate a few stools away, the voice of the sports anchor on the TV screen snags my attention.

“This is Eva Sanchez, and I’m here with Beck Cafferty after the Renegades’ win against Texas. How did that feel, Beck?”

He looks ridiculously hot after a game. Sweaty, spent, and elated.

“Texas is a tough team, and we knew we had to stay focused on the X’s and O’s the whole time,” he says, calm and methodical. Nice. Beck practiced his media skills, and it’s paying off.

“And now one more question,” the reporter says. “Is there a special someone waiting on the sidelines for you?”

I flinch. What the hell? Reporters don’t usually get that personal after games.

Beck doesn’t balk. “I’m still looking for Mrs. Right,” he says, then takes a deliberate pause and adds, “Or Mister Right. But for now, I’m focusing on football.”

Whoa. That’s . . . hot.

The reporter smiles. “Thanks for your time, Beck.”

“Thank you, Eva,” he says, then walks out of the shot.

Nate’s next to me, and he whistles in appreciation. “That was ballsy. For anyone. Coming out on national TV.”

“And awesome,” I add, ridiculously proud of the guy.

Some pro athletes have been out since high school, like me. Some have come out on social, like Gunnar Ford on the Dragons. Now, Beck is part of that group, and like he often does, the guy surprised me by doing it mic-drop style.

That’s just . . . hot.

Men who know who they are turn me on.

A big hand comes down on my shoulder. “Holy shit. Dude just came out on TV. You two know him?” Xavier asks.

My jaw clenches from the implication that all the queer dudes are friends. Is this going to be a problem with Xavier?

My teammates are pretty cool. They’re used to not one but two star players being gay. But Xavier is new, and I don’t know his heart. I do know this – sometimes you need to give a guy a way to save face. I turn to Xavier and answer, deadpan: “I haven’t seen him at our queer club meetings.”

Xavier winces, but before he can answer, Devon cuts in, the rookie’s gaze locking on the star defender. “And Nate and Jason know every gay athlete in California. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Xavier grimaces in apology. “That’s not what I meant. I just thought it was cool what he did, coming out in front of all of America on TV.” He glances from Nate back to me as if worried he’s misspoken again. “It is cool, right?”

I smile, relieved. “That was pretty awesome.”

Xavier blows out a breath. “Good. But don’t date him, okay? No dating a rival.”

“I’m not involved with anyone,” I say. It’s the truth, but I try and hide the tension of the part that’s a lie—I wish I were seeing Beck.

“And he knows better than to get involved with our biggest competitors,” Nate adds.

I’m damn grateful my poker face is tight.

When I bound up the steps to my home a little later, I spot a plant on the doormat. A bright red bow is looped around the ceramic rim.

Curious, I pick up the pot of what looks like grass and search for a card. I find one at the end of the bow.

Just a little something for Taco. Hope he enjoys the catnip as much as my girl Stella does!

Xoxo,

Zena

That’s sweet of her, even though it has ulterior motive written all over it. Still, I bet my dude will dig this, so once I’m inside, I text Zena, thanking her.

She replies quickly with Anytime! Let me know if he likes it!

I really do owe her. Maybe after I connect with my agent and officially turn down Zena’s dating app offer, I can donate to an animal shelter she supports. But I’ll deal with that another time.

I set down the plant on the living room table, rip off a sprig of catnip, then head upstairs, where I set the catnip on my pillow. I’m not above tricking Taco into curling up next to me.

Then I get ready to hit the hay.

Once I’m in bed, I try out the unblocked number. Beck’s coming-out chutzpah deserves acknowledgment.

Jason: I saw your interview tonight. Nice!

Beck: I’m still shaking.

Jason: For what it’s worth, you made it look easy. You were smooth. No sign of nerves.

Beck: Yeah? You sure?

Jason: Absolutely.

I wait, but there’s crickets, so I slide under the covers, exhausted and wrung out from the game.

Taco leaps onto the bed, and I try to pet him, but the little prick grabs the blades of catnip with his teeth and sashays to his own pillow. “Ingrate,” I mutter, then close my eyes.

As I’m fading and he’s buzzing, my phone vibrates. Instantly alert again, I grab the phone from the nightstand.

Beck: I was out in LA. My teammates knew. My friends knew. My agent knew. My ex-girlfriend too. She’s still a good friend. But I realized I needed to be out here too. It was . . . necessary. I didn’t want to shout it, but it hit me that I’d been whispering. That’s not who I want to be, so my PR guy and I planned that tonight. He prepped the reporter to ask me that question since I’m not on social media and didn’t want to do a coming-out video.

I’m telling you this because it’s not a journey thing. It’s a me thing.

I can read between the lines—I didn’t do it for you—which gets me even hotter.

Jason: I didn’t think you did it for any other reason than you wanted to, Beck. And that’s the best reason.

Beck: Thanks. Also, nice game today. But I wish you’d lost.

Jason: Same to you. I wish you’d been annihilated.

Beck: I wish you’d been destroyed.

Jason: I wish you’d been pulverized.

Beck: I hope you lose next weekend.

Jason: I hope you lose harder.

Beck: You’ll lose the hardest.

That seems a good note to end on. With a smile, I turn off the phone, but I don’t sleep. My body’s exhausted, but my brain’s too busy with Beck. He’s so direct in his texts, just like he was bold on TV when he took charge of his identity. All of that’s appealing to me. It’s what I want in a man.

I’m half-aroused even as my tired body tries to fall into a deep slumber.

But I better get this lust out of my system now. I give my semi-hard cock a tug, and in a few seconds, it wakes all the way up.

I picture Beck’s mouth dropping down on my dick, indulgently sucking me off until I pant, groan, and come hard.

I tell myself it’s only to help me sleep.

The next morning at Monday Morning Quarterback, I walk down the hall to the studio, chin up, shoulders squared. But inside, I’m hiding a secret, and it’s this hazy feeling of want that’s wrapped all around me.

Like my mind is still getting off to Beck more than ten hours later.

But I’ve got to keep it cool when I see him, which will happen any second. Can’t be a dog raring to hump his leg.

The green light is on, so I push open the door. He’s not on the couch waiting; he’s already in the studio, parked at the soundboard, looking good in tight jeans and a snug red T-shirt across his chest and abs. Lucky T-shirt.

When he meets my gaze, I search for a sign in his eyes.

Something to tell me he’s fighting the same fight. Keeping the same secret.

I shouldn’t want him to still want me. This desire will only make our lives harder.

His dark eyes give nothing away.

“Hey,” he says with a chin nod.

That’s all.

Just a hey.

And I want so much more.

13

THE BUFFER ZONE

Jason

A marching band leader’s energy radiates off Megan today in the studio. She’s been on fire for the last eighteen minutes, and she looks from Beck to me and back. “And now, are you guys ready to quarterback each other?”

I stifle a laugh. I know she said that last week, but it’s hitting me now that it sounds vaguely dirty. “Let’s do it,” I say.

“I’m ready,” Beck seconds.

Megan starts with the guy across from me. “Beck, the Hawks won, but what’s your post-game take on Jason’s first-quarter performance?”

Oh, this is gonna be good. I chucked throw after incomplete throw in my weak-ass opening drive. “Yes, Beck. Tell me more about how I drove the ball,” I say.

They want chemistry, after all, so I’ll play it up.

Beck’s all matter-of-fact as he answers: “You need to come out more aggressive against challenging defenses.”

Oh. Well, excuse me. I bristle, not expecting that sort of feedback. That’s the shit scouts rate you on before they draft you. “What would you have done then?”

“Go for a long pass,” he says, like a thoughtful professor evaluating a paper. “Open with an explosive play rather than saving those just for the end.” Then he smiles as if he’s hiding the holy grail behind his grin. “Or maybe not. Sometimes you need short passes.”

Wait. Hold on. He’s doubling back on his own advice? Is he tripping over his words again?

“So, go long? Or go short? Which is it?” I ask.

But that smile of his becomes more . . . wicked. He snaps a finger. “I remember now. My advice is this—be sure to complete the pass. Doesn’t matter if it’s long or short.”

Nice. Of course, the dude isn’t going to blab his strategy in front of an audience, let alone a rival. Here I was ready to come to his rescue, and he burned me before the entire city.

“Ouch. I need some aloe,” I say. King of Dad jokes strikes again.

“CVS is having a sale. I’ll get you some,” Beck says drily.

Megan turns to me. “Jason, what tips do you have for the second-year starter?”

A whole mess of them. Starting with you can’t one-up me here.

“That’s easy.” I take a beat to set up my review of his on-field performance yesterday, which was, annoyingly, damn good. “Staying power. That’s what you’ll need to work on, Cafferty. It’s a long season, and you don’t want to rest on your laurels three games in. You’re going to need a lot more stamina.”

Megan nods approvingly. “A fair point. Thank you, guys. It’s a pleasure having you two on the show. Be sure to tune in again for next week’s Monday Morning Quarterback.”

Megan hits the end button, then blows out a satisfied breath. “Nice work, guys. That was even better than last week.”

“Glad you liked it,” I say. I’m hoping the ratings shoot higher this week too. Nadia will be so psyched.

“I can’t wait to see the photos from the shoot today,” Megan adds.

“I thought it would be the three of us.”

She laughs, waving a dismissive hand as she heads to the door. “No one wants to see my picture on ads and billboards. They want to see the two stars. So it’ll be you guys and the photog.”

As she grabs the door and trots out, those words hang heavily in the air, as if someone turned down the background music. The only thing I can hear is the drumbeat of . . . you guys and the photog.

Of course, I knew a photographer would be present at a photo shoot, but I thought Megan would be a buffer between Beck and my desire for him.

I adjust to the new expectations for the shoot. Just Beck and me and the guy behind the camera telling us to move closer to each other.

Once I set down the headphones, I check the location for the shoot in my email. “We need to go to Crissy Field,” I say, then meet Beck’s gaze. His expression is neutral, the way it’s been this entire morning. Maybe he’s not having the same wild thoughts as I am. “We’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes. See you there?”

“Sure. I’ll grab a Lyft,” he says, heading to the door too, a canvas bag in his hand.

“You don’t have a car?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I leased one in Los Angeles, and the lease ended when I was traded. I haven’t bought one yet. So . . .”

Ah hell. It’s not like we’re going to make out at stoplights or feel each other up as I drive. “I’ll give you a ride, Caff,” I say, making my way to the hall.

“You sure?” he asks as he follows alongside me.

“Positive,” I say, then wink. “You can tell me more about those long and short drives I ought to be making on the field.”

As we walk down the hall together, I refuse to look at the stairwell door. I won’t let on that my thoughts have strayed too many times to that hot moment on the steps. I march forward to the bank of elevators. When I hit the down button, one opens right away. I step inside and he follows. The doors whoosh shut.

It’s only us and my super-sized libido.

The whole ride to the parking garage I fight not to stare at him. The man makes tight jeans and red shirts look like the luckiest clothes in the world. Once the elevator doors open, I gesture down the row. “Mine’s the blue Tesla two cars down,” I say.

He snorts. “Of course it is.”

This guy. “You give me a hard time about my cat, and now my car, even when I’m giving you a ride?”

“Evidently, I do,” he says with a knowing smirk.

I click on the app on my phone to unlock the door, wishing I could get a read on Beck today. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you find so amusing about my car?”

“It’s what nice guys drive,” he says, offhand, as he heads to the passenger door.

That feels like another burn. But maybe more personal this time. Since, well, nice guys usually finish last. “That’s not a compliment, Caff. Tell me—why am I giving you a ride?” It comes out like a mild warning.

But when he swings open the door, he flashes me a smile as he slides in. “Because you’re a nice guy.”

I get inside too, then give him a what gives? look. “How is this a nice guy car?”

“It’s good for the planet and all,” he says, then drops his canvas bag to the floor. His jersey must be in that. Mine’s on the back seat.

“Well, yeah,” I say, backing out of the parking space.

“And blue is a nice color,” Beck adds.

I tug at my light blue polo shirt. “I like blue,” I say, defensive on behalf of the color and a little irked on behalf of me too.

“I’ve noticed. You always wear blue,” Beck adds nonchalantly as I drive toward the parking garage exit. “You had a navy shirt on last week. A light-blue one the night I met you. You wore a teal-blue one last week to the gym.” He waves his hand my way. “And now . . . this shade. Sky blue.”

“So I’m a nice guy because I wear blue and drive a green car?” I counter.

Beck laughs, shaking his head. “No. You just happen to be one.”

I speed up the ramp a little faster than I need to. “Do nice guys drive fast in parking lots?”

“Ooh, you’re such a scofflaw,” he remarks, clearly playful now.

“Dude, you can walk,” I tease. I think I’ve got it now. He’s just playing into the rivalry vibe. I slide my parking ticket through the reader, then exit onto Market Street and into Monday morning traffic.

“So, you’re not a fan of nice guys?” I ask. I might be a glutton for punishment, or maybe this new bit of intel will get me over my crush for good.

Beck’s quiet, and the silence unnerves me. Then when I slow for the red light at the end of the block, he turns to me and whispers, “I like nice guys.”

Oh, he’s completely readable now. His brown eyes are fire. He’s all blunt edges and directness. I like it too much for my own good.

This is going to be the hardest car ride of my life. Especially when I realize that when Beck teased me about my preference for blue, he was admitting he notices every little detail about me.

As I turn onto Franklin Street, I fish a little more. “So you just like to give me a hard time?”

“It makes it easier, Jason. Know what I mean?”

When I stop at the next light, I catalog his expression. The warmth in his eyes. The softness in his lips. Here in my car, behind the tinted windows, he drops the mask. His face tells a story of vulnerability mixed with heat.

All that is evident in his body too. He’s a picture of checked restraint, body tight, nearly rigid. But I spot a dead giveaway. His left hand inches closer and closer to the console.

Almost like an invitation.

Like he desperately wants me to touch him. Maybe he’s been as hungry for a sign as I’ve been, but he needs to hunt for it in his own very Beck-like way. He’s measured in his approach, calculating even. He observes everything around him, takes in data, then acts.

He’s that way on the field.

Out of the corner of my eye, I check the light. Still red.

I seize the chance, dropping my right hand from the steering wheel, then brushing my thumb along the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Slow and deliberate.

With a surprised gasp, Beck shudders so I keep going. With my thumb, I trace a line up to his fingertip, sparks kicking through me from the barest of touches, from his unadulterated reaction. His lips part as he sinks into whatever sensations are racing through his body.

The light changes. I grip the wheel and focus only on driving the rest of the way.

The car feels like it’s ticking.

I draw a deep, lungful of air to get my bearings, but the air is filled with him. The outdoorsy scent of his aftershave is wreaking havoc with my brain.

When we arrive at Crissy Field, I pull into a parking spot along the grassy expanse of playing fields, the Golden Gate Bridge rising majestically above the clear blue waters. I exit the car and grab my jersey.

The sun is shining uncharacteristically for a September morning. The air is warm. The world is my changing room.

I stand outside the car, tug off my sky-blue polo, and toss it in the backseat.

On the other side of the vehicle, Beck does the same with his shirt, reaching for the hem, jerking it over his head, chucking it into my car.

I try not to stare. I swear I do.

But I fail miserably when I catch black lines curling over his shoulders, then down and around his biceps. My mouth waters as my eyes trace the ink.

I turn the other way as I pull on my jersey. Don’t want to be sporting wood during a photo shoot, no matter how much I like ink.

And I like it a lot.

14

MULTITASKING IS HARD

Beck

Asher St. James is all charm and hair. He’s an in-demand fashion and sports photographer in town for a handful of jobs, including this one.

Asher already knows Jason. Because, of course. Jason always knows everyone. Jason’s friends with everyone. I’m always the outsider.

But Asher’s focused on making sure we’re comfortable as he lines us up on the grass with the bridge behind us. “This is going to look fantastic. I love it when I have such gorgeous subjects,” he says, then snaps shot after shot. Asher’s easy banter almost makes me forget how attracted I am to the quarterback next to me.

But the first round of photos is probably full of duds anyway. I have this problem where I don’t know what to do with my hands. I try them in front of me, then I let them hang at my sides, and could this shoot end right fucking now?

“Beck, do you want to perhaps put your hands on your hips?” Asher offers.

I try that too, feeling more ridiculous since it’s so obvious I’m uncomfortable in front of the camera. Which is weird—I play a game on TV before millions. But football doesn’t make me uncomfortable. The laser focus on me does.

Asher takes more pics, smiling as he goes. “And maybe now just tuck them into your pockets. Like Jason.”

Yes, Jason can pose and look good at the same time. He’s so easy with everything, including knowing when to touch me in the car and when to stop.

Ugh.

Thinking of the car is not helping.

Asher peers at the back of the camera and then gives a cheery grin. “Let’s try a different approach.” This guy must hate me for ruining every shot. “I’m thinking maybe if you’re both looking away from each other, we can get a different vibe.”

Yes, hopefully it’s the I’m-not-thinking-about-Jason’s-hands-on-me vibe.

“How about a little back-to-back action,” Asher says.

Jason tries to stifle a laugh but fails.

Asher rolls his eyes. “Not everything is dirty, McKay.”

“But some things sure sound that way.”

“To you, Jason, to you,” Asher deadpans, but it’s clear he’s entertained by the Hawks’ quarterback. My lips twitch in the start of a grin. Guess I am too.

Before I’m even fully aware of it, Asher lifts the Nikon and snaps a candid shot of us.

Asher doesn’t stop. I doubt Monday Morning Quarterback wants pics of us smiling. A grinning football player doesn’t sell much besides cell phones or fast food. Post-game shows require a little more grit.

Still, Asher keeps going, then he waves a hand my way, urging me to move closer to Jason. “Now, Beck, if you can slide just a smidge to the right. Your left shoulder should touch Jason’s right, and you’ll both be angled out a bit.”

I follow his orders, my shoulder bumping Jason’s, my heart rate kicking up. I ignore it like I ignore linebackers who want to annihilate me when I’m in the pocket.

“And Jason, cross your arms,” Asher instructs. “Give me that look that terrifies other teams.”

“That’s all my looks, Ash,” Jason says.

“Of course it is,” Asher says, then turns to me. “I’m sure you intimidate defenses too.”

“Yes, quarterbacks are known for being bruisers,” I say.

Asher’s eyebrows rise. “We have a sarcastic one.”

Jason chuckles. “Ash, you gotta watch out for Beck. He’s quiet at first, then he unleashes a snark bomb. And boom.” Jason mimes an explosion.

Asher takes over, capturing the moment. “Perfect. Yes. Just like that,” he says, and a minute later, he’s beaming as he regards the back of the camera. “These are fantastic.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, a loudly audible one.

Asher strides over, looks me in the eye, and says, “You did great.”

I guess it’s obvious I suck at being photographed. “Thanks. But I think it was all you,” I say. This guy knew how to get the best of me.

“Nah. Check these out.” He gathers us near him, Jason on one side, me on the other. Asher shoves his long, floppy hair from his eyes, then flips through the images on the screen. I admit, several near the end are pretty damn good.

We look serious and intense. That’s what Wilder will want from me. What my team will expect. What the fans love.

Asher flicks to the smiling shots next. “Can I post these on my Insta? If your teams approve, of course. I won’t send them on to the show, but they’re fun candids.”

Jason studies them carefully, his brow knitting. As he looks through them, I try to read what’s going through his head. I’d have expected him to say yes right away. That suits his easygoing and happy-to-please personality.

But he’s quiet, so I study the pics more. They feel too personal. The reason I’m smiling in them is that Jason made me laugh. Asher too. “I’d rather you didn’t,” I say. “Maybe something from the last set instead?”

Asher nods quickly, smiles quickly too. “Of course. That’s why I ask. Don’t want to put anything out there you don’t want.”

The smiling one feels like a secret I don’t want to share. “Thanks,” I say.

While Asher puts his camera away, Jason claps his shoulder. “Thanks for fitting us in. Always a treat to work with you.”

“Please. It was my pleasure. Mark even came to town with me. He had some time off, but I caught him working this morning at the hotel. On a spreadsheet, of all things,” Asher says.

Jason shudders. “I hate spreadsheets.”

“Once upon a time, I did too,” Asher says, and there’s a private smile in his words.

Jason catches on to it. “I trust everything’s good with you and your dude?”

“The best,” Asher says, shouldering his camera bag. The photographer turns to me. “By the way, nice interview last night.”

That’s all he says about it, but I feel like I’m in the out-athletes club now. And weirdly, I don’t mind. I sort of even like it. “Thanks. I appreciate you saying that,” I say seriously.

Then Asher hops into a fire engine red Porsche with the top down and takes off, aviator shades on, hair blowing in the breeze.

Jason points to the car peeling away. “That guy. I swear he does everything in style.”

“That’s a hot ride,” I say, shaking my head in admiration at the wheels.

“Aww, Caff. Is that your way of saying you want me to take you to the Porsche dealer now so you can get a car at last?”

I roll my eyes. “No, dickhead.”

“Same to you, jackass,” he says as we walk to his Tesla.

But the thing is—if I asked him to help me shop for a car, I bet he would. That’s just the kind of nice guy he is.

As we near my home, I’m antsy. Ideas whip through my mind. Risky ones.

I check the time on the dashboard. It’s a little past noon. My stomach rumbles. I could do it. Open my mouth and blurt out: want to get a bite to eat?

I tap my toe on the floorboard. I could tell him I spotted a new Vietnamese food truck over at Patricia’s Green, the park in the heart of Hayes Valley. You’d love it because I know you love food.

Ugh. That sounds so . . . awful. Who doesn’t like food? It also sounds way too much like a date.

But it wouldn’t have to look that way. We could blend in as two co-hosts grabbing some grub. Lunchtime crowds stream along Hayes Street, the sidewalks bursting with color—women in pink dresses, men in plaid shirts, cool cafés with mint awnings. It’s a lively neighborhood like Jason said. We’d have the work excuse to be seen together—we just finished our photo shoot and were hungry.

But, to ask him, I’d have to locate a box of courage inside me and rip it open.

His car cruises past the boba shop. Yes! That’s the perfect entree. He mentioned that shop. Want to grab a milk tea? I could say.

And . . . no.

That sounds weird too.

I point toward Octavia Street. “Take a right, and I’m about thirty yards down. Linden Street.”

He shakes his head, amused. “Of course you measure distance that way.”

“And you knew what I meant,” I say, buoyed by our common interests. I can still ask him. I just need to do it in the next ten seconds.

“Course I did,” he says, then drives past a pink bakery and turns onto my street.

I give him the house number, wishing I lived farther away. I wish this moment weren’t ending. I wish I had the guts to ask him to go car shopping with me right now.

I practice the words—want to come in and we can pick a Porsche dealer? I’m this close to trying out the question for real when Jason pulls over and clears his throat. “Thanks for that before.”

“For what?” I ask, curious.

“For saying no to those candid pictures going up,” he says quietly.

But my heart jumps so loudly in my chest I’m sure he can hear it. Jason saw the same thing in that photo I did—the way we let down our guard with each other, the way we dared to for a few seconds today with Asher.

And Jason needed me to say no for him. To protect that moment and keep it private.

“I don’t want people to be able to tell,” I admit, and the vulnerability is a little terrifying, but it feels so good too.

Jason grips the steering wheel tighter. “Me neither.”

I have to fight not to touch him. But it’s a battle. I let my hand move closer on the console. He stares at it like he did earlier. I slide another inch over, making the choice easier for him. Or maybe harder.

“You tempting me?” Jason asks in a low voice.

Nerves thrum through me, chased by desire. “I don’t know. Am I?” I hope he says yes.

Jason lowers his face, doesn’t meet my gaze. “You know you are,” he whispers, and it sounds like a warning.

He’s saying be careful.

But I don’t know if I can when tingles rush down my spine, hot and electric.

You could go to a food truck.

You could shop for a car.

You could tell him you can’t stop thinking about him and then wind up in his bed.

Like my pants are on fire, I point at my home. “I should go. Thanks, Jason,” I say, then grab the handle and fly out before I do something risky.

Or really, riskier.

15

NIGHT WALKERS

Beck

One hour and one Báhn mì later, I’m helping Portia refill bird feeders in the backyard.

“How long have you been a Renegades fan?” I ask as I pour millet onto the tiny porch of a mini bungalow. It looks like a yellow dollhouse.

She stares at the sky, thoughtful. “Since the womb, I’m sure.”

I laugh as we move to the next birdhouse—a white colonial. I hold up the bag of millet in question.

Portia shakes her head. “This home is just for nesting.”

“Have any birds done that?”

“Purple martins,” she says proudly. “They’re quite social. And this colonial has lots of bird apartments in it. My son Bryan made it for me.”

I look at the birdhouse in a new light. It’s intricate. “He’s a birdhouse architect,” I say as she guides me to a eucalyptus tree.

“He’s very talented. He’s a contractor in Los Angeles, restoring old homes. The birdhouses are a hobby,” she says, then she waggles a cylindrical red feeder hanging on a branch, checking its contents. “The hummingbird juice is all gone. I’ll have to make them some more.”

“Water and sugar, right?”

“Exactly!”

“I’ll do it,” I offer. I like being helpful. Plus, this passes the time. The busier I stay, the less I’ll think about Jason. If I can just make it through today without going crazy from lust, I’ll know I can withstand seeing him every Monday morning.

After she gives me the recipe—four parts water to one part sugar—I tell her I’ll meet her back here in thirty. Inside my place, I heat the concoction on the stove, so the sugar dissolves faster, then pour it into a large measuring cup when it cools off. Yup, these tasks are helping. I have a purpose that’s not him.

I head back outside and find Portia pruning the bushes at the yard’s edge. She sets down the shears and joins me at the eucalyptus tree as I refill the feeder.

“You’re becoming too helpful, Beck. I’ll have to offer another discount,” she says.

“And you already owe me two discounts for my wins. Here’s hoping it’s three after next Sunday. The team will be four and oh then.”

“The Tarot says it will be.” Her smile brightens, turning sort of . . . motherly. “I enjoyed your post-game interview last night. So did Bryan. He’s gay.”

Oh, boy. Here we go. Looks like this birdhouse talk was all a ruse.

“He’ll be in town for Thanksgiving,” she continues.

“Cool,” I say, bracing myself. I don’t want to be a dick and turn down her son in advance, but I loathe set-ups.

“Want to join us? Meet Bryan?”

Does her son even know she’s playing matchmaker? Well, that’s not my problem. I don’t like turning down turkey, though, so here goes nothing. “Thanksgiving sounds fun, but I’m not dating,” I say.

She sighs, defeated, but then smiles again. “It was worth a shot. And of course, you’re welcome on Turkey Day. We were talking about you on the phone last night and about your interview with Eva. We were excited for you, though, and for what it means.”

Even if I came out on TV for me, what I said does affect others. It matters to others. That’s still hard for me to get used to, but I’ll have to. “Thanks. I’m glad to hear that. Do you need me to help with anything else?” I ask, hoping she’ll have a chore list long enough to fill the day.

“No, you go rest. You have practice tomorrow,” she says.

That bout of busy work brought me to two-thirty in my Jason decompression. I retreat to my home, pick up a copy of the new Axel Huxley thriller I snagged at the bookshop around the corner, and curl up on my beanbag.

This story will have to do the heavy lifting for the afternoon. Good thing Huxley writes bonkers sex scenes. The hero in his last book injured his back during shower sex, so it’s not like I’m going to get turned on as I read his stories.

For a few hours, I do my best to get lost in the vigilante-for-hire’s crime investigations. By chapter ten, when the hero foils a plot to blow up an abandoned subway station in Dublin, I mostly stop thinking about Jason and how I feel so wound up around him. But when my phone buzzes, I’m hoping it’s him. I click on my texts and it’s my buddy Drew in LA. I try not to be bummed.

Drew: Dude! It’s getting weirder here at the Devil Sharks.

Beck: Uh oh. What’s going on?

Drew: This team is like a reality TV show.

Was it? I didn’t notice that stuff. I write back.

Beck: I kind of flew under the radar when I was in LA.

Drew: Yeah, no shit. That’s your superpower.

Beck: And I highly recommend it.

Drew: Anyway, I’ll tell you more later. Team meeting!

I set my phone down, and return to the book for another round of narrow escapes and mind-boggling missions. In chapter fifteen, as Huxley commandeers a helicopter in Vienna, Carter texts. I jump on the possible lifeline.

Carter: Want to grab a bite to eat and check out my Tinder matches with me?

More than anything. I write back, stat.

Beck: You don’t waste a second.

Carter: I do not. I love dating.

Beck: Name the time and place, and I’ll be there.

Carter: There’s a hot pot I want to try. It’s near Japan Town, which is near you. Seven-thirty.

Dinner will put me closer to my goal of finishing this day without confessing to Jason what I want to do with him.

Beck: I’ll be there.

At seven-fifteen, I’m freshly showered and dressed in jeans and a black short-sleeve button-down. Since I like to walk, I head toward Japan Town on foot, using the time to catch up with my friend Rachel.

“Tell me, Beck. Are your DMs lit up with offers for sex and dates after last night?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “No, because I don’t have DMs.”

“Ah, that’s why you never got on social. So you wouldn’t get hit on,” she says.

“Yeah, I hate it when people find me attractive,” I deadpan as I turn the corner onto Webster Street.

“Speaking of,” she says, a leading tone to her words that borders on flirty.

But she’s not flirting with me. She’s flirting with information. Ever since we broke up nearly two years ago, staying good friends, she’s been asking me about my dating life. Rachel knew I was bi when we were together. She’s bi too.

“Speaking of what, Rach?” I love to toy with her.

“C’mon. You know what I want. Is there anyone in San Francisco? You hear all about my misadventures. I want to hear yours.”

“San Francisco is pretty cool so far. The cuisine is good, and my landlady is a sweetheart,” I tease.

I picture her stomping her foot. “That’s not what I mean. Have you met anyone you like as much as you liked me?”

Rachel does not lack in the confidence department. I suspect that’s why we stayed friends.

“Nope,” I say, but guilt wiggles through me over the lie.

I picture Jason and his deep blue eyes, his smile that’s both cocky and sweet, his confidence and his kindness.

Do I like him as much as her? While I don’t feel the same—Rachel and I were once in love—I am insanely attracted to Jason. Maybe more than I was to her. Maybe more than I’ve been to anyone. The pull toward him is unreal. It’s a storm whipping inside me, and I can’t break away from it.

I also can’t breathe a word of these forbidden fantasies to anyone. I didn’t tell her about my night with Jason last year. But I don’t like lying to Rachel, so I compromise. “There is this one guy, but I don’t think anything will come of it.”

“Why not?” She sounds devastated on my behalf.

“It’s distracting from football. We’ve won the first two games I played. I can’t deal with anything besides my job. This team is so good, it’s scary to lead it,” I say, and the weight of the responsibility presses down so hard on my shoulders I have to take a deep, calming breath.

“Are you doing okay with your anxiety?” she asks gently.

“Definitely. I do my meditation before every game. Before interviews too. I’m managing,” I say. It makes me feel good to give that truthful answer. Of all the things I’m proud of in my life, learning how to live with anxiety is one of them.

“Good, good,” she says, then I reach the Hot Pot Spot—talk about a rhyming name. “I should go. Bye, Rach.”

“Love you, Beck.”

“Ditto.”

Inside the restaurant, I find Carter, and we order. Quickly, the server sets up the broth on the burners on the table, and soon we cook vermicelli, potatoes, tofu, and fish.

After we power through the first course, Carter shows me his matches. “Swipe right or left?” He flashes me a pic of a brunette walking a chihuahua mix.

“That dog is cute. Swipe right, for sure,” I say, then take a bite of tofu.

Carter pulls a face.

“What?” I ask. “You don’t like my answer?”

“What I hear you saying is I didn’t look at her pic, I checked out the dog.”

I grin like an asshole. “Yup. Swipe right for the cute dog.”

He shakes his head in mock annoyance, then shows me the rest of his matches, but he’s half-hearted when he reaches the end. “I dunno. I might be old-fashioned, but I kind of want to have a date that’s just a date, not a hookup. And Tinder is such a hookup factory. Call me crazy, but I want more than sex.”

Mmm. I catapult back to this morning in the car.

Jason’s hand on mine felt like sex. His hand. Everything he does turns me on, and I don’t know what to do with this feeling that I’m vibrating every second of the day.

“But what about you, bro?” Carter asks. I return to the present as he fires more questions at me. “You want to get out there? I write awesome profiles if you decide to get on the apps. I can help you find Mister or Mrs. Right like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“Thanks. I’ll think about it for sure,” I say, but I won’t.

Dating is distracting. Friendship is not, though, so I focus on this moment, chatting about baseball for the rest of the meal.

Another hour logged. I’m almost done with this day.

When we leave Hot Pot Spot, Carter points his key fob at his Audi, parked outside the restaurant. “Need a ride home?”

I shake my head. “Nah, I like to walk.”

“Take a hat, then. In case someone spots you.”

“Really?” I haven’t been recognized yet. Except . . . by Portia. And by a Lyft driver the other day. Fine, he has a point. “Do you keep spare Renegades hats with you?”

“I’m not giving you a team cap. I have a stash of Seductive caps. My aftershave sponsor,” he says, then opens the trunk, grabs a purple ballcap, and wings it my way.

I catch it one-handed, then pop it on my head with a flip. Not to be shown up, Carter snags a hat, performs the same trick, then hops into his car and takes off.

I check the time. It’s nearly nine. I made it through a day when all I wanted was to confess my fantasies to Jason.

Maybe I need a trophy for resistance.

Except . . . I still want to tell him.

Is he out on a date? The idea horrifies me.

Is he home alone? The thought thrills me.

As I cover the first two blocks on Post Street, I fiddle with my phone, picturing Jason at his house. On his couch. Thinking about me too.

My chest absolutely aches.

“Fuck,” I mutter. I’m failing miserably at making it through the day.

I glance around at my surroundings, trying to get my bearings, to root myself in the present. I pass Hotel Kabuki. I reach Bush Street. I stop at the light. I hit the crosswalk sign.

But do I want to cross or turn around?

My heart beats faster. I can go home, shut the door, and lock myself in for the evening.

Instead, I walk on, click open my text messages, and write to Jason.

Beck: I didn’t get a car today.

It’s a conversation starter, that’s all, and the second I send it, I’m scared he won’t write back. But he responds in less than a minute.

Jason: Good to hear from you too, Mister Random Message. If you didn’t get a car, what did you do today after the photo shoot?

Tried to resist telling you everything.

Beck: Helped my landlady with her bird feeders.

Jason: Who’s the nice guy now?

Beck: I told you how I feel about nice.

Jason: Yes, in your usual roundabout way.

Beck: I can be direct.

Jason: Can you?

Beck: Do you want me to be?

Jason: Sure. Try me.

Fear climbs the stairs in my chest. The fear that he’ll reject me. I type out the question I most want to ask and hit send.

Beck: What are you doing now?

His response is instant. And it makes my bones hum.

Jason: Hanging out at my house with Taco. Doing a word game.

Beck: You do word games?

Jason: This surprises you?

Beck: I thought you’d be watching a show.

Jason: You spying on me?

Beck: NO!

Jason: Damn. I was looking out my window, thinking the broody guy walking by was you.

My breath catches. I stop in my tracks at a street corner, chest heaving with possibility. Thinking or hoping? is what I want to write. Instead, I reply with . . .

Beck: It’s not me.

Jason: Too bad . . .

Desire shoves my nerves to the back of the line. I walk, and I walk, and I walk. Ten minutes later, I turn onto his block, powered by adrenaline.

I finally reply.

Beck: Actually, it is me now.

Then I walk up his steps and knock on his door.

16

KINGS OF THE COUCH

Beck

Jason’s not dressed in blue tonight. A gray T-shirt hugs his chest, and basketball shorts sit on his trim waist. The ends of his hair are wet.

My heart squeezes hard as I drink him in. He stands in his doorway, barefoot, freshly showered.

I hunt for signs that I’m not a fool for showing up.

There’s curiosity in his blue eyes, but uncertainty too. He doesn’t glance down the front stairs, though, or furtively check the block left and right. He’s not freaked out I’m here. That has to be a good sign.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he replies. “So, you meant it when you said you’d surprise me at my house some night.”

My throat goes dry. I hope he’s not pissed. “I can go,” I say.

He jerks his gaze into the house, an invitation. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

Good. I’m not a stalker.

Well, not completely.

He steps inside, and when I follow him, the buzz in my body kicks up a few more notches.

I’ve gained entry, and I’m a little high from this small accomplishment.

Jason shuts the door with a snick. The noise thrills me more than a sound should. It’s the sound of the world outside winking off and my world narrowing to only us in his home.

“Nice hat,” he says, nodding at my purple cap.

I take it off and set it on a table in the entryway. “Carter gave it to me. He didn’t want me to be recognized.”

“Does he know you’re at my house?”

I cut that notion off with a quick No. Then I add, “We had dinner.” I can’t quite believe I’m here again, so I glance around, noting his couch, the TV, and the shelves. Everything is just like last time. I’ve wanted to return to his home since the first time I set foot in here. But Jason deserves an explanation for my late-night visit, and I’ve been all over the place with answers.

I lock eyes with him and try to give a coherent answer this time. “I had dinner with him just now, and afterward, I told him I was walking home. He said to wear this so I wouldn’t be recognized.”

“Ah, so Seductive hats are disguises. Got it.”

“But I didn’t go home,” I add, stating the obvious, taking another step closer to my confession.

“I can tell.” He points to the kitchen, then claps my shoulder. “Want a drink?”

My skin sizzles when he lets go.

“So much,” I say, then follow him into the kitchen, where he yanks open the fridge.

“Beer,” I say preemptively. “Or wine. Or vodka. Or gin. I don’t care.”

He turns to face me, lifting a brow. “You want to get wasted, Caff?”

“Wait. No, actually. I don’t want a drink.” I should be sober for this. Stone cold.

He shuts the fridge and turns around. His smile vanishes. “You okay?”

I count to four. Breathe in, breathe out. “Remember the night I was here last year?”

His expression shifts to surprise. Or maybe caught way off guard. “Yes. Of course.”

I can do this. I asked to kiss him that first time. Hell, I kissed him again in the stairwell. I walked over to his home at night. “You’re the first guy I ever messed around with,” I admit.

Wow, that’s a massive relief.

“Oh.” His tone is unsure, and here comes a whole new awkward explanation.

I speed up the info dump. “I’ve known I liked both guys and girls since college, but I had a girlfriend for a long time. When we broke up after college, I went out on a few dates with guys but never clicked with anyone. I never did anything more than kiss a guy,” I say, taking a breath to draw up more courage. But fuck it, I’m this far in. “Until you. And I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I want with you. I just want . . .”

I just want everything.

But I don’t have to finish the thought. With strong hands, Jason pushes me against the kitchen island. I’m so ready for another rough and hungry kiss.

He clasps my face firmly and drops his lips to mine.

Thank god.

Only this time, he’s not fast. He’s not rough. He kisses me soft, and slow, and tender, and I want to die because it’s so good.

I had no idea a kiss could make me feel like my bones were melting. This one might be even better than his hard and rough kisses. I go weak in the fucking knees as he explores my mouth with slow, hungry licks. “Mmm, your lips,” he murmurs against me.

How is this weightless feeling possible? I’m floating above the earth as he sweeps his tongue along the seam of my lips, opens me up, then deepens the kiss.

Sensations whip through me—lust and need and heat. They jostle each other in a mad frenzy.

I want to feel everything.

And a part of me is raring to charge past this kiss, grapple with his clothes, strip him naked, and devour him in seconds.

I want to get off. I want to get him off.

But I can’t sprint ahead. He won’t let me. Jason’s got me caged in, his hands holding my face as mine grip his hips. There’s an inch between us. Maybe.

He doesn’t let go of me, and the longer he goes on bestowing drugging kisses on my lips, the less I want to speed ahead into sex.

The more I want . . . whatever he’ll give me. Whatever he’ll show me.

Because he’s definitely showing me right now how to kiss the man you can’t stop thinking about.

It’s a masterclass, and he’s taking me through it lesson by lesson. He’s breaking me down with devastating kisses. A soft one on the corner of my lips. A firm press to my mouth. A flick of his tongue over mine. Then he travels along my jaw, kissing under it, his lips sliding along my stubble.

It’s unbelievable.

I moan—for days, it seems. Maybe I’ve been moaning the whole time. I’m intoxicated by him as he kisses under my chin, along my neck, up to my jawline. He licks the shell of my ear, and my entire body jumps.

“Ahhh,” I murmur.

I can feel him smile against me.

Then I can feel how much he wants me when he pushes his pelvis flush to me at last.

Yessss.

There’s no more space between us. There’s only his hard-on rubbing against mine.

He draws my earlobe into his mouth, bites down, then releases it with a long, low mmmm. I groan in an endless rumble. I don’t think I can stop making all these noises.

Jason pulls back and meets my gaze. Those blue eyes glimmer. “What are these things you’re thinking, Caff?”

I see the chance, and I grab it. “Can I get you naked and suck your cock?”

With dirty deeds in his eyes, Jason reaches back to take my right hand from his hip and then slides my palm to the outline of his cock.

“God,” I grunt as I feel the shape of him, the steel of him.

“This what you want?”

My mouth waters, and I nod savagely. “Yes.”

He hums, low and husky in his throat. He grips my hand tighter, so I can squeeze his dick harder.

I can’t wait anymore. I try to drop to my knees, but he stops me with a laugh and a hand on my waist.

“What?” I ask, worried I messed up already.

“Let me enjoy you,” he says. “Let me feel like a fucking king when you get down on your knees and suck me off.”

On that mic drop, Jason leaves the kitchen, walks through the wide doorway to the living room, then weaves around to his couch.

He doesn’t even look back at me. He just sinks onto the cushions. The blinds are down. No one can see us. But someone might be able to see the outline of my back or the silhouette of his head.

And I don’t care.

I follow him, and when I reach him, he lifts his face, gives me a cocky smile, then says, “You want me to tell you how I like a blow job?”

Fuck yes. “Thank you,” I blurt out.

He laughs. “For what?”

“For knowing I was going to ask you to . . . well, to show me,” I say, standing in front of him, drinking him in, unsure where to start, when a flurry of black and white fur skids into the room and then leaps onto the back of the couch.

“Meow!”

The cat struts along the furniture, and I crack up. Jason rolls his eyes, then turns his face to the critter. “Dude, you better watch it, or I’m gonna rename you CockBlocker.”

Taco sashays past Jason’s head, jumps to the cushions, and stalks over to me, reaching out a paw to touch my leg. “Um, your cat has a thing for me,” I say, bending to pet Taco’s head.

A loud purr emanates from the feline. Jason sighs, aggrieved. “You’re killing me, CockBlocker,” he says to the animal. Then, to me, “Aren’t you like a cat trainer? Can’t you train him to let me have my dick sucked in peace? There’s fresh catnip on the table if you need it.”

“Pretty sure I’ve got his number without the ’nip,” I say, then scoop up the cat, stroke his head a few times, and murmur sweet nothings as I carry him to the other side of the couch. Cradling the cat in one arm, I arrange a pillow as a bed and set him on it. “There you go, King CockBlocker.”

The cat curls up in a tight ball and closes his eyes.

Then I return to the man. “He just wants to be treated like royalty too.”

Jason’s done with cat talk, though. His blue eyes flicker with heat. “C’mere.”

Never has one mushed-together word made me so hot. So wanted.

Jason offers me a hand. I take it, and he tugs me down to his lap. I straddle him, waiting for a cue.

“First, I need to see what you’ve been hiding, Beck,” he rumbles.

My brow knits. I’m an open book right now. “What do you mean?” My voice wobbles.

He grabs at my button-down. “I saw some ink on you earlier.”

“Oh,” I say with a smile as he undoes the buttons on my shirt, then pushes it off.

“It got me hot,” he adds. Then he groans as he runs his fingers along the sunburst on my right shoulder, then over the griffin on my pec, then across a lotus flower gracing the top of my biceps. “Mmm,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t ask what they mean, and I’m grateful.

I don’t want to talk about the symbols on my body. I want to deal with the feelings inside my body.

“Take off my shirt now,” he instructs.

That’s another thing I’m grateful for. His instructions. “I’m very good at following orders,” I say as I tug at the hem of his T-shirt.

He sits up taller, giving me room to pull it off him. “I know you are, nine,” he says, using my number and making me smile in the middle of all this unbelievable heat.

I pull the shirt over his head, then toss it to the floor, and holy fuck. I catch my breath and stare shamelessly at his chest, his abs, his arms.

“You’re so . . .” But I’m having such a hard time saying the right words. Beautiful, sexy, hot.

He threads a hand through my hair. “So are you, Beck,” he says, answering my unspoken praise.

Jason makes me feel so good about my lack of experience in the bedroom. He makes it easy to say the next thing: “I want to know what turns you on.”

“Men who know what they want,” he answers confidently. “A man who shows up at my house on a Monday night and lays it on the line. That’s what turns me on.”

Now there are two of us who feel like kings. I catch a glimpse of the cat out of the corner of my eye. Make that three.

Still . . .

“But I want to know what you like. I really don’t want to fuck this up,” I confess as I roam my hands over his firm pecs and shoulders.

I need to touch him everywhere.

He grabs my wrist, stopping my crude journey across his body and looking me in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”

The answer flies from my tongue. “Completely.”

He leans closer and brings his lips to mine. “I’ve got you,” he says, then he takes my hand and presses it to his cock again, but he’s specific this time. He slides my fingers over the fabric of his shorts, outlining the head. There’s a wet spot.

“My dick is leaking, Beck,” he says, in a barren confession that makes my balls tighten. “Now, get down on the floor, and slowly, really slowly, like you’re fucking torturing me, take my clothes off.”

Grinning like I won a game, I slide off his legs and then down to the floor, staring up at the beautiful man in front of me. He lifts his hips, making it easy for me. “Just the shorts,” he rasps out.

I tug on the waistband and pull them down over his muscular thighs inch by inch, then to his ankles. He kicks them off.

I laugh when I see what he’s wearing. Blue boxer briefs. “Did you . . .?”

He lifts a brow playfully. “Did I what, Beck? Say it.”

I don’t want to be presumptuous, but he’s giving me a big clue. I press a hand to his erection, gripping him through the light blue fabric, squeezing.

“Ahhh,” he groans, his eyes floating closed for a few seconds.

That’s all the encouragement I need to finish the question: “Did you wear these for me?”

He opens his eyes and nods. “When you started texting me, I changed into blue briefs. What can I say? I was hopeful.”

I drop my face to his dick, mouthing at his cock through the fabric, rubbing my cheek against his erection, kissing him through the last layer of his clothes.

Fire erupts in me, an instant blaze, as I tease him with my mouth.

His fingers slide through my hair, tightening around the strands. He urges me on with his noises. Soon, he’s panting, then begging, “Fuck, Beck. Take them off.”

I reach for the waistband, then slide down the briefs. His dick springs free, slapping against his stomach, hard and proud.

He wants me; there’s no question. But I need more from him. “I want to suck you off exactly how you want it. I don’t want to do what I like. I want what you like, okay?”

He nods quickly and answers breathlessly. “Don’t touch my dick yet. Just tease me. My thighs. My chest. My balls.”

“Oh fuck,” I grunt as my dick twitches in my jeans. “I will.”

He’s sexier than my dreams, asking me to toy with him. I dip my face to his thighs, slide my hands up his strong legs, and rub my stubble against him as I touch all around his dick.

I cup his balls, weighing them in my hand and drawing a decadent moan from him.

Jason grabs my other hand and guides it upward, so my palm roams across his ridiculously hard abs before sliding over his chest.

“Yessss,” he groans, then lifts his hips, trying to get his dick even closer to me. “You’re driving me crazy.”

I’m driving him crazy?

He’s driving me crazy.

He’s teaching me how to drive him crazy.

I keep up the torture with my hands for another minute until Jason is writhing on the couch. “Fuuuuuck.” He slams a hand on my head and shoves my face against his dick. “Get your mouth on me now.”

I lick a long stripe up his shaft, tasting a man for the first time.

My brain scrambles.

I can’t process how good this is. My mind is a complete haze of sex and mystery, but through it all, I manage one question: “Is this okay?”

He pushes his length toward my mouth. “Yes. Now lick the head of my dick, Beck.”

It’s barely a command. It’s more like a plea. I’ve hardly touched him, and he’s helpless.

His excitement is the biggest aphrodisiac in the world.

I wrap my hand around the base, then I draw the blunt head of his dick into my mouth . . . and wow.

Yes.

He’s everything I’ve imagined and more.

His hands jump to my head, and I tense. For a second, I expect him to go full porn star and jackhammer my mouth. “Jason,” I whisper as he threads his fingers more tightly through my hair.

His eyes float open. He looks drunk. “Yes?”

“I don’t know if I can . . . you know . . . take you deep,” I say as I swirl my tongue along the crown.

“Don’t have to. I’m gonna come really soon. Just suck me and use your hand. I swear that’s all you have to do,” he says, sounding as if he’s drowning in breath and words.

I’m drowning, too, in lust and discovery.

I’m learning so many new things. Top among them is that Jason loves a good, long tease.

I give his shaft a pump with my fist while bringing him deeper into my mouth.

“Fuck, yes,” he mutters, his eyes slamming shut. Then he opens them like he’s fighting with himself. “Want to watch you suck a dick for the first time.”

I nearly come right there.

Don’t know if it’s his dirty talk, his filthy gaze, or the taste of his lust. But every single thing is working for me.

“Wow,” he murmurs as I go.

Wow, I think, as I watch his face twist with pleasure.

It’s heady to witness his slack-jawed lust. “I’m close. Want me to pull out?”

I shake my head, but then I realize that if he likes to talk during sex, maybe he likes to listen too. For a hot second, I let him fall from my lips so I can tell him in a whispered breath: “Want to taste your come.”

Jason shudders, then pushes my shoulder down, urging me back onto his dick. I draw him deep until he’s panting, gasping. His hand slides between my shoulder blades. He gives one firm pump, then grunts out a coming.

I do my best to relax my throat, tasting his release.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, and for long, blissful seconds, he basks in the afterglow, panting and breathing hard.

Then he laughs softly, opens his eyes, and reaches for me. “Get up here.”

I climb into his lap again, waiting for what’s next. He runs his thumb over my lower lip like he’s admiring the handiwork of my mouth. Finally, he speaks in a soft, tender voice. “What did you think?”

His question comes out with so much vulnerability it floors me.

What did I think? “What did you think?” I counter.

He chuckles. “I believe you swallowed what I think,” he says, and I laugh.

But then I stop laughing. I truly want to know. “Was I . . . okay?”

Jason sighs in disbelief. “Kiss me,” he demands.

I drop my lips to his and kiss him softly.

“Mmm. You taste so good with me on your lips,” Jason whispers.

I tremble from head to toe. But still, I want an answer.

Jason senses my need because he pulls back and meets my gaze. “You weren’t okay, Beck. You were tremendous. I would love to coach you through sex. It’s so fucking fun,” he says, sounding enthused and dreamy.

I want that so badly.

But this is probably just one night. We’re getting it out of our systems. I’m sure of it.

I’m sure, too, that—

My breath hitches. Oh hell. His hands are on my jeans, popping open the top button. Then he reaches for my hips and lifts me off him. “Want to spread you out on my bed and lick these tats. Then I’m going to give you the best head of your life.”

I go upstairs so fast.

17

THE BEST LAID PLANS

Jason

I don’t think about what a bad idea this is. At this moment, getting my rival off is the only idea. The guy is sprinting up my stairs, but I take my time since I’m swinging in the breeze.

“Last door on the left,” I call out, and he turns into the main bedroom.

“Damn.” He whistles.

I smile, picturing him admiring my bed. “It’s an Alaskan King,” I say as I turn into my bedroom and see him, as expected, standing a foot from my supersize mattress.

“You like space,” he says as I come up behind him. I steal the chance to clasp his shoulders and press a kiss to the back of his neck. He shudders.

“I like big beds, and I like sleep, and I like a lot of room for fucking. And right now, I want you naked on my bed.” I grab a loop of his jeans and spin him around, so he’s facing me.

His brown eyes are hazy and soft, but his dick is nice and hard, tenting his jeans.

Like a beacon for my hand.

I kiss his cheek as I slowly fiddle with the zipper. His neck, as I carefully slide it down. His jaw, as I work the jeans over his hips.

Then he pushes them off the rest of the way, the eager fucker.

Once he kicks them off and his socks too, I push his chest so he falls on the bed. “Was that a quarterback sack?” he asks.

I dig this playful side of him. I always have. I like this side of him even more when we’re naked. He doesn’t trust easily. But I like that he trusts me.

“Yes, and I’m about to give your dick some deep coverage,” I say as I crawl onto the bed, stopping at his thighs so I can slide off his boxer briefs.

I groan as his dick pops free, saluting me.

I climb over him, bracing myself on my palms by his chest. “How do you like blow jobs, Beck?”

“However you want to give me one,” he says, breath shuddering.

“Nope. Tell me what you like. I told you,” I say.

He closes his eyes like he’s embarrassed, then he opens them and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

I blink. “You don’t?”

“I mean, I’ve had blow jobs. They’ve been good. But I’ve only been with one person.”

“Ohhh,” I say, connecting the dots. All his experiences are limited. But it’s a privilege to be the man to introduce him to how good a blow job can be. I’m so damn lucky he came to me tonight, and I want him to feel incredible for trusting me with his firsts. “You want me to take the lead, Beck, and you can just tell me what feels good and what doesn’t?”

“Yes, please,” he says with obvious relief.

Easy enough. I love giving head, so this should be a fiesta. But first, I want to lavish attention on his body. Lick him all over. I dip my face to his chest, kiss the illustrations on his pecs, then flick my tongue over a nipple.

In seconds, he’s trembling and panting. Lifting his hips eagerly.

Hmm. Maybe I should take pity on his dick sooner rather than later. “How about I suck you deep right—”

“Yes, please. I’m so fucking turned on.” His hands fly to my head, shoving me down between his thighs.

I’m going to give him the blow job of his life. I cup his balls, then lick my way up the shaft, and the second my tongue touches him, he trembles everywhere.

This is going to be fun. I inhale the salty, musky scent of him, then groan as I draw him into my mouth. His hands curl through my hair, and he’s panting, thrusting. Moaning.

A few seconds later, he stills, shudders, and then I’m tasting his release.

Well, then.

That didn’t take long at all.

With a smile, I swallow his orgasm, then pop off. I flop to my back, laughing. “I’d say I’m the king of blow jobs, but I think a stiff breeze would have gotten you off, Beck.”

He grabs a pillow and hurls it at me. It hits my noggin with a soft thud, and I crack up. Grabbing it, I scoot up the bed and flop onto the pillow, parking my hands behind my head.

The mattress dips, and I see Taco has joined us and is curling up next to Beck.

Then?

The little asshole purrs and rubs his face against Beck’s chest. “Are you kidding me, CockBlocker?”

Beck smiles. “I told you cats like me.”

“No shit,” I say, then I stare at the ceiling, wondering what’s next. My brain’s hazy, though, and I’m still a little woozy, a lot spent.

I’m not sure how long we’ll stay here, naked in my bed, post-sex. “I mean, maybe you were right about his name,” I grumble, just because I want to talk.

“Finally, he admits it,” Beck says as he strokes my cat. The creature rumbles like there’s an earthquake moving through his little body.

“Seriously? Do you have catnip planted in your armpit?”

“I don’t know. Do I?” he taunts, clearly enjoying my cat’s preferences.

“Maybe you do,” I say, then I reach out a hand and attempt to get a pet in. I bump Beck’s hand, though, and our gazes snag, a little awkward, as if we’re both wondering are we holding hands now?

I pull mine back and fold both on my stomach. Is he going to want to take off now that he got off? I frown, hating that possibility.

Oh, shit. I want him to stay.

No clue if he wants to, though, so I don’t ask.

Beck breaks the silence, patting my bed. “So, you really like a big bed?”

Ah, that’s an easy diversion. “Once you go Alaskan King, you can’t go back.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he says.

Ah, so he’s not angling for an invite to stay over. Why do I even want him to spend the night?

Because you like him, dumbass.

But I’ll get over it. I always do. I start to swing my legs out of bed so I can get dressed, but then a sliver of guilt lodges in my chest. This was his first time with a man. I should make sure he’s all good.

I settle back on top of the sheets. Then I clear my throat, unsure what to say. Finally, I pull a Beck, blurting, “What did you think?”

He smirks. “You mean—did I like it?”

Color heats my cheeks. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m asking.”

His expression turns thoughtful as he looks at me. “I did. A lot, Jason. Like, an insane amount.”

Ah hell.

My heart goes a little wild. And so does my stomach, rumbling.

Beck laughs. “Are you hungry?”

“Maybe? I sort of nibbled earlier.”

“You nibbled? You’re a football player! How do you nibble on dinner?”

“I figured I’d make something. Or order something,” I counter. “But you came over.”

“So I ruined your dinner plans by blowing you?”

“Evidently,” I tease.

He pushes up higher in bed. “You have that beautiful kitchen, and you were going to DoorDash.”

“How do you know I was going to DoorDash?” I’m a little offended he can read me so easily.

“I can tell. You’re a DoorDasher.”

“Fine, I was going to get delivery,” I admit. “But I use Ding and Dine. It’s woman-owned and has good bennies for its employees.”

“Like I said, you’re a nice guy. But, do you want something homemade instead?” he asks, sitting up in bed.

I roll to my side and prop my head in my hand. “You’re going to cook for me?”

“If you want me to, I will,” he says, and the tentative offer is so sweet, so endearing.

But the if stands out to me. Beck’s telling me he wants to stay. He needs to know he’s welcome here, though. It’s my house. I’m the older one. I’m the more experienced one. I need to reassure him.

I also need to make it crystal clear. I sit up and run my knuckles down his jaw. “I do want you to stay awhile.”

He dips his face to hide his smile.

18

BLUSTER IN THE BEDROOM

Jason

Beck’s barefoot and in jeans in my kitchen, sautéing peppers and onions at my stove. Who knew I had taco ingredients? But Beck found a can of black beans in the pantry and some salsa and veggies in the fridge. Then I Instacarted cilantro and taco shells for rush delivery, and voila—there’s a hot guy in my kitchen making me a late dinner.

Is this winning or what?

I lift my beer and take a drink, enjoying the view from the stool at my counter. I’ve got on gym shorts. They’re blue, in honor of Beck.

“So, how are you such an awesome cook?” I ask to his back. “Wait. Are you just one of those one-dish cooks? Admit it, Caff. You suggested tacos because it’s the only thing you can make,” I tease.

He turns his gaze to me in slow-motion, delivering the dirtiest how dare you look as he stirs the sizzling veggies in the pan with a red plastic spatula. “If you want, I’ll make a bet to prove I can cook any dish.”

“Will it take you a year and three weeks to make good on it?” I counter as he returns his focus to the stove.

A chuckle moves through him, then he flips me the bird with his free hand.

“You weren’t so sassy when you were coming in my mouth in ten seconds,” I point out.

He goes quiet as he adjusts the heat.

Shit. Did I touch a sore spot? Is he always fast on the draw? Ah, fuck. I don’t want to make him feel bad if he’s a sprinter in bed. “Look, I get it. I’m kind of a rock star with my tongue, so I understand,” I say, laying on the cocky charm.

He looks back at me again. This time, his eyes flare with competitive fire. “How about a rematch?”

I wasn’t expecting that at all, but I recover quickly. “Does this mean you want to jump back on my dick, or are you wanting more of my magic mouth?”

Even though he’s turned his back to me again, I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Both.” Then he adds, for emphasis, “Definitely both.”

Mmm. I like that answer a lot. Someone digs me too. I grin like a fool but wipe it off my face as soon as he turns to set the plated dishes on the kitchen island in front of me.

“I do feel like a king now,” I say, admiring the spread. “Since I love tacos.”

“I figured you did.” Beck gestures with his red spatula to the hallway, where CockBlocker sits, swishing his tail back and forth, staring at the chef. “That’s why I suggested them.”

“Brains and brawn,” I say, assembling my late-night meal. “But the cat’s new name is officially CockBlocker. I’m going to get him a new tag too.”

“And will you use that name in mixed company?”

I laugh as I sprinkle cilantro on my food. “I just might,” I say, but then pause. “Maybe not with my dad. He’s super chill, but I like to pretend sex doesn’t exist around him. Not because I’m gay but because he’s my dad.”

Beck laughs. “Totally understandable,” he says as he dresses his taco with salsa, then sits across from me and bites into it. I take a bite of mine too and moan my approval. When he finishes chewing, he smiles ruefully and points to the second floor. “I’m sorry I was kind of . . . overeager earlier.”

My heart squeezes for him. “Don’t be sorry. It was kind of a cool compliment,” I say. No swagger now, just honesty.

“I mean, I was pretty worked up, Jason. I don’t think I’ve ever been that turned on,” he continues, recapping our sex matter-of-factly.

I’m not used to this kind of bluntness from a man. Most guys I’ve dated are full of bluster in the bedroom, wanting to prove something. I’m probably that way too. I rarely let down my guard. I’ve also rarely seen a dude take off a mask.

Until now.

I do the same with my late-night visitor, meeting Beck on his level. “I was pretty aroused too. You worked me over real good.” A hot spark slides down my spine as I relive the electric thrill of Beck kneeling between my thighs and teasing the fuck out of me like I asked him to.

Beck can’t hide his smile. “Are you thinking of the couch right now?” he asks, then takes another bite.

“That obvious?”

“No. I was just hoping you were.” He sets down his food and reaches for his beer bottle. When he takes a swig, it’s like he’s drinking courage. “And I meant it when I said ‘rematch.’”

I smile, psyched that he wants to stay longer. “Yeah?”

“Is that okay with you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You didn’t say anything when I mentioned it before.”

Oh, shit. That was my bad. I stretch an arm across the table, run my thumb over his top lip, then murmur, “Have I told you I’m obsessed with your lips?”

“No, but feel free to say it over and over,” he says, his voice a little dreamy.

“I want to fuck them again.” Maybe it sounds like I’m breaking out the moves, but nothing is a line right now. I am all truth as I say, “Tonight.”

He nips on my thumb. “Good,” he whispers, a little shuddery.

I settle back onto the stool and return to the feast. If I play with his lips, I’ll have a boner for the rest of the meal.

Beck clears his throat. “And now it’s my turn to answer your question. My brother taught me to cook.”

He’s proud of his kitchen skills, but it seems bittersweet. I hope I didn’t hit a sore spot. “Does it bother you that I asked?”

He shakes his head. “I like talking about him. I mean, mostly. But yeah, Griffin taught me to cook when I was in high school. It was kind of our thing. We cooked together most nights. He always wanted to make sure I was eating healthy for practice.”

That sounds like someone I know. “Nolan’s kind of the same way. My brother,” I add.

“He’s older too?” Beck asks.

“Five years. He was a chef for a while and even went to cooking school. Now he’s the host of a food review show with his girlfriend. How to Eat a Banana,” I say.

Beck’s brown eyes spark with excitement. “I’ve seen that show. I watched some of their Los Angeles episodes.”

“No shit?”

“I love food review shows. And cooking videos too. That’s how Griffin taught me to cook. YouTube. A few years ago, we even watched some of your brother’s shows together.” He glances away from me as if looking into a memory and sighs.

“You miss him,” I say softly.

“I do,” he says.

“I wish there was something I could say.”

Beck gives a sad smile. “There’s not, but just saying that means a lot.”

I want to comfort him—squeeze his shoulder or reach for his hand—but I don’t do either. Both moves feel so boyfriend-y.

“I’m glad you and Nolan are close,” Beck adds with a touch of longing.

“We are. I saw him in New York the other week,” I say, but I stop there. I don’t want to linger on what I have that he doesn’t. I do want to know him a little better, though. He’s such a mystery in some ways, and I’m a curious fucker. After finishing a taco, I say, “Are your parents not around?” Then, I realize that’s too private. Beck came here for sex, not a deep conversation. I hold up my hands and backpedal. “I’m getting too personal. Let’s talk about something else.”

“I don’t mind. They are, but they moved to Australia when I turned sixteen.”

“You’re not Australian. At least you don’t have an accent,” I say like I’m a detective or something.

“I know. My mom had this big job opportunity with an architecture firm. It was something she’d wanted her whole life. When she got the job, I’d just become the starting quarterback at a great high school football program. Griffin was four years older. My mom wanted to take the job, I wanted to stay, and we all agreed on it. Honestly, I was happiest when it was just Griffin and me.”

“Just you and your brother for the last two years of high school?” I try to picture what that would be like. I can’t imagine being without either my dad or Nolan.

Beck’s eyes get a little misty. “Yeah. It was great. He was my guardian, I suppose. We hung out together, played video games and board games, watched YouTube cooking videos, fishing videos, and camping videos. Then did all those things. He taught me . . . everything. Football, how to shave, how to ask out a girl . . .”

I smile at the last one. “Did he ever know you liked dudes too?”

He nods proudly. “Once I figured it out, he was the first person I told.”

I hold up a hand to high-five. “My brother was the first person I told. I was fourteen.”

Beck’s eyes pop. “You knew when you were fourteen?”

“Yup. Hell, I probably knew on some level when I was even younger. I think I just always knew, in a way. I never didn’t know, if that makes sense.”

He sighs. “I kinda wish I knew what that was like.”

“Why? There’s no medal for figuring it out early.”

“I feel like a late bloomer,” he says, with a them’s the breaks shrug.

“One, you’re not. And two, people figure things out at any age,” I say as I polish off the taco.

“No wonder you’re so confident, though,” he says, waggling his beer, then taking a drink. He mumbles around the bottle, “You’ve got all these years of knowing yourself.”

When he looks up again, I make sure to meet his eyes. “Trust me, I still get nervous.”

Beck arches a doubtful brow. “Like when?”

I hardly ever pull back the curtain like this. But this man has earned it with his honesty and his fearlessness. I stand, clear my plate, and set it in the sink. Then I move behind him and run my hands through his hair. He leans his head back into my fingers with a soft hum as I say, “Like when this sexy guy shows up at my door and tells me he wants me to show him how good it feels to be touched by a man.”

He laughs, a little incredulous. “I made you nervous?”

“I want to make it good for you,” I admit. “So yeah.”

“You did,” he says, then turns around, grabs his plate, and puts it in the sink in seconds flat.

I laugh at his speed. “I take it you’re ready for that rematch?”

“I’m a fast learner, Jason. And I have an excellent recovery time.”

A few minutes later, I have everything I want. Beck, naked, in my bed. I explore his body, lick his ink, play with his dick. Use my hands, my mouth, my tongue. I drive him crazy, and he stays with me the whole time, strung out, high on my touch, savoring every second.

When he finally, at last, comes in my mouth, he shouts in pleasure. Then, once he’s finished, in victory. “I fucking lasted!”

I crack up. But when I slide next to him, and he wraps a fist around my cock, I stop laughing. He asks in that no-bullshit voice, “Can you show me how you like a hand job?”

“You know the answer,” I say, but I show him anyway, and soon I’m coming too.

Once I’ve recovered and cleaned up in the bathroom, I return to find Beck perched on the edge of the mattress.

Portrait of a young man who thinks his hookup will kick him out.

I should let him go. It’ll be easier for us if tonight doesn’t spiral into a sleepover.

But I want what I want—his warm body against mine for a little longer.

I flip off the light, cross to the bed, and squeeze his shoulder, giving a subtle nudge toward the mattress. “C’mon. You know you want to try my Alaskan King.”

He smiles in the dark. “Okay.”

The simplicity of his answer makes me happier than it should. But I’m keenly aware that this heady feeling is short-lived. We shouldn’t be messing around on the reg.

Or again.

Still naked, just the way I like it, Beck slides under the covers with me.

I think about tomorrow, and the next day and the next. We’ll still be rivals. Our teams are enemies. The fans want wins.

They don’t want their two quarterbacks fucking.

Reality will be a bitch in the morning. But I have to deal with it tonight and make a plan to get him out before dawn.

This won’t be uncomfortable at all.

“You should set an alarm. An early one,” I begin, feeling like a jackass for saying this.

Beck nods, resolute but with some regret that tells me he wanted to stay longer. Hell, I wanted him to stay as well, and I’m dying to say so. But I’ve got to make sure we’re on the same page about secrecy first.

“Or I can set one for you,” I add, focusing on brass tacks.

“I can do it.” He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, where he left it when we started round two. After he sets the alarm, he puts down the phone. “I’ll leave at five. Is that okay?”

He sounds younger than his twenty-four years. I doubt he imagined his first time with a guy would feel this awkward after.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I say uncomfortably. We just had two rounds of hot sex, and now I feel like we’re dirty little liars.

But I don’t know how to change the mood.

I can’t ask him to come over this weekend and watch the rest of Unfinished Business and tell him I’ll make the kick-ass charcuterie board I never served him a year ago.

Sure, we can be friends. I’m friends with plenty of guys on the Renegades, after all. Trouble is, I don’t have friendly feelings for Beck at all, so the let’s-be-friends play would be harder than any trick play in football.

My gut twists tighter as I try to close the loop on the exit plan.

“If you go through the back door, my yard opens into an alley.” I laugh humorlessly. “Not like a dark alley or some dangerous stuff like that.”

“I know what you mean.” Beck nudges me with his elbow. “A fancy person’s alley.”

This time, I laugh for real. “Yeah. I live in one of those ’hoods.” It’s true—the back alleys exist for garbage, so the homes can maintain all their curb appeal upfront.

“Alley works for me,” Beck says, like he’s not letting this request bother him.

But I sure hope he doesn’t think I’m ashamed of him. “Look, I’m sorry. One of my neighbors is Zena Palladium.”

“The billionaire philanthropist?”

“Yep.”

“You do live in a rich person’s ’hood,” he says with a whistle.

“But her place is way bigger than mine, I assure you.”

He coughs out a “humblebrag.”

“Shut up,” I tease, but I’m relieved the tension is starting to seep away. “Anyway, she hooked me up with my cat sitter, and ever since, she’s been bugging me to do a deal with her dating app.”

“You’d have to get on the apps then?” he asks, voice strained.

“I’m presuming that’d be part of the deal.”

“Are you going to? Get on the apps?” He sounds irked at the idea that I might date and maybe, too, that he just showed his hand.

But I don’t mind him asking. This tension is way easier to navigate than the slip-you-out-under-the-cloak-of-night convo. “Neither. No interest in the apps. Or dating,” I say, easily speaking a simple truth. Beck fights off a smile, then he seems lost in thought again, so I keep going. “But I need to tell my agent to turn her down. And if Zena sees you leaving, she might hit you up for a deal,” I add, trying now to make light of my run off in the dark request.

But why? Why the fuck am I still trying to make our morning plans seem like no biggie?

“Jason,” he says, sighing but giving a soft smile. “If anyone gets it, it’s me. Trust me. I know the score. I might not be experienced, but I’m smart.”

“I know,” I say, wanting to fast forward to sleep. But at least he’s on the same page as I am. He understands this can’t be a thing, and we have to protect each other. “I’ll wake up with you. I’ll show you the alley.”

“I think I can figure it out,” Beck deadpans.

I sigh, annoyed that I keep misstepping. “Fuck,” I curse, dragging a hand through my hair.

Beck pushes up onto his elbows. “It’s easier if I go now,” he says, then sits lightning-fast.

No way.

I don’t want an unexpectedly amazing night to end like this—with a slice of shameful cake for dessert. I grab his wrist. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t you think it’s just safer? It’s midnight. It’s easier to leave while it’s dark.”

My pulse spikes. The intensity of my desire for him to stay shocks and motivates me. “Yes, it’s easier,” I say as I slide my hand up his forearm. “But if you didn’t play football, you’d stay, right?”

I wait desperately, hoping his answer will match mine. Thank fuck he doesn’t take long to give a confident “yes.”

I cup the back of his neck. “If you were some other guy who came over, made me dinner, and then made me come really fucking hard—twice—I’d want you to stay.”

Finally—fucking finally—the rest of the tension in me vanishes. That’s what I wanted—to tell him the truth.

“Yeah? You would?” He sounds . . . awestruck.

I jerk his arm, tugging him back down onto the bed with me. “Yes, asshole.”

“Okay, I’ll stay . . . cocksucker,” he deadpans.

We laugh, and when our laughter fades, I get under the covers all the way and in bed for the night with my rival.

I press a kiss to the back of his neck, then inhale his skin. God, he smells good. Just the faint hints of his aftershave remain, but the ends of the scent still stir my body. “But . . . if you hate cuddling, you actually should go,” I say playfully, warning him.

He’s quiet for several long seconds. Such a Beck move. “This may shock you, but I don’t actually know how I feel about a guy cuddling me.” He’s Mister Matter-of-Fact again and thoroughly hard to read.

But he’s opened himself up to me tonight. It’s my turn to take the lead. “Do you want to know if you like it? Because I’d really like to show you.”

“Yes. I want you to show me,” he murmurs, giving me the RSVP I want.

“Good.”

I’m as determined to give him the cuddle of a lifetime as I was to blow his mind—and dick. I wrap an arm around his chest, sighing as the warmth from his back radiates into my skin.

He scoots closer, giving me the start of his answer to the cuddling question.

“This is nice,” I mumble as I drift off.

I savor the next five hours with him curled up next to me.

When Beck’s alarm blares, it jars me awake. But Beck doesn’t rustle. He’s still snoozing as the noise rattles my eardrums.

Jesus. It’s like a car alarm. I sit up and drag a hand through my hair. Beck stirs but barely moves.

I don’t think he’ll sleep through that forever, but I want to turn off that infernal sound. When I set a hand on his warm shoulder, he murmurs, then opens his eyes slowly.

He blinks, then looks my way, all soft and sleepy. My heart clutches.

“Hey,” I say gently.

I just learned he doesn’t wake up quickly—and I like knowing this detail about him far too much.

He swallows, then mumbles, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says, embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” I say, trying not to smile as he reaches sluggishly for his phone, then shuts off the annoying sound.

He has no clue he takes so long to wake up, which is sweet.

But now that he’s up, he swings his legs out of bed quickly, hits the boy’s room, and is ready in under a minute. I pull on boxer briefs, then I walk him downstairs. He grabs his purple hat from the foyer, and we head to the back door. I peer through the window. Darkness shrouds the yard. The sun won’t come up for nearly two more hours. I push open the door and meet his gaze.

There’s resignation in his eyes. Pretty sure it matches mine.

“Thanks for last night,” he says.

“Same to you,” I say.

I’ve never had a goodbye like this, and it sucks. Do I aim for something important like thanks for trusting me with some of your firsts? Or something crystal clear like we can’t keep doing this?

But Beck seizes the moment. “I do know we can’t keep doing this,” he says heavily, reading my mind.

It shouldn’t surprise me that he drew the line. He’s always been bolder than I give him credit for. He’s always making first moves.

But I can make this move. I grab his chin and press a kiss to his lips. A firm, poignant kiss that says I’d do this again if I could.

I let go.

“Bye, Jason,” he whispers.

“See you, Beck.”

He heads down the steps, making his way in silhouette through my yard and toward the gate. He doesn’t look back as he goes. He’s just a guy in a hat, leaving a hookup’s home before the sun shines on what they did last night.

19

THE GUY WITH THE NEW NAME

Jason

On Wednesday afternoon, Whitney commandeers me the second I walk into the LGBTQ Alliance.

The tall, Black teen grabs my arm. “Jason!” Her face is the picture of good news.

“What’s up, Whit? Wait . . . did you finally pull the trigger and ask . . . don’t tell me . . . the cute math geek to homecoming?”

She bounces. “I did and she said yes!”

I grin and hold up both hands to high-five. She smacks back, bouncing with excitement. “I swear, if you’d told me a year ago, or even a few months ago, that I could do this, I’d have said it would never happen.”

Moments like this are almost as good as a touchdown. “And look at you. You did it.”

“Because of coming here,” she says, pointing to the floor of the Alliance. “This place. You. This gave me the guts.”

But she chose to come here. She chose to seek community. “Nah, you had the guts all along. This is on you,” I say with a smile.

“Did you go to prom or homecoming with a guy?”

I shake my head. “The guys at my high school were not my type. They were boring. Also, there were maybe two other queer dudes,” I say, still lamenting the slim high school pickings nearly a decade later.

“What’s your type?”

I immediately picture Beck. “Smart. I love a brainy guy,” I say. “Someone who has a big heart. Who’s not all wrapped up in himself. And someone who understands what football means to me. My last boyfriend did not,” I say. “But that’s why Wyatt is history.”

She growls at my ex on my behalf. “Football is your passion. You need someone who understands what it is to have a passion.”

“Exactly.”

“Is there anyone you’re into now?” she asks without agenda—in the way you ask when you’re in like, and you want everyone else to be in like.

But the guy I like is off-limits. Instead of telling her the truth, I do something I detest. “Nope,” I lie, then gesture to the hallway. “Want to play shuffleboard?”

“I do,” she says, and she’s floating the rest of the afternoon as we face off in the game room.

I’m happy for her. At least that’s not a lie.

That evening, I’m on my way to the gym to meet Nate and some of the other guys for a light workout when I catch sight of a familiar figure coming my way on Fillmore—the strong shoulders and broad chest of the man who spent the night in my bed earlier this week.

Pleasure curls traitorously in my stomach at the sight of Beck. He hasn’t noticed me yet—he’s bent over his phone, tapping away at it.

He’s smiling too, perhaps amused by the conversation. Is he texting with someone? Maybe a hookup who will give him the rest of the experiences he wants?

Desire twists into envy.

What the fuck? How did I go from zero to sixty?

Oh, right. Fucking emotions.

I pull the brakes on the jealous train. But I do pace myself, so I arrive at the same time. I’m not above stealing a little moment with Beck if I can get it.

When we reach the door at the same time, he looks up from his phone, eyes wide as he nearly collides with a cardboard cutout of a super-fit gym rat.

I want to smile, but I school myself, caution winning over as I whisper a careful hi. For a few hot seconds, his eyes roam over my frame before he adopts a cool expression.

“Hey, McKay.”

“Hey, Cafferty.” I follow suit with the last name. We’re about to see our teammates, so I better get into character. “How’s it going?”

“Great. Everything’s great.”

“Good. Good,” I say when what I want to say is come over again and let me show you all the other things I can do with my tongue.

“Did you see the pictures?”

“The photo shoot ones?

“They just sent them.”

“No. How do they look?”

“I just got them. You’re copied.” Then he drops his voice, going a little flirty. “They look good.”

I frown, worried. “Good as in . . .?”

Shaking his head, he fights off a smile. “Good as in . . . no one can tell . . .”

He’s inviting me to finish, and I jump on that opportunity so fast. “. . . that we spent the night together?”

“Yeah. That,” he says, a little breathy.

I should not talk to him like this, but I’m getting a thrill out of how we tease at our secret. I just hope no one can tell I’m into this guy.

Someone booms from behind me: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I straighten, recognizing Xavier’s voice. Is my teammate going to lay into me for talking to Beck?

I slap on my game-day armor, then spin around to face the X-Man, who stares back, his phone in his hand like he can’t believe the evidence either.

“This is bullshit,” Xavier shouts, enraged. The fearsome player holds his arms wide, staring at me, then Beck. “I can’t fucking believe my eyes.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I scramble for a plausible cover-up by focusing on the facts. No one has ever seen us touch. No one saw the stairwell kiss. No one saw him leave my house.

I’m unsure of how to even begin my defense, but I give it my best shot. “We—”

“I lost my streak.”

I swallow my denial in one gulp. “What streak?”

Xavier fake sobs. “My Wordle streak. Dammit. I had a sixty-eight-day streak,” he says, then walks to the glass wall of the gym and bangs his head against the window. “I wanted sixty-nine,” he says forlornly.

I breathe a city-wide sigh of relief that turns into a laugh. When I steal a glance at Beck, he’s laughing too.

“Tacit, dude. Tacit,” Beck says.

Xavier glares at the other quarterback, red clouds of rage billowing from his eyes. “I know that now. Thank you very much.”

Beck shrugs. “My streak is ten months.”

Xavier growls. “You think that makes me like you?”

Beck smiles wider, shaking his head. “No, but the Renegades intend to leave you in the dust come February, so I figure there’s already no love lost.”

Xavier rolls his eyes, unintimidated, but Beck saunters into the gym like a badass motherfucker.

A few minutes later, I’m in the gym too, ready to pump iron. I fill my water bottle and head to the weights to join Nate. Along the way, I open my texts and send a quick one to Beck.

Jason: Damn, that was hot.

Beck: My Wordle streak or my mic drop?

Jason: Both, you cocky mofo. You’re on fire today.

Beck: It’s the residual effect of those multiples from Monday night. By the way, what did you think of the pics?

I should check them out and give my approval too. Weaving past the Nautilus machines, I click over to my email and open them. Damn, number nine is so deliciously broody. So inscrutable on the surface. But I feel like I know some of the secrets behind those dark eyes. The pics are perfect for the press shots.

When I look up from the screen, Nate’s stretching his hammies next to a weight bench. “Let me guess. Someone sent you a cat video?”

“Yes, Nate. I’m smiling at a cat falling off a windowsill meme,” I say. Then as I assess the field here at the gym, I call an audible. The gang’s all here—Nate, Xavier, Orlando, and Devon from the Hawks with Beck, Carter, Hayden, and Isaiah from the Renegades. The best way to act like you have nothing to hide is . . . to have nothing to hide. I shove the pic on my phone at Nate. “It’s the press shot for Monday Morning Quarterback. Reese is asking for my approval.”

“Ooh, hold on! I need to give my approval too.” Carter racks the dumbbells he was lifting and joins us, pulling Beck over, so he’s right next to me. “I want to make sure my QB looks better,” Carter adds.

“Won’t happen,” Nate says.

“Number Fourteen is tougher too,” adds Xavier, who’s swaggered over to join the crowd checking out the publicity shots on my phone, but Beck and I are front and center. I’m shoulder to shoulder with my rival again, catching those final notes of his aftershave, his scruffy jaw too damn close, making me a little dizzy.

Nate points to one of the three options Reese sent. “What if we Photoshop in a cartoon bubble around Beck’s mouth that says . . . Hawks rule?”

“Just try it,” Beck says with a snort, but before getting another word in, Carter clears his throat and shows off his Super Bowl ring from earlier this year. Hayden goes next, then Isaiah.

Carter points at Nate, Orlando, and me. “How many of you have one of these babies?”

The answer is none of us.

But Xavier snickers. “Two, motherfucker. I got two rings.” He grabs my shoulders and squeezes me possessively. “And at the end of this season, it’s gonna be three. We’re taking the Hawks all the way.” He jerks me away from Carter, but my phone bounces in my hand, heading for the floor.

Yes, my phone is locked, but there are texts between Beck and me. I dive for it, covering it on the gym floor.

That earns me both claps and guffaws. “Nice fumble recovery,” Nate hoots.

“Bet Jason’s been sexting with someone,” Orlando teases.

My face burns from the almost truth of that. But I pop back up, phone safe in my hand.

And, thankfully, still locked.

Time to bluff. “You figured me out. I’ve been sexting this new guy. I’m gonna get on the treadmill and send him a dick pic while I run. Because I’m good at multitasking,” I say drily, and I don’t risk meeting Beck’s gaze. I’m not that good of a poker player.

They laugh, and my distraction ploy worked.

I drop my phone securely into my pocket and hit the weights. The Renegades move to the other side of the weight area. For the next thirty minutes, I focus on lifting and talking about anything but hookups.

When I’m done with my workout, I take off with Nate, not bothering to say goodbye to Beck, even though I want to, and I feel a little dickish just leaving.

Nate tosses a glance back at the gym. “You seemed a little irked. Was Orlando right? Did you meet someone?”

I scoff. “No. Definitely not,” I say, then shift the focus to him. “How are things with Oliver?”

He winces, and that’s answer enough.

“It’s not going well?”

Nate shrugs. “He never did like the limelight, you know?”

I nod, patting his shoulder. Nate and I are tight for a million reasons. Besides the obvious—we’re teammates—we like a lot of the same things, from golf to smart comedies to fun times with friends, but we also carry the same scars. I’m not asking anyone to break out the violins for us, but we both know what it’s like to be with guys who don’t gel with our jobs. That’s Oliver for him and Wyatt for me.

“Yup. That is true,” I say diplomatically. I have my opinion on his hubs, but I know better than to share. Nate’s too soft in the heart sometimes to see the shitty side of people.

“Sometimes relationships just suck,” Nate says with a sigh as we near a sushi joint we like. “But sushi doesn’t.” He smiles eagerly at the posters of raw fish tantalizing him in the window.

“My treat,” I say, glad there’s something small I can do to lift his spirits.

Nate smiles, and we dart inside. We grab a quick dinner, catching up over hamachi and seaweed salad about the game this weekend, the newest episode of Privilege, and a playlist TJ sent to me.

We don’t talk about guys, and I suspect it’s a break we both need.

Once I’m back in my home a little later, I grab bubbly water from the fridge and then settle onto a stool at the counter. Finally, in the safety of my kitchen, I take a chance, looking at my phone again. It feels like a defused bomb.

I reply to Reese, approving the photo Beck likes too, then go to my texts. A new one from him blinks at me. My stomach flips, and it’s annoying that I react so strongly to him already.

Beck: I’m going to change your name in my phone. In case anyone ever sees our convos.

Jason: Good idea. What’s my new name?

Beck: King of the Couch. ☺

I laugh, but then I put on my thinking cap. This is my chance to show I’ve got game in the naming department.

King of the Couch: I’m going to call you Streaker. But I’ll have you know I did consider Cat Charmer.

Streaker: I like both. Also, Dick Charmer works. (That name works for you too.)

Impulsively, I change the vibe of the conversation.

King of the Couch: By the way, I talked to my agent today. I told her to turn down Zena’s offer.

I hit send, then reread my declaration. When I said I wasn’t taking Zena’s deal, I meant all that the no implies—I’m not dating anyone. Including Beck, for that matter, unfortunately. Still, I want him to know I’m a man of my word.

Streaker: Awesome. More sponsorship deals for me then. She corralled me in the alley, and I already said yes.

I growl, narrowing my eyes at the phone as I type.

King of the Couch: You better not have said yes.

Streaker: Aww . . . are you trying to protect me from business partners who want to take advantage of the new guy? That’s sweet.

King of the Couch: Yeah, that’s the reason, smartass.

Streaker: No need to worry. Carter’s even going to help me write a profile. He’s been dying to put me on the apps.

King of the Couch: You’re killing me, Nine.

Streaker: By the way, you said at the gym you were sending someone a dick pic, but I don’t see one on my phone. Better not be another guy you’re sexting.

I smile, digging his declaration too. Beck’s jealous side is so stinking cute.

King of the Couch: Is that your way of saying you want a dick pic?

Streaker: I mean, I wouldn’t object to one.

King of the Couch: I’ve created a monster.

Streaker: Ha. That is probably true.

I hop off the stool, head to the second floor, and conduct a thorough search. I snap a pic of Taco napping on the floor of my shower and send it along.

King of the Couch: Here you go. He’s a dick.

Streaker: I have so many questions. Starting with—why is your cat in the shower?

King of the Couch: What came before the big bang? What is dark matter? What makes us human? I dunno, dude. He’s a cat. Any other questions?

Streaker: Yes, as a matter of fact. How big is your shower?

I lean against the sink, smiling.

King of the Couch: Big enough for two.

Streaker: So, you and the dick, then?

Rolling my eyes, I laugh, then reply.

King of the Couch: Yes, for me and my cat.

I’m enjoying the flirting so much. Maybe too much. I tell myself just one more note.

King of the Couch: Or, for me and a cat charmer.

I fire that off, a little amped up. But my phone is quiet for a minute. Maybe that’s the end of our convo. Too bad. Then, because the universe sometimes delivers, my phone dings.

Streaker: If you asked, I’d say yes.

I sigh with too much longing. I love it when he’s direct. But I love it too much.

King of the Couch: You know I want to ask. But I have to say good night.

Streaker: Good night.

I turn off my phone. Whether he’s a dick charmer or a cat charmer, I’ve got to resist the temptation of the guy with the new name.

20

EVERYTHING SUCKS

Beck

Sunday sucks.

We lose our first game of the season, and everything is awful. Our supposedly mighty offense only puts up seven meager points, courtesy of my inability to move the ball.

My stomach churns with worry. The team is going to hate me. Coach will rip my head off. I trudge off the field, making my way to the locker room alone.

I beeline for my stall, trying to avoid everyone.

Like Carter, who’s chatting with Hayden about construction near the Bay Bridge.

What? They’re not talking about my shitty game?

I duck past Isaiah and Evan, who are debating the Cougars’ chances for the World Series.

Am I in an alternate universe? Maybe this is the calm before they lay into me.

A minute later, Coach Greenhaven pushes open the door to the locker room and paces down the row of pro ballers. “You don’t need me to tell you that wasn’t our best game. Because you know it. And you know what I want—better focus next time,” he says, and I half expect him to stop and stare daggers at me with shrewd gray eyes. But he doesn’t laser in on his quarterback. He’s talking to everyone. “Step it up this week, and let’s get back on track,” he says, then cracks a sliver of a smile. “See you at practice tomorrow.”

He leaves.

After I shuck off my jersey, Carter swings by, slugs my shoulder, and gives a sad smile. “Next week, bro.”

From across the room, Hayden nods my way. “It’s one game.”

Holy shit.

This team is such a . . . team. They come together even after a loss.

“Let’s grab some grub, ’kay?” Carter asks Hayden and me.

The kicker hums in consideration. “If I can pick this time.”

“Fair enough,” Carter says.

And that’s that.

A little later, we head to dinner together. The meal and the company make losing a little better.

But once I’m alone in my home, I feel like a failure all over again.

Despite the reassurance from Coach and my teammates, my mind screams you suck. My stomach roils, churning up the seared salmon I just ate.

I clutch my stomach, run to the kitchen, and grab a glass of water. I down some to try to settle my nerves.

What’s wrong with me?

I set down the glass, and the feeling starts to fade. But my heart still pounds painfully in my tight throat.

I pace my kitchen, trying to walk off the rising panic, drying my damp palms on my jeans.

I’ve never panicked after a game. Why would I? The score is finished. The game is done. And I haven’t felt this anxious since that first media event I did with Jason more than a year ago when he saved my ass.

So why now?

Why, fucking universe, why?

I close my eyes and clench my fists.

You know why.

Oh, shit. That’s it. My eyes fly open.

I’m not freaking out over the loss. I’m spiraling out because tomorrow I have to be on-air for Monday Morning Quarterback.

It’ll be my first major media event after a loss, and I’ll be talking to the public right next to my rival.

The guy I’m more than crushing on.

The man who’s constantly on my mind.

I sink to the floor as the scariest realization hits me square in the chest. Jason’s also the person I most want to talk to tonight.

Except he won his game, and he’s probably on the team plane, celebrating on the way home.

Good for him. He deserves to.

I deserve to suffer . . .

My mind is a monster. It wants to trick my body, to send my heart into a horrifying overdrive.

But I know this drill.

I have the tools now.

I stalk to my bedroom and grab my phone. Flopping down on my bed, I turn to one of my apps and tune into a thirty-minute meditation on stress.

I can’t let anxiety conquer me. I won’t let it defeat me. I close my eyes and listen to a soothing voice take me into a deep breathing exercise.

At first, I try to fight back against my brain, as some ancient part of me repeats you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up.

But eventually, twenty or one hundred breaths in, my thoughts slow, then float away.

Inhale, exhale.

Soon, I touch the edges of the precious sense of calm that’s eluded me since the game ended.

I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.

Slowly, I open my eyes, taking one more deep breath, feeling like I’ve emerged from a brutal underwater battle with a six-armed sea creature.

But at least I’ve emerged. I’m swimming above the surface again.

I sit up and turn off the app. My phone blinks with a message. When I see the name, it feels like a reward.

King of the Couch: Tough loss tonight, man. You hanging in there?

My heart swells. I’m dying to talk to Jason.

Streaker: Yeah, it was rough. But you can trash-talk me tomorrow. I can handle it.

King of the Couch: What about tonight?

Does Jason want me to come over? My pulse soars at the possibility. It’s a terrible idea, but I crave it. I’m about to call him when his name flashes on my screen, the sound of the phone ringing thrilling me.

“Hey, Jason,” I say when I answer.

“Hey there.”

“Hi,” I say, then I roll my eyes. “Um, I said that. Sorry.”

“No worries. I had a feeling you’d be out of sorts.”

I sigh, but I’m relieved to let down my guard. “Is it that obvious I don’t have it together?”

“You do have it together, Nine. You’re just beating yourself up. Want to know how I know?”

“Yes, please,” I say, eager for the benefit of his experience.

“It’s your first loss with your new team. I felt awful after my first loss. And that was five years ago. I wanted to see if you’re okay. Are you?”

My throat tightens. This is so embarrassing. I don’t cry over losses, even pro losses. That’s not how you survive in the NFL.

“Yeah. I’m okay . . . now,” I say, even though I don’t feel better yet. But I did want to talk to him. He’s the one person who understands exactly how I feel. “I feel like I let everyone down,” I confess. “How do I deal with it?”

He sighs softly. “First, you didn’t let anyone down. Second, it’s the job. Just know you’re not the only quarterback who feels this way.”

“You seem like you always have it together. You’re Mister Laid-back and Cool.”

He snorts. “I’m Mister Good at Appearances. That’s my skill. I don’t tell the media how I really feel. But I’m telling you. And sometimes it’s hard.”

“How do you manage?” I ask, desperate for insight.

“Talking to my dad always helped me. He reminds me I take a lot of the team burden on myself when I shouldn’t. And he reminds me, too, that every game is a fresh start.” He takes a beat, and I hear a small meow in the quiet. I picture him at home, petting Taco, and I smile. “That helps me stay grounded,” Jason adds.

“My dad played college ball,” I offer. I want to share with him. He’s sharing with me.

“So he’d know how you’re feeling,” Jason says.

“We’re not close, though. I mean, it’s not intentional. We’re not estranged. It’s just . . . life.”

“I hear ya. My mom left when I was eight. I don’t see her much. It’s just . . . life,” he echoes, letting me know he understands me.

This is what I craved tonight—connection.

I sit up, feeling exposed and raw. “Jason?” I sound so vulnerable. I hope it doesn’t scare him.

“What is it, Beck?” He sounds like he desperately wants to help me.

I swallow some courage. “Thank you. I think I had to say this to you tonight or I’d shut down on the air tomorrow. I had to get all these feelings off my chest.”

“I’m glad I called then,” he says, so warmly I want to curl up in his voice.

Why is it so easy to open up to my rival? I wish I could hate him, but I can’t because I like him too much. “There’s one thing I want, though.”

“Name it.”

I smile again. “Don’t go easy on me tomorrow.”

“I never fucking would.”

Jason is true to his word.

The next morning, he stares at me fiercely across the studio soundboard. It’s time for the two-minute warning. “You see, Cafferty,” he says, “you’ve got to do this thing where you move the football. That’s the basic goal of the game.”

I hate the dig, and I love it. It’s what I wanted from him. “I’m making a mental note,” I say.

I lost. I have to eat some humble pie.

The show ends, and I’m elated to realize I not only survived, but I thrived. So elated, I want to push Jason against the stairwell wall and kiss the breath out of him.

I don’t, of course.

But I do leave with him. Head into the elevator with him. Get out on the garage level with him.

He points his phone at his car, taps the screen, then gives me a curious look. “You need a ride again?”

I want one, but I don’t need one. I point to a black BMW a few cars past his. “That’s mine now.”

“Nice wheels,” he says. Then, before he gets in his car, he gives me a long look.

I read everything into it—I want you in my car again, I want you in my bed again, I want you again.

And I want to tell him, too, why I got this car. But I don’t. It’s silly, and it’d reveal my foolish hope for an invitation to his home.

“Thanks,” I say quickly, then I get in my car and drive away.

The following Sunday, my game returns to awesome.

The second I hit the field, exhilaration rushes through me. There’s a sense that this—this grass, this moment, this fifty-yard-line—is where I’m meant to be.

I start the game off right with a play fake. The defense chases our running back, but oops! He doesn’t have the ball because I gunned it to the tight end, who tears down the field.

Like that, I set the rhythm. We play tight and smart, and we keep Miami on their toes and out of sorts.

Just the way I like it.

When the clock runs out, the Renegades win, making our record four and one. Jason’s Sunday must have sucked, though. The Hawks lose, and his team’s record is three and two.

He’s been down this road before, so I doubt he needs to talk it out like I did last week. Still, I text him that night, just in case. Also, I like seeing his name on my phone. I’m selfish like that.

Streaker: Hey, I won’t go easy on you tomorrow.

King of the Couch: You better fucking not.

Streaker: You hanging in there?

King of the Couch: Coach ripped us all new ones, but I’ll live.

Streaker: Ouch. That’s no fun.

King of the Couch: It is what it is. Tell me something non-football-y.

Hmm, what can I say to take his mind off the loss?

Streaker: Here you go: I realized I never told you what I thought of your cuddling.

King of the Couch: Oh, so I’m getting a belated cuddling review?

Streaker: If you want it.

King of the Couch: I do. Wait, do I?

Streaker: You do. Since I liked it.

King of the Couch: Liked? You liked it? That’s all?

Streaker: That’s not enough for you?

King of the Couch: I’m a greedy mofo.

Streaker: You are. Fine, I give you a nine.

King of the Couch: I deserve a ten.

Streaker: You can’t get a ten the first time.

King of the Couch: I’ll have to remember that.

A little over a week later, as the Renegades finish practice on a Wednesday morning, Wilder, the team’s owner, appears on the field. From the way he seems to be everywhere, I suspect he can teleport. Ian’s beside him, though I’m sure he had to walk. No teleporting for the PR guy.

The pair meets me as I’m headed toward the tunnel to the locker rooms. “The Monday Morning Quarterback ratings are terrific,” Wilder says.

He strides across the practice field like he owns it—which he does. “We’re very pleased, indeed. Now, I have another opportunity for you. Every year, the pro teams in San Francisco work together on an event called the Ultimate Player Auction. It’s a fundraiser in December for the Children’s Hospital, and it’s near and dear to my heart.”

I can read between the lines. I need to say yes to the auction.

“It’s a win a ‘date’ with a player thing,” Ian explains, and I suspect he’s here, so I don’t feel pressured. But I do feel pressure, and I’m fine with it.

“Feel free to say no, of course, but I’d like to personally invite you if you’d want to participate,” Wilder says, all smooth as silk. “Ian can give you details.”

He walks off the field. I guess the teleport machine is on the fritz.

I turn to Ian. “If I say yes, how does this work?”

“Moore Media is the PR agency handling the Ultimate Player Auction. We want to move quickly to put together some marketing materials and start talking up the auction, so the agency is hosting players tomorrow afternoon for a prep session for the event, to ask what the athletes like in a partner and all that,” he explains.

Hmm. How am I going to please the team owner and myself? I know—I’ll go on a platonic date. “Who else is doing the auction?”

“The teams started lining up guys on Monday,” Ian says. He rattles off players from the local baseball, hockey, and basketball teams. “The Renegades are sending Carter, Hayden, Isaiah, and Evan, so far. And on the Hawks, Xavier Walters, Devon, and Jason McKay already agreed.”

I stop short at the mouth of the tunnel.

What the hell? Jason said yes, and he didn’t mention it to me? Didn’t we have an understanding? Neither one of us is dating. Heck, we are not supposed to be dating.

But from the things we’d said, I kinda thought Jason and I were on the same page—we can’t see each other, but we don’t want to see anyone else either.

I burn.

“I’ll do it,” I bite out.

If Jason’s going to play dating games, so will I.

21

MAKE ME A MATCH

Beck

Football is a great sport for venting. A little anger goes a long way. During our practice the next day, I channel all my annoyance into a laser focus on the playbook.

When that’s done, I go home, shower, and change.

Need to look extra hot for this early evening meeting. I want Jason to know what he’s missing out on when some other guy or gal bids on me.

But as I stare at the relative sameness of my wardrobe, I draw a blank. Does he like me in black or white? Jeans or shorts?

Hell if I know.

I sigh in frustration as I flick through my clothes. Wait. I do know how to get a rise out of him.

You’re a genius, Beck.

I pick a short-sleeve button-down, then roll up the sleeves twice to show more of my ink.

The guy salivates for my tats. There. Let him enjoy the view. It’ll be such a shame if he pictures another person licking the art on my body.

On my way over to the meeting, I call Rachel to get some pointers. I need a killer bio, and she’s aces at dating. “I have to do this auction. They want to know what I like in a guy or a gal. What do I say?”

“Pfft. Easy. You like someone confident, outgoing, big-hearted, and who isn’t afraid to tell you when you’re wrong.”

Way to see inside my soul. That’s also perfect ammunition. “Thanks, Rach,” I say, then hang up when I reach the building.

I meet Carter in the lobby, right as Hayden and Isaiah leave their sessions. It’s like an assembly line of athletes. Jason’s in my session, and I join him in a meeting room. He’s already grabbed a seat. He’s wearing a deep blue shirt, so rich it’s like a sapphire, making his eyes look incredible.

But I won’t be swayed.

The firm owner is Jillian Moore, who commands the room from a high-backed chair at the head of the table. “Thanks for coming, guys. To prep for the auction, we’re creating a fun online catalog of all the players, with profiles and bios for your perfect dates. And we just want to go down the line with what you’re looking for in a match so the attendees can decide who to bid on.”

She turns to Carter first. “Carter, you said you date women. Tell me what you’re looking for in a lady.”

The Renegades receiver drags a hand through his hair like that helps him think harder about dating. “I’m kind of like Owen Wilson in Starsky and Hutch. I’ll take anything.”

Jason laughs, and I want to laugh too, but I don’t want to have anything in common with my rival right now.

Jillian smiles professionally. “Cute, but probably not the best answer.”

“You could say you’re easygoing,” Jason offers Carter.

Of course, Mister Likeable has a good answer.

Carter’s eyes light up. “Good one. I’m also laid-back and fun, but I’m honestly kind of fed up with the hookup culture. I want someone who’s a good person and likes to have a great date night.”

“You should be the spokesperson for that app,” I say offhand before thinking about what’s coming out of my mouth.

“Which one?” Carter asks eagerly, like maybe there’s an app he missed.

“That new one. Date Night. They want—”

Oh, shit. I only know what Date Night wants because of Jason.

The guy in blue shoots me a look that says shut the fuck up.

I improvise. “I mean, I heard they want someone who wants that whole real date, real love thing, since that’s Date Night’s thing,” I say, a garbled and awful stab at recovery. “At least, I’m guessing they do.”

My cheeks heat as Jason’s expression turns stony.

Carter chuckles. “Dude, you never hear things. Where would you hear that?”

Like he’s giving me his beer to hold, Jason chimes in, “At the gym. I mentioned it when a bunch of us were working out,” he adds, covering up my gaffe. “Zena, the founder, is my neighbor, and I said no when she asked me to endorse her app, but I can hook you up with her, Carter.”

I seethe. He saved me again like he cares or something, and he’s still going to someone else at the auction?

Fuck him.

“That’d be dope,” Carter says.

Jillian turns my way. “And what about you, Beck? Are you open to men and women bidding on you?”

“Yes. Both are fine. And I’m interested in someone soft-spoken,” I begin, painting a picture that’s the opposite of the guy across from me. “Maybe even a little shy. Shyness is adorable in my book.”

Jason looks like he just drank a glass of bitter juice.

“Ideally a girl- or guy-next-door type. Someone not in the limelight,” I say, underlining my point for the other quarterback.

“That’s so sweet,” Jillian says, then turns to Jason and asks him what he wants.

He’s quiet for longer than usual. But then he answers in a cool, distant voice. “I like a smart, confident guy who knows what he wants. But, like I said when I signed up for this auction, I’m only going on a platonic date, so I’m good with a man, woman, or couple bidding on me,” he says, and I feel like a complete and utter jackass.

Jason looks at the clock on the wall. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have a dinner with my agent. I need to take off.”

As he leaves, a lead weight drops in my gut, sinking me to the bottom of the ocean.

I fucked up.

I send him a text as soon as I leave. I’m sorry. I can explain. I want to explain.

But my phone is quiet.

It’s fine. It’s no biggie. He’s just having dinner with his agent. He’ll respond later.

An hour ticks by, and I’m about to lose my mind. I pace around my home, trying to find a new word game that’ll excite my mind. I click over to my texts, sending a quick note to Drew in LA asking what he’s up to. He writes back quickly with Trying to be the best QB LA’s ever seen. But I can’t even trash talk so all I manage is a Good luck with that, before I pick up another Axel Huxley book. But the first page is gibberish. I can’t read, I can’t play games, I can’t do anything but wait. I go for a walk, but pounding the pavement does nothing to lessen the twisting in my stomach, so I return home and check my phone for the billionth time.

Still no reply. I write to him once more, desperation kicking higher with every second that ticks on the clock. Are you around?

No answer.

I have to fix this. I get in my car and drive to Jackson Street, but once I turn onto his block, I feel utterly ridiculous.

I can’t stalk him. I can’t show up when I’m not welcome either. I hang a U-ey, drive home, and pull into my garage. When I cut the engine, I drop my head against the wheel, groaning. I drag myself out of my car, my gut twisting with misery as I walk from the detached garage to my door.

As I turn the key in the lock, I hear footfalls on the sidewalk behind me and wheel around, my heart sprinting. Jason’s walking toward me.

But his eyes are slits. He’s livid.

22

DIRTY MAGIC

Jason

At the speed of light, Beck unlocks the door, pushes it open, and lets me into his home.

I don’t look around. Don’t care. I’m still pissed, hours later. “What the fuck?”

Beck’s face is ashen. “I’m sorry about the Zena thing. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I snort. “Fuck the Zena thing. I’m talking about what you said. Is that your dream guy or girl? The one next door? Soft-spoken? Shy? Did you deliberately paint my opposite?”

He shakes his head, whiplash fast. “No,” he says, then winces. “Yes.” He looks eaten alive as he confesses, but his eyes say forgive me.

“Why did you say that?” It was so calculated, so deliberate, and I don’t get it.

Beck cracks his knuckles over and over. “You’d told me you didn’t want to date. But then it seemed like you did. And fuck, I don’t know, Jason. I don’t fucking know.”

I cross my arms. “I do this event every year. It’s for charity. I do it because it sends a good message to the whole damn world that there are gay football players up there parading around on stage, having people bid on them, just like the straight guys.”

Beck drags a hand down his face like he wants to wipe away today. “I . . . was . . . jealous. Just stupidly jealous.”

“Yeah, I’d say. So, I ask again. Is that what you want in a person?”

He meets my gaze. “No. I said it because I wanted you to . . .”

“Wanted me to what?” I challenge.

“I wanted you to feel what you’re missing,” he fires off, full of hurt and anger.

Same here. “You think I don’t? You think I don’t feel what I’m missing every fucking day? Every time we text? Every time I see you? You really think I don’t feel it?”

In the foyer, I stare at the other quarterback, anger, and lust feeding me. But something deeper too. Something that comes from the last few weeks of talking, texting, and not touching.

Beck huffs. “I feel it all the time with you. Every damn second.” He steps closer, maybe, just maybe, putting down the weapons for a second as he confesses, “I want you. So fucking much.”

I heat up in an instant. Screw jealousy. “Want you too,” I say, then grab the front of his shirt, yank him against me, and kiss him so hard he better forget every other man, woman, and person in existence.

I kiss him so I can forget he’s a bigger risk than playing a brutal game for a living.

But mostly, I kiss him for me. So I can remember again how it feels to slam into the man I want. It’s been too long without his touch. More than three weeks since that night, and years have passed in those twenty-four days.

As I crush his lips, I do my damnedest to commit every detail of his kiss to memory. So I can recall it tomorrow in the shower. So I can relive it alone in my bed.

The slide of his soft hair in my fingers.

The outdoorsy smell of his aftershave.

The tempting taste of his lips.

Most of all, the way I feel with Beck Cafferty.

Electrified.

This is want. This is thirst. And I will quench it tonight.

We’re rough and demanding. Hands grabbing. Lips smashing. Voices grunting.

Beck yanks on my hair, jerking me impossibly closer. I clutch at his shirt, tugging him firmly against me. We overbalance and stumble, break apart for a second. Panting hard, I glance around. A bed? A couch? But fuck it. The bedroom’s too far. Everything’s too far but him.

He reads me instantly. Pushes my chest, slamming me up against his front door.

Have me, Beck. Manhandle me.

As his lips seal to mine once more, his strong hands claw at my shirt, my chest, my arms.

He’s got me up against the door, and I am here for this.

Beck takes the lead. He’s ravenous, biting my lips, sucking on my tongue, and unzipping my jeans. He doesn’t even bother to push the denim down, just dives his hand into my boxer briefs and grabs my cock.

He hisses as he wraps a hand around my dick. A wicked vibration rattles my entire body, and I break the kiss to mutter, “Fuck, yes.”

When I look at Beck, he’s already staring at me, fire in his eyes, determination in his jaw. He strokes me with obscene purpose as he watches me intently.

I’m dying to kiss him again, but the pleasure . . . the indecent pleasure of his hand on my dick is driving me out of my mind.

I’m shaking with lust.

He slides his palm up and down my shaft, then rubs his thumb over the head, lubing me up with my arousal.

“God, that’s so fucking good,” I groan.

He grips me tighter like my cock is his fantasy come true.

It’s crazy to think that. But that’s how Beck touches me. Like I’m his fantasy.

I huff out a breath. “You,” I murmur. “Need you.”

“Have me,” Beck answers, and I heed the call. I grapple with his jeans, undoing the button, then unzipping.

For a necessary second, we both stop. He eases his jeans to the top of his thighs. I do the same with mine. When our dicks are free, we crash into each other.

“Ahhh,” he mutters as our cocks rub together. “This feels so good, Jason. So fucking good.”

“I know. I know,” I repeat. Everything about the way we touch excites me, and I need as much as I can get.

No. I need more.

My hands fly to his ass. I squeeze his cheeks as we grind together.

His mouth finds mine again in a deliciously sloppy kiss.

“More, give me more,” he grunts, and I give him everything. I knead his ass, bite his collarbone, rub against his dick.

Then shove my hands between us to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, getting two undone. “Off. Get this off,” I order.

He yanks his button-down over his head in a split second, and before I know it, my shirt is hitting the floor too.

Then we’re skin to skin, dick to dick.

It feels so good. But there’s also this voice in the back of my head reminding me this is all new to him. I’m the lucky man who gets to have his firsts. That’s a privilege but also a responsibility, and it’s one I relish. I want to make sex so good for him.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from our night together, Beck likes it when I talk.

“Want to rub off with you,” I tell him. “Right here.”

“Yes. Do it.”

I stare down at our bodies pressed together, savoring the view of two hard cocks. When I spit into my hand to help us along, he unleashes a carnal groan.

“That’s so fucking hot,” he says.

“This’ll be even hotter,” I say as I grab our cocks in my hand.

As I jerk and stroke, I stare shamelessly at the man I crave. His fuckable lips are parted, and every breath that escapes them seems ripped from the depths of his dirty, hungry, horny soul.

He pumps into my hand, fucking my fist, fucking my cock, fucking us.

It’s incredible and erotic, and I need to come so badly. But there’s one little problem.

Spit only gets you so far, and I don’t want to stop.

“There’s lube in my wallet,” I command as I slow the pace for a few seconds. “In my pocket. Get it.”

He nods, one hand sliding to the back of my jeans. As he fishes around, anticipation moves over his shoulders, down his chest. Watching him experience us might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

There’s no porn hotter than Beck’s first time. With me.

Quickly, he’s got my wallet open. He digs around in it, locates the packet, then tosses the billfold to the floor in one careless move. He rips open the lube, but there’s a pause for a second when he seems unsure—should he hand it to me? Or handle it?

I rope my free hand through his hair as I stroke our cocks. “You do it, baby. Get us nice and slick.”

He slides his teeth over the corner of his lips, all anguished and lust-struck. “I want that. So badly,” he rasps out.

“I know,” I murmur. “Me too.”

“God,” he groans, then pours lube into his cupped palm and reaches between us.

He takes over, wrapping his shiny palm around our dicks as I let go.

“Yesssss,” I grunt, clasping his hips as I rock into his hand. As his fist flies over our lengths, I thrust. Together, we’re groaning, panting, pumping.

He mercilessly jerks us till I sizzle everywhere. Lust rockets down my spine. Radiates along my thighs. Tightens in my balls. Then my vision blurs, and my brain flatlines as I shoot all over his hand, his dick, and probably his stomach. God, I hope so. I want to make a mess of him.

Seconds later, my off-limits lover makes a mess of me, unloading on me with a loud groan.

I open my eyes to stare wantonly at his release as it coats his fingers, my cock, his cock.

We are a fantastic mix of sweat and orgasms, breath and satisfaction.

His hand is still on us, his pace slow and easy like a roller coaster car, rolling to a stop, unclicking, the seats unlocking.

The two passengers are spent, ecstatic, thrilled.

I wrap my hand around his, squeeze up our dicks, then gently move him off us. I press a hot kiss to his perfect lips. “You’re incredible,” I say, and my chest heats all over again as I praise him.

As I kiss him gently, he smiles my way. “Yeah?” He sounds like dirty magic.

“So fucking incredible,” I tell him. “Let’s clean up.”

“Then can we do that again? Or, really, anything?”

I love his enthusiasm so much. It matches mine completely. “We can do anything you want,” I say, and I mean it.

23

FAN BOYS

Jason

I trace the lotus on his right biceps. The intricate black lines weave around the hard muscle, the stylized design mesmerizing to stare at as I touch him.

Beck’s lying flat on his bed, shirt off, cleaned up, jeans zipped again. I’m shirtless too, stretched out on my side where I get to enjoy the canvas of his body.

My fingertip travels under the muscle, curling around an arty petal that looks like a stencil of a flower. “I like this one.”

“Yeah?” Beck sounds a little dreamy. Coming hard will do that to a man. All my anger is pretty much gone. I think it exited my body when I shot all over us.

“I do,” I say, then I dip my face and press a kiss to the artwork.

He shivers. “Mmm. Do that again.”

I do him one better, flicking my tongue along one of the petals. “Your ink is like a direct line to my dick,” I say when I lift my face.

“Thanks for the tip,” he says with a laugh, then props his head in his hand. “But I knew that. What I want to know is why do you like it so much?”

I just shrug helplessly. “No clue. Some things you just don’t question. Why do I like ink?” I brush the pad of my thumb over the red lion on his chest, and he shifts subtly closer. “Why do great eyes do it for me?” When I hold his gaze, he trembles. “Why does stubble get me going?” When I run my thumb along his bristly jaw, he turns his chin into my hand, catching more of my touch.

“Fair enough,” he says, then he flicks his hand toward the closet, where he tossed his black button-down when we made it into his room post-sex. “I wore that shirt tonight for you.” His confession sounds like it surprises even him. Maybe he didn’t plan to tell me.

“The one you had on at the agency?”

He winces. “I wore it to make you jealous. Since it showed off my ink.”

I laugh, shaking my head in amusement. “You’re such a dick.”

“Did it work?”

I roll my eyes. “Thinking of you with someone else is all I need to get jealous. Not your fucking tattoos,” I say, then press my lips to his lotus flower again and bite.

“Yesss,” he says, murmuring his appreciation for my teeth.

I let out a low rumble. “There. I marked you.”

“Good.” He sounds . . . happy. Like he doesn’t want to move from his bed.

I don’t want to either, for a long, long time. I brush my fingers over the lotus once more. “What’s this ink for? I’ve kind of been dying to know.”

Beck studies me closely as if trying to read my motives. “Why?”

“You put it on your body. It’s important to you, I presume. But if it’s too personal, you don’t have to tell me,” I say casually, watching his expression for a sign. Sometimes Beck is hard to understand. One minute, I think he wants to share with me. The next, he wants to shut down.

Now, he doesn’t hesitate. “For me, it represents peace and calm,” he says, brown eyes bright and completely vulnerable. “That’s why I got it. Sometimes I need that . . . often, I need it,” he corrects.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he always wants to share. He just needs permission. He wants to know his truths will be handled with care.

My heart thumps a little harder as I touch his ink with new eyes, looking for the unspoken story he’s telling. He hasn’t always felt peace. He hasn’t always felt calm.

I sense he doesn’t only struggle with grief for his brother. The day I met Beck, he was vibrating with nerves at the podium. The other week on the phone, he was tense over a loss, then worried sick about the prospect of facing me in front of an audience.

I choose my words carefully. I don’t want to pressure him; I only want to understand. “Do you get nervous before games?”

He breathes out hard, then nods, looking away.

“I couldn’t tell,” I reassure him.

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s obvious.”

“I mean it. You don’t play that way,” I say. “You don’t play nervous.”

He looks back at me. “You mean it?”

“I do,” I say firmly, tapping his chest for emphasis.

Beck lifts a skeptical brow. “You watch me play?”

I roll my eyes. “Dude. Of course I watch you play. It’s called game film.”

“Well, obviously,” he says, backpedaling. “I watch game film too. I thought . . . you meant . . .”

His cheeks pinken, and I have to bust him. “You thought I watch your games like a fanboy?”

He hides his face in a pillow, muttering, “Yes.”

I crack up. This is too rich.

“Shut up,” he says into the bed.

I poke his side. “Nope. I can’t. You totally fucking forgot it’s our job to watch game film. That is adorable. What, you thought I was watching your games because I’m crushing on you? God, you’re fucking cute.”

Lifting his face, he stares at me like there’s a price on my head, and he’s the lineman who’s going to collect the bounty.

He’d be scary on defense. I hold up my hands in surrender. “Whoa.”

“Cute is your dimple. I’m not cute right now,” he hisses.

“You’re right. You’re terrifying. Are you going to charge me like a bull?”

He moves like a superhero. In a flash, he jerks my hands above my head, pins me, and straddles my chest.

Stares savagely at me.

He might have me at his mercy, but I’ve got a mouth, and I’m not afraid to use it. “You’re cute to me. And hot. And sexy,” I say, then I nod at his lips. “C’mon. Get those lips on mine. You know you want to kiss me. Especially since you like my dimple.”

He lets out a sexy sigh, then drops the grip on my wrists and kisses me, all passionate and dominating, making me wonder what else he wants to do to me in bed.

Does he want to fuck me?

Does he want me to fuck him?

I like both ideas a lot. I rock my pelvis, my cock getting half-hard again.

He swivels his hips a few times, letting me know he’s down for another round. But maybe not quite yet, since he breaks the kiss and flops next to me once more. Works for me. I’m digging the talking too.

“I had a crush on you before I met you,” he says, and that’s Beck for you. Hitting me out of the blue with intel.

Good intel.

“That so?” My skin feels like it’s glowing. I’m all warm and hazy.

“That whole year when I was a backup, I did. Before I got the starting job, I looked you up online, checked out your pictures, watched your games. I had a big crush on you. Then I met you.”

I snort. “And that pretty much ruined it.”

He shakes his head. “No, it didn’t. Not one bit.”

Now my heart glows too.

Beck is so much more dangerous than I ever imagined. I should have seen the warning signs—stopping to steal a moment with him outside the gym, calling him on the phone after games, making declarations about not dating anyone else.

But if I’m playing detective, I need to go back further. I liked Beck the first night he came over a year ago, and those feelings have only grown.

I’ve been ignoring boundaries ever since he showed up at my house last month.

Now, I’m just giving in to what my heart wants despite what my head says.

And my heart wants him.

I turn on my side, lift a hand, and finger a strand of his dark brown hair. “Like I said, you’re fearless.”

“I had to learn to be. I used to panic real bad before games, Jason,” he says, swallowing roughly as he serves up a difficult truth.

“When was that?” I ask softly.

“In high school. I used to throw up before I played. My nerves were a mess.”

“Oh shit, that’s so hard,” I say, aching for what he went through as a teenage athlete. “But you don’t anymore?”

“No. I can manage it now. I do meditation and breathing exercises before every game now. A lot of times before interviews too,” he admits.

“Playing on a national stage is tough, and I’m glad you found something that works for you,” I say, sympathetic.

“Do you ever get nervous?”

When we talked at my house about nerves when it came to guys, I answered him truthfully. I give him the same candor now. “Not about playing. I probably should, but I don’t. I can tune out the world,” I say, and maybe that makes me lucky. But I do understand fear. I have my own. “If I’m afraid of anything, it’s getting hurt. Like a career-ending injury. Or a season-ending one,” I say, shuddering involuntarily. “I fucking love this game. So much. It’s like a part of my soul. That sounds crazy.”

He smiles. “Not to me.”

“You get it. You get me,” I say. I could stop there. With anyone else, I would. But now, I peel back another layer. I swallow and answer the full scope of the question. “I’m afraid in other ways too. I was with this guy on and off for a couple of years.” Beck’s eyes flicker with excitement. Like he’s been dying to know my story. “Wyatt was my college boyfriend,” I explain. “We were together when I was in school, but after graduation, he got a job in New York, and I was drafted here. We both figured being apart would be too hard, so we split.”

“Did you miss him?”

I missed his exuberance. I missed his passion. I missed all the things we had in common. We used to go for long runs together and work out together. We played golf. I loved all that. “I did,” I admit, but then I grimace, dragging a hand along the back of my neck. “But I made some bad choices. I missed him a lot. Missed the companionship. Missed the closeness, you know?”

He nods, urging me to keep going.

“And I thought all that missing meant I needed to try harder. I convinced him to give us another shot.”

Beck’s expression falters, flickering between anger—toward Wyatt, I presume—and maybe feeling sorry for me. “So what happened?”

I blow out a long stream of air, wishing I hadn’t given so much of myself to my ex. “We got back together a few years ago. Did the whole long-distance thing. He worked at a venture firm, but he started getting enough time off to come to all my games. At first, it was cool. He was a great, supportive boyfriend. I think I was too. But soon, he started asking me to fly out mid-week to see him.”

Beck frowns, immediately seeing the problem. “But there’s practice mid-week.”

“Exactly. Or he’d want to see me on Sunday night. Every week, it escalated. He wanted more and more. He asked for more. I tried. He said I wasn’t a great boyfriend since I couldn’t give it to him.” I grit my teeth and shovel a hand through my hair. “I should shut up. No one wants to hear about exes.”

He touches my shoulder. “I do.”

That’s it. Two firm, clear words. They say everything. Beck wants to know me.

“Wyatt and I split more than two years ago, but the night he ended it shocked me. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. I couldn’t make it to his work event, and he got pissed. He said he was always there for me, but I never was for him. And that’s when he said when you quit football, look me up.”

Beck cringes. “That’s awful.”

“It’s not like football is everything, but it is my job,” I say with residual frustration.

“And your passion,” he adds.

“Imagine if I told him not to do venture shit or whatever. That would be awful. But he had no problem giving me an ultimatum. It was basically . . . the NFL or him.”

Beck sighs sympathetically. “For what it’s worth, I think you chose wisely.”

I smile. “Me too. Football doesn’t give you ultimatums. Football doesn’t lie to you. Football just says let’s play.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever not loved football,” Beck says wistfully as he stares at the ceiling. “When I’m out there, it all feels . . . like it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“Same here. But it’s hard to have this job and sustain a relationship, don’t you think?” It’s a question, but I’m pretty sure I’m protecting myself too. I already feel such a pull toward Beck; I’ve got to do something or say something to make sure I don’t topple completely. This is my feeble attempt at erecting a wall.

“I don’t actually know, though I get your meaning,” he says. “I haven’t been with anyone since Rachel.”

“Your college girlfriend?”

“She’s pretty much my only serious relationship. I haven’t even kissed anyone since . . . last year in your house,” he says.

This man lights me up with each revelation. I want to bury my face in his neck and inhale him. I want to kiss him everywhere. And I want to get inside him really soon. “There was no one else for me either,” I say, giving him a little piece of my heart too.

His lips twitch in a grin. He tries so hard to fight it, and I just want to wipe it off with my mouth. But I also want to know the rest of the story on his body. I slide my finger from the lotus over to the mythical lion on his chest. “This is for your brother? Griffin?”

“Yes.”

I journey to the sunbursts on his shoulder, set against a blue sky. “And this?”

“It just reminds me to breathe,” he says. An easy answer for a complicated person.

I smile, loving the simplicity. Loving, too, the way he’s learned how to manage. “Like, you look at the sky, you take a breath, you soak in the sun, and everything’s going to be okay?”

His expression is gentle but wise. “Exactly.”

My pulse gallops, fueled by new emotions rushing through me. His ink is even sexier now that I know what’s behind it. Now that I see the windows into his soul.

I shift closer, cup his face with one hand, and savor a few risky seconds looking into his eyes. Dangerous thoughts race through my head.

Let’s do this tomorrow.

Come over next week.

Do you feel this too?

He has to hear the wild drumbeat of my heart. But I hope he can’t. I’m not ready for him to know what he’s doing to me.

“You have such great eyes,” I say, then I shut myself up with a kiss, swallowing all the words that could hurt me.

He could hurt me.

We kiss for a long time until I’m aware of the clock, the way it’s ticking closer to decisions.

When we come up for air, he makes all the decisions I want when he says, “You wanna spend the night?”

I smile. “I do. But can we watch a show too?”

“Yes, Jason,” he says, then mutters, “You do too have a crush on me.”

Only it’s so much more than a crush.

We strip down to boxers and take care of the unfinished business of watching Unfinished Business.

Finally, I catch up on the missed episodes, but when Jamie and Zoe fight in the stairwell, I flip Jude’s character the bird. “No way,” I shout at the screen.

Beck nudges me. “That’s just how it goes. They have to break them up to get them back together.”

“Thanks. I didn’t realize how stories worked,” I say drily.

We finish another episode, and I sigh in relief when Jude’s character starts to make up with his love interest.

The season’s not over, but as a yawn takes hold of me, I’m pretty sure my night is. Beck closes his laptop, sets it on the nightstand, then slides under the covers. “You gonna go for a ten in the cuddling event this time?”

“Fuck yes, I am,” I say. “Turn the other way.”

He complies, and I wrap an arm around his chest, drawing a deep inhale of his neck. Sparks shoot down my spine. “Mmm. I’m getting horny again,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he says, pushing his ass against my cock.

I groan, dirty images flickering through my mind.

I’m about to ask Beck what he’s in the mood for when he clears his throat. “Do you like to top? Or to bottom?”

I’d been hoping he’d ask. “I like to top,” I say, then brush my lips to his ear. “And I like to bottom.”

He moans, but he says nothing. That’s okay. It’s my turn to ask. “What do you think you want?”

“I want both too,” he says.

The man knows his mind. “How long have you been planning to tell me that?”

Beck pushes his firm ass against my hard-on again. “Hmm. I’d have to say . . . since before I met you,” he says, then laughs.

I laugh too. “Good to know. But we’re not doing it tonight.”

“I figured. I mean, I get that it takes prep and stuff. I have researched sex, Jason.”

Of course, he has. “Does your research involve articles or porn?”

He shifts around and meets my eyes. “Both. I’ve read a lot and watched a lot.”

I go fishing. “You ever watch something and think of me?”

“Seriously? You think I haven’t? Ask me something hard, McKay.”

I slide a hand down to his cock, and grip it. “Maybe I’ll suck on something hard instead, Cafferty.”

“Maybe I will too,” he says, all fiery as he throws down another wish.

Far be it from me to deny him.

A few minutes later, we’re naked again, his face between my thighs, mine between his, blowing each other and chasing another first.

It’s his first sixty-nine with a dude.

But it’s my first with a guy I’m falling for—falling hard and fast.

When we’re finished, he drifts asleep in seconds next to me. As promised, I curl around him. But I don’t conk out yet. I’m too busy figuring out how to stop risking everything and how to keep living dangerously at the same time.

I can’t continue messing around with the Renegades’ quarterback. But I can’t get him out of my system either.

24

THE MAN WITH A PLAN

Jason

Moonlight shines through the bedroom window at five in the morning, just enough for me to make out the shapes of a thousand birdhouses hanging in trees.

As I zip up my jeans, I peer out the glass. Yards are rare in the city but not unheard of—I have one too. Is Beck into birds, like his landlady? Does he putter around in this yard? I could see him being all outdoorsy, mowing a lawn and raking leaves.

I have a million questions for him.

I want to take him out to breakfast at Lulu’s Diner around the corner and learn all the things I don’t know about him—how he felt when he threw his first touchdown, how long it takes him to solve the daily Wordle, and what he listens to when he works out, just for starters.

I want that breakfast so badly. I can see us reading the big floppy menu, me giving him a hard time about ordering mud to drink, then him mocking me for asking for a strawberry smoothie. I’d probably sneak a hand under the table and squeeze his knee. Sounds like a great morning.

But eggs and potatoes in public aren’t in the cards for us.

Of all the guys in this city, why did I have to fall for my rival?

I shake my head in frustration, then exit the bedroom. Quickly, I locate my shirt next to the beanbag in the living room, pull it on, and make my way to the bathroom, brushing my teeth with the toothbrush Beck gave me last night in between episodes of Unfinished Business.

When he’d handed it to me, he said: “I’m convinced dentists give you these after cleanings, so you have them for . . . guests.”

“Dentists—the secret enablers of . . . sleepovers,” I’d said.

Neither of us said hookups.

Beck is so much more than a hookup, even though I know that’s all we can be. Fans and teammates would lose their minds if we dated for real. No way can that happen. But, dammit, if I can’t have that breakfast at Lulu’s out in the open, I deserve one more night in private, just with him.

But I have to work out the details first because making plans would be a huge step for us. We don’t schedule time for sex and sleepovers. He shows up, I show up, we combust. We mess around and say this can’t happen again. But I’m tired of the uncertainty. I don’t want to peer out my living room window every night next week and wonder if he’ll bang on my door. I want a plan for his first time, even if we have to sneak around to make it happen.

Trouble is, there’s also the minor issue of our insane travel schedules, full of curfews and practice and media and games. But I’m going to figure it the fuck out.

I return to his room, padding quietly to his side of the bed. God, he’s sexy in the morning, his hair a rumpled mess, the sheet riding low across his strong ass, his entire muscular back on display. I itch to slide my palm along all that smooth, golden skin.

Instead, I indulge in the view for several seconds, watching his shoulders rise and fall with each slow, sleepy breath.

But I can’t go all Edward Cullen on him, so I whisper a quiet goodbye. On my way out, I spot the purple Seductive hat on the coffee table in the living room. I grab it and tug it down low, doing my best to hide my face.

I slide on my shoes by the door and slip out, glancing from left to right, casing the ’hood. Like a cat, I move along the stone path and then scan the sidewalk. It’s the dead hour of five, so I’m alone as I head down the street to my car. Once I’m inside, I breathe easily, then click over to my texts. Time to start planning.

I’m going to the gym this morning around eight-thirty. If you happen to be there around the same time, that won’t look suspicious. I could even grab a boba with you after the gym like I would with anyone else. That place in Hayes Valley has a sister shop nearby. If anyone wondered what we were doing together, I bet we’d probably be plotting a new segment for the show. No one would think twice. I could even make a social post about it. Fans would eat it up. Well, my fans would since you’re not on social, Mister Anti-Social.

I hit send, then I’m about to take off when I glimpse myself in the mirror wearing his hat. This hat drove Beck to my door that night, fueled by bravado and white-hot desire.

I snap a quick pic of me in it and send it to Beck. Guess I’m feeling all sorts of warm and fuzzy today.

By the way, I took our disguise this morning. How do I look? As sexy as you looked when you showed up wearing this? Fuck, I love this hat.

I hit send before I lose the nerve. Might as well stand under his window with a boombox and shout I’m so into you.

But fuck it.

If my feelings weren’t apparent last night in the way I kissed him, touched him, and talked to him, one bold text proclaiming I dig his cap isn’t going to clue him in. He’s either figured it out, or he hasn’t.

Before I pump the gas, I steal one more glance at his home and spot a woman on the second floor, curly brown hair falling past her shoulders. She’s drinking a cup of coffee at a sink, staring out the glass. Chimes hang in her window.

For a second, it seems like she’s looking at me.

But my windows are tinted, it’s dark, and surely, she’s just an early riser, listening for birds.

At home, I toss the hat on the entryway table, crash for two hours, then get ready for the gym and—I hope—a secret date. As I tug on workout shorts, my phone chirps, and I grab it from the bed.

I read the text from Beck and snort. In a nod to my recent note, he says I should call him Mister Anti-Social.

Fair enough. I change his profile name and thumb back to the continuing thread, then flinch at what I see.

Mister Anti-Social: Your middle name is Finley.

I don’t use my mom’s maiden name anywhere. Before I can ask how he knows it, another text pops up.

Mister Anti-Social: This is so unfair.

What the hell is he talking about?

Mister Anti-Social: You’re already ridiculously handsome. You have that dimple. That magic smile. And now I learn you’re the only person in the world with a good driver’s license photo.

I relax. In our up-against-the-door-frenzy last night, he tossed my wallet on the floor. My license must have skidded out. I bound downstairs and grab my wallet from the table in my foyer. Flicking through it, I confirm my license is indeed missing. So’s a condom.

Hmm. That must have landed on his floor too.

I’ll take that as an opening, thank you very much. But first, I need a new text name too. I settle on one quickly, a perfect contrast to Beck. Maybe it’ll show him that we fit together. By the way. I’ll be Mister Social.

Then I return to the good stuff.

Mister Social: Looks like my license isn’t the only thing I left behind.

Mister Anti-Social: Gee, were you trying to leave me a subtle message after our convo last night?

Hell, yes.

Well, not intentionally, but I’m going to make the most of that condom in every way.

I flip through my mental calendar. Tonight is out since I’d be too tempted to stay up all night fucking, and that’s a mistake leading into a game weekend. The Hawks play at home, so I’ll be in the football-only zone tomorrow and Sunday. Same for Beck. He flies to Chicago on Saturday for a Sunday afternoon game. We’ll both be back by Monday, so he could come over that evening.

Perfect.

That’s the plan, and I’m so damn eager to ask him to spend Monday night with me. But I don’t want to do this over text. He’s too sarcastic behind a phone. Besides, I need to read his body language. While we have boba this morning, I’ll search for the right moment to ask him to spend the night with me on Monday.

With that settled, I write back.

Mister Social: I promise I’ll be unsubtle when I see you. That is, if you liked my “date idea” from earlier?

I want to make sure he knows my post-gym invite was a date. I hit send, even though my steady hands are shaking. I’m fucking nervous now, for real. I hope he says yes to seeing me after we hit the machines.

Mister Anti-Social: When you mentioned that boba shop the first time I saw you at the coffee place, were you hoping someday I’d say yes to a date?

Mister Social: Are you still trying to prove I have a crush?

Mister Anti-Social: Yes.

Mister Social: You win.

Mister Anti-Social: Excellent. Also, why do they call it a sister shop? Why not a brother shop?

Mister Social: You’re killing me. Bro shop, sis shop, who cares? Give a dude an answer.

Mister Anti-Social: With you, it’s always yes.

When I shut the front door behind me on my way out, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Anyone who sees me will be able to tell I’m deep in the red zone with infatuation.

I jog down the steps, but once Zena’s house comes into view, I erase the I-got-laid-and-I’m-getting-laid-again look as best I can. She’s watering flowers on her porch, so I call out, “Hey, Zena. I have some good news for you.”

Her smile brightens against her olive skin. “You changed your mind?” She flies down the steps, watering can in hand.

“No, but do you know Carter Hendrix?” I ask as she reaches me on the stone path.

“Of course. I love my Renegades!”

I roll my eyes. “You never really wanted me anyway for your app,” I say with exaggerated disdain.

“Of course I did. You were my first choice, and I still want an out athlete as a partner. But the Renegades are the Renegades, so I’ll happily work with one of their players,” she says.

“I mentioned to Carter you might be interested. I can have his agent get in touch.”

“You’re a doll,” she says, then leans in to give me an air kiss.

“For a Hawk,” I grumble.

“That’s true,” she says. When we separate, she dives into business mode. “But you can’t escape me entirely. Date Night is also sponsoring the Ultimate Player Auction, both here and in New York. With so many queer and straight players doing the event, there was no way I’d let another app beat me to it. My app is very LGBTQ friendly.”

That gives me another idea. “If you really want a queer dude too, I might know someone,” I offer. Hell, maybe I’m a matchmaker now for my buddies and sponsors. It’s that kind of day, and I am spreading the love.

Zena’s eyes sparkle. “I’d love any recommendations you might have.”

“Let me make a call.”

After I say goodbye to Zena, I text Carter the Zena details, then call my friend Luke, the second-string quarterback for the New York Leopards.

“McKay, I’ve told you before,” Luke says when he answers. “I’m not sharing the playbook with your sorry ass. You’re gonna have to find another way to win.”

“Ha. We’ll destroy you next weekend, regardless. And I hope they put your sorry and slow ass in so I can personally annihilate you,” I say as I walk along Jackson Street.

“I can’t believe I ever said you were nice.”

“Did you, Luke? Did you ever say that?”

“Hmm. Actually, nope.”

We shoot the breeze for a minute or two, catching up on events since I saw him in New York over the summer. “So, are you doing this Ultimate Player Auction in New York again?”

“I am. I want some hot dude to bid more on me than anyone bids on one of the straights. I pulled it off last year when I went for the highest price. I want to do it again. I’d love for a bad boy with a sexy accent to place the winning bid,” my friend says, going a little dreamy.

“That is both a noble goal and a very specific one.”

“Put it out there and the universe will deliver. Or something like that,” he says.

“I think you want the bad boy to deliver, not the universe, buddy.”

“Or maybe I want the bad boy to deliver in my universe,” he says.

“Maybe you should try out for the New York Horn Dogs. Anyway, I wanted to pass on a tip for you and your agent if you’re looking for sponsorship deals. Zena Palladium is dying to have a gay dude be the face of her app. I can connect you. I turned her down.”

“Aww, you’re giving me your sloppy seconds.”

That’s not the case, and I want him to know it. “I’m just not dating.” I feel bad lying, so I shift gears as I near the ice cream shop on the corner, where black spiders and cobweb cutouts decorate the shop window in the spirit of the season. “Anyway, are you coming here early next week before our game?”

“I’ll fly out a day or two early to see the family, but I’ve got some time. You want to hit the links?”

“Yes.”

Wait.

I stare at the too-cute-to-be-spooky décor, and inspiration strikes. Halloween is six days from now, on a Thursday. I am an evil genius! If I have a Halloween party, I’ll have reason to invite Beck . . . along with everyone else.

Can’t ask him out to the movies, or for dinner, or anything that screams real date, but a party is a perfect cover. I won’t have to flash the I like you Bat-signal to get another night with him, both with friends and then alone.

When the party ends, Beck can stay behind with me. Just me and him and my Alaskan King bed. That’d give me two nights with Beck—Monday and Thursday—and I don’t have to serve up my heart.

I ad-lib an invite to Luke. “And I’m having a Halloween party next week too. My house. Sports-themed costumes, but you can’t be an athlete in the sport you play,” I tell him.

“Rules. God bless ’em. And yes, I’m in for the party and a round of eighteen,” Luke says.

I say goodbye, thinking of the party prep I’ll need to do over the next few days. But I love that shit.

A few minutes later, I reach the gym.

Even though I saw Beck mere hours ago, the prospect of seeing him again now excites me on a whole new level. I hope he’s feeling the same way.

25

FIRST DATE WOES

Beck

I don’t believe in signs. But if I did, a condom would be a good one. When I spot it under the entryway table, I pick it up, finger the foil wrapper, then tuck it into my wallet like a good luck charm.

Maybe it’ll give me the balls to ask Jason a big question.

If all goes well on our clandestine date this morning, I’ll ask to see him regularly on the down-low. A crazy thought, but it’s got a hold of me. After his surprise visit, I can’t let go of the idea.

Last night was unexpected and amazing. I didn’t open up to Rachel that quickly. But Jason’s so easy to talk to. He makes me feel . . . safe and understood.

It’s a warm and wonderful feeling. I don’t want it to end, and I don’t want to wait around for one of us to get jealous or horny and just show up at the other’s door. I want to find a way, any way, to keep having him. If that means sneaking around for the rest of the season, I’ll do it. If it means darting out before dawn, I’m on board.

I leave for the gym, heading down the stone path toward the sidewalk, plotting possibilities.

Portia is sauntering down the pavement toward me, swinging a paper bag in one hand and cradling her phone with the other. “I just picked up bagels at your favorite place,” she says into the phone. “You better come here for Thanksgiving because I know how much you like your Thanksgiving bagels.”

Thanksgiving, yes! That could happen too.

Buoyed by the prospect of turkey and mashed potatoes and sex, though not in that order, I wave to my landlady, then turn down the street.

“Wait, Beck!”

I turn around. “Hey, Portia.”

Covering her phone, she nods surreptitiously to the driveway. “If you ever have a guest, they can park in the driveway instead of the street. It’s a perk of renting.”

Shit.

Did she see him come over? Or spot us making out by the door? I slap on my game face, giving nothing away. “Good to know.”

As I head for the gym, I pick up the pace, needing distance from that uncomfortable moment. My brain crawls with new questions: Is a secret fling too risky? Is it even worth it? Do I need to worry about Portia?

Sliding open my texts, I tap out a message to Jason, asking Did my landlady see you leave?

Once I write that, the question looks accusatory, so I erase it.

After getting off on the wrong foot a few times with Jason, I don’t want to misstep again. I definitely don’t want to step backward.

But I don’t entirely know how to move forward with him.

I picture my tattoo of the sun and the sky. Breathe.

I don’t need to rush. I’ll take my time. Analyze. See how our date goes this morning before I ask for more.

At the boba shop counter an hour later, we order drinks, then Jason swipes his phone across the reader before I can get mine out.

“I was going to pay,” I say quietly. I don’t want him to think he has to cover me just because he makes more money.

“I got it,” he says, then lifts his hand like he’s going to set it on my back. My breath catches in excitement, even though he stops himself, tucking his hand in his pocket.

But I saw his intention. He’s possessive. I log that as a good sign.

“I kinda pay for everyone when I go out. But I want to pay for you,” he adds, his voice soft. He’s not showboating. He’s reassuring, and his quiet confidence is a booster shot to my own. Still, I’m not entirely sure how to behave with him in public. I’ll need to keep taking the temperature of this . . . date.

Once we have the drinks, we weave through the mostly empty shop. Pop music plays overhead, but otherwise, the place is quiet on a Friday at ten in the morning.

Jason slides into a booth in the far corner of the shop, and I grab the seat across from him. He’s wearing an ocean blue T-shirt that’s snug across his pecs. Even though I’m sure his wardrobe is blue shirt central, I still like this attention to detail.

I tighten my fingers around the cup. I’m not sure what to do. I’ve been on dates, but none like this. None with a guy I like so much my bones hum just being near him. I dart my gaze around, scanning for new customers, for anyone who might know us, who might be able to read me. I don’t entirely trust myself around people when I’m with him. If I smile, I might as well be giving away my soul.

I try to keep my expression neutral.

Jason studies me, then clears his throat quietly. “You okay?”

I suck on some tea. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Jason sighs doubtfully. “You sure about that? I can kinda read you and tell you’re not.”

That melts me too, the easy way he understands me. “Do you think everyone here can tell what I’m thinking?”

“You have a good poker face, Beck. I don’t think everyone else can tell, but I can tell you’re worried. I can see. That’s all. And I want to know what’s going on with you.”

Busted, but I like it. I don’t want to act around him. “I don’t know how to . . . do this,” I say, gesturing subtly from him to me.

“From where I sit, you’re doing okay. But we can leave if you want. Or I can go,” he says.

I shake my head adamantly. “Don’t go.”

He smiles. “I won’t.”

Taking another drink, I try to untangle my thoughts. “My landlady said something this morning that made me feel . . . see-through. She mentioned I could use her driveway if I had guests over. Like maybe she knew I had a guest last night.”

Jason’s eyes flicker with guilt. “Does she have dark, curly hair?”

“Yes. Did you see her?”

“Pretty sure she saw me drive away, but I don’t think she knows I was at your house,” he says, wincing. “Shit. I’m sorry, Beck.”

His apology tugs on my heart. So does the way he says my name—like I matter to him.

I reach to take his hand but jerk back . . .

That’s the issue.

I thought Portia’s comment was what made me second-guess dating, but the real issue is, I can’t hold his hand, and that sucks. But that’s the shitty reality of our situation. “It’s not your fault. Portia’s cool. I trust her. She won’t say anything.”

“Good,” he says, then takes another drink.

“She’s a huge Renegades fan. She offered me a discount on rent the day I signed the lease. I think she’s a mom type.”

“That’s sweet. Not that I’d know personally, but it sounds nice,” he says.

He told me his mom left when he was eight, but that’s all I know. That kind of comment needs following up, but as I work through how to gently ask what happened, he asks me more about Portia, and before I know it, I’m telling him about the birdhouses, her son, the candle I bought her. Talking to Jason has always been easy, and being here feels like a nice, regular date, the kind we’d have if we were just two guys going out. We’d talk about our everyday, ordinary lives like I’m doing. The more I share, the calmer I feel—happier too. “Anyway, she’d consider it rude to reveal anything, so you don’t have to worry,” I say, and holy shit, I just reassured him.

That feels right too.

“Good,” he says, wearing a big grin now.

“But I do have an issue with everyone being a damn Renegades fan. Like Zena,” Jason gripes. I take my turn, listening as he shares his morning. He tells me about his realization that Halloween is next week, how it’s been his favorite holiday since he was a kid, and that he loves any candy with peanut butter in it, even though he tries to avoid candy since he aims to eat healthy most of the time.

I savor every single second of this secret date. When his stories wind down, I try to hide a smile, but I can’t. I lean in and give a dirty whisper, “I like the pic you sent. You looked good in that hat.”

“You want to see me in it again?” he asks, low and raspy.

“I do,” I say.

“Good. I’d like to keep it in rotation,” he adds.

His words spur me on. I’m this close to making plans with him for more stolen moments.

But the door to the shop swings open. “I’ve been wanting to try this place for so long,” a loud, boisterous blonde says to the bearded man by her side.

I hit pause on the be mine plans. Instead, I zero in on practical matters. I reach for my wallet, then slide him the ID. “So, Finley’s your middle name?”

“It’s my mom’s maiden name.” His voice is uncharacteristically cold, the edge of a knife as he tucks away the license.

“You’re not close to her at all?” I ask, thinking about his mom comment.

He shakes his head. “She took off when I was eight. Left my dad and my brother and me then. A few years later, she married a new dude. Barely saw us. I don’t really hear from her unless we make the playoffs, and it’s just to say congrats. The only good thing I can say is she doesn’t try to ride the gravy train.”

A pang of sadness lodges in my chest. “That’s why you don’t use the name anywhere,” I say, understanding him more.

He smiles sadly. “You figured me out.”

I’ve figured out a lot of things about Jason McKay. He doesn’t want that kind of life for himself—disconnected from his family. He doesn’t want to be like his mother at all. He wants to be like his dad and his brother. He likes to take care of people. He’s a giver. He’s a lover. He’s a protector.

After last night and thanks to this morning, I figured out something else too—I could fall hard for him.

Except, the second that awareness clobbers me, I know it’s a little late for that. Because . . . as we share more about ourselves, my whole body is warm, my brain is calm.

Being with him feels utterly right.

I’ve already fallen.

My heart jackhammers, beating too fast, too hard. But this wild rhythm isn’t panic. It’s possibility. This date is giving me courage.

I slide my foot under the table, braving a chance. I tap the toe of his sneaker with mine, and fireworks ignite in me.

The grin he sends my way lights me up.

Ask him to keep doing this crazy, risky, dangerous thing. Invite yourself over again. And again.

“So I was thinking,” I begin.

He nibbles on the corner of his lips. “Mmm. Me too.”

That’s promising as fuck. “What are you thinking?”

“I want to ask you something,” he says, nervous but excited too.

The tone is an electric charge through my body. It tells me I’ll like his question. It tells me he’ll probably like mine.

“Ask me—”

Our pillow talk is broken by a high-pitched tone: “It’s the two-minute warning!”

Like Coach blew a whistle, I whip around, hunting for the voice and spotting the blonde who came in a few minutes ago standing nearby, a cup of tea in one hand, a grin on her face.

Jason’s my opposite, all cool and casual as he turns to the couple. The blonde clasps her mouth then drops her hand, going full announcer: “And now, team captain . . . Jason McKay!”

The bearded man beams at me. “And now, your new starting quarterback, Number Nine . . . Beck Cafferty.”

I affect a small grin, but the expression feels awkward. I wasn’t ready to shut the doors on that private moment. But the interruption reminds me that cooing over a café table isn’t very down-low.

Jason’s smile goes wide and welcoming. “How’s it going?”

“I’m such a Hawks fan,” the blonde says, clutching her chest with her free hand. “I’m Cheyenne, and I just love you so much.”

“I’m Mitch. And I’m a total Renegades man,” the guy says.

The woman bursts with energy. “And my hubs and I, we have this thing every weekend where whoever’s team wins, that person gets to pick the chore the other does. The other week, when the Hawks won, and the Renegades lost, he had to take out the garbage.”

“The next week, she cleaned the litter,” the man explains. “But if you both win, we do the chores by points.” He couldn’t be happier to share their to-do list system.

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out what to say at all. “Cool,” is all I manage.

“That’s awesome, Mitch. Lean into the rivalry,” Jason says, so much smoother than my cool.

The bubbly blonde looks from Jason to me, then back. Can she tell I’m crazy for him? Does she know I’m sleeping with the enemy? I maintain a stony expression so no one can see into my heart.

“Can we get a picture?” the blonde asks. “Then we’ll let you get back to it.”

“Works for me, Cheyenne. We were planning Monday’s segment,” Jason says, then nods to me with a jovial grin. “Right, Beck?”

I’m keenly aware I haven’t opened my mouth to say a word, but cool. He’s done all the talking. “Yes, that’s right,” I say.

Jason stands, and I follow suit.

“You two in the middle,” the blonde says, directing us, and I’m shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy I want to see again and again in secret. I should love this moment, but it’s also a reminder that this is all we’ll ever have.

Moments where we pretend we’re not spending our nights together. When we pretend we’re simply two rivals who rib each other on-air.

The blonde sticks out her arm and snaps a picture. When she’s done, she says, “We’ll let you finish.”

Jason smiles. “Actually, I’ve got practice. But tag me because I was going to take a pic for social myself, but I’d rather repost a fan pic.”

She squeals.

He’s made her day. Probably her whole week.

I know the feeling, Cheyenne.

The couple heads for a booth, but even when they’re gone, the vibe has shifted. The shop is packed now, with customers who came in while we weren’t looking.

Our secret date is officially over.

“I have practice too,” I say, then I drop my cup in the recycling bin, and he does the same.

We make our way through the crowd and out to the street. I glance back, wishing the clock hadn’t run down. “Thanks for the boba,” I say and come to a stop, though that barely scratches the surface of what I want to say.

“I should go, and you have practice too,” he says, then his eyes drift to my lips. He stares a little longer than he should.

For a second, he sways closer, almost, almost, like he’d want to kiss me.

My pulse is beating too fast, and I’m sweating.

Is this what I want? An almost kiss? An almost touch?

Yes, and no.

My heart squeezes, but it hurts this time.

I’m dying to see him again, but how the hell is a guy like me—riddled with anxiety—going to handle the magnitude of a secret affair with my rival quarterback?

“Have a good practice,” I say, wishing I had the guts to speak my true mind.

But I can’t. And I won’t.

More customers pour out of the shop, and Jason’s expression shifts from soft and private to friendly and public. “I’m throwing a Halloween party on Thursday,” he tells me. “Want to come?”

I should be happy about the invite, but I’m disappointed in myself. I came into this date with a goal, and I failed to move the ball.

It’s time to punt and take what I can get.

The reality is simple. Jason can’t be my boyfriend. We can only hang out in public as friendly rivals. And if we keep doing that, sooner or later, someone will catch on.

But I refuse to be in a funk about a party. I might as well enjoy hanging out with friends in my new hometown.

I smile, hoping it looks like I mean it when I say, “Sounds fun.”

Then I go, missing him more than I ever wanted to.

26

FUCK TIMING

Jason

Timing is everything.

In sports, in sex, and in dating.

Out on the gridiron, you’ve got to know when to throw the ball, run it, and hand it off.

On Sunday against the Vegas Pioneers, I fire the ball again and again to Nate, Orlando, and Devon. My badass Hawks connect in every quarter, enough to counteract the pick I throw at the start of the game, and we walk away at the end with another W.

Timing matters on-air too.

On Monday morning, Beck and I are back in the studio, tossing barbs left and right. We lock eyes across the soundboard, Beck almost smiling as he lands a particularly good zinger.

“Pro-tip for ya—maybe don’t always look first where you’re going to throw,” he says.

Like I don’t fucking know that. I made a rookie mistake last night with that interception, telegraphing the play in advance near the start of the game.

But Beck did too, when he fumbled the ball before the half. “Thanks. While we’re at it, the council of quarterbacks sent a memo last week. Not sure you got it, but it said try not to fumble the ball.”

The zing is on. The chemistry is real. And I am ready to finish what I started on Friday over boba.

This is my new plan to lock in a time to see him—as soon as the show ends, I’ll say goodbye to Megan. Then, Beck and I will head down the hall. I’ll point to the stairwell. Once the door shuts, I’ll jerk him against me, kiss the hell out of him, then invite him to spend the night.

But when the show should end, Megan’s still sporting a devilish smile rather than signing off. “Guess what, guys? We have two special guests for you today. Are you ready?”

Not one bit, but I fake it with a sure.

“I guess we better be,” Beck says, but the uncertainty in his tone tells me this is news to him too.

“Hold on just a second,” Megan says, then the studio door pushes open from the other side, and whoa.

Nadia strides in, looking sharp and stylish in a red blouse, black slacks, and her signature Louboutins. I sit up straighter. “Hey boss,” I say.

Right behind her is Wilder Blaine, the owner of the Renegades, a sharp-dressed man with the cuffs of his crisp white shirt rolled up to reveal his ink, which is nice and all but nowhere near as sexy as Beck’s.

“Hello, sir,” Beck says, and it’s adorable how Beck talks to him. I dip my head to hide a grin.

The owners settle into extra chairs, the studio cramped now. Once they quickly put headphones on, Megan says, “Well, what brings you two here?”

As if she didn’t engineer this.

“Ladies first,” Wilder says.

“Aww, you’re sweet, but I say age before . . . brains,” Nadia says.

“Ouch. You wound me,” Wilder says like these two practiced this repartee.

“Seriously though, this whole rivalry thing got us thinking about attendance. If the Hawks can beat the Renegades with attendance at our home game this weekend, I’ll donate one hundred thousand dollars to the city’s local animal shelters,” Nadia says.

“And if the reigning Super Bowl champs have more fans next time we’re home—and we will—we’ll match the donation,” Wilder says, not to be outdone.

“How about that?” Megan says, clearly impressed. “Listeners, be sure to share your thoughts on social media, and thank you, Nadia and Wilder, for coming in.”

When she signs off, Nadia turns to me and asks if the four of us can grab a cup of coffee.

So much for my stairwell fantasy.

At Republic of Caffeine, I sit like there’s a ruler down the back of my shirt. Beck sits even taller while Nadia does the talking. “We have a lot of interest in the auction already. The clicks on your profiles and the pre-bids are quite high.”

Wilder clears his throat. “We’d like you both to attend a pre-auction cocktail and mingle with sponsors and attendees. Would that be something you could do?”

“Of course,” Beck says since that’s the only acceptable answer.

“Yes,” I add. I don’t dare look at Beck. I don’t risk a glance.

When we’re done, I head to the parking garage with two team owners and the guy I was going to ask to stay the night.

Sure, I could get in my car and fire off a text inviting him over.

But this morning feels like the boba shop all over again when there wasn’t an easy moment to ask him.

Nothing is easy about my situation with Beck, and at some point, shouldn’t feelings and shit just be simple?

It’s fourth down right now, and I don’t know what play to make, so I call my own timeout. I need to spend a few days figuring out where the hell I want this dangerous game with Beck to go.

For now, I go home.

On Wednesday afternoon, I swing my five-iron high, putting every ounce of my ample frustration into the stroke.

I fucking miss the little white ball.

I groan to my golf companions. Nate’s here on the links with me at my favorite course outside the city. Luke has joined us, and our friend Hazel’s in town too. The romance writer is ridiculously good at all games.

“I hate golf,” I whine.

Nate chuckles, enjoying my horrid game far too much. “And golf hates you, Jay.”

“May it keep on hating you so hard,” Luke says, casting his gaze heavenward along with the prayer.

Hazel frowns. “Maybe I should just play solo? I’m thinking I might do better without you as a partner, Jay.”

I growl. “You’re stuck with me. You’re my only chance of winning.”

Nate scoffs. “Hate to break it to you, Jay. But I doubt you can win even with Hazel on your team.”

Hazel squeezes my arm, trying to buck me up. “C’mon, you can do it. You know how much I hate losing at golf.”

“You hate losing at anything,” I point out.

“We all do,” Nate says.

I haul in a deep breath, doing my damnedest to focus on the game. Not on Beck. Not on seeing him tomorrow at my party. Not on the fact that I can’t stop thinking about him.

Fuck. That. All.

I lift the club, swing my hips, and hit the life out of that ball. “C’mon,” I mutter as it soars . . . right into the damn sand trap.

“Why, Satan? Why today?”

Nate and Luke laugh and wander ahead of us along the course, but Hazel hangs back. “You seem extra frustrated. And there’s usually one reason for that.”

I sigh.

She never misses my emotions, no matter how hard I try to hide them. “That obvious?”

She smiles sympathetically. “To me. Do you want to talk?”

I plunk the club onto the grass, resting my weight against the handle. “I don’t even know what there is to say about this guy. That’s the problem.”

“Is it someone you’re missing? Someone you want to see? Or is he someone who doesn’t want the same things you do?”

All her questions tug at my heart because the answers are too easy. “I miss him. I want to see him. And I’m pretty sure he wants the same things.”

“And what do you want?”

That’s easy too. “I want to see him. But it’s complicated.”

She smiles again. “It always is,” she says, too wise. “But if I can help, let me know.”

As we walk to the next hole, I weigh her last words. It’s not like me to turn down help when I need it, but do I need a sounding board to sort through the complicated sitch with Beck?

Or do I need less talk and more action?

The next night, I fill my home with food I ordered from a gourmet shop—seven-layer spider dip, pumpkin deviled eggs, veggie dog mummies, poisoned apples, bite-sized eyeballs made of marshmallows, and all the candy, gourmet chocolate, and Halloween cookies anyone could want.

Also, liquor.

Hazel, Luke, and Nate help me set up. By the time the party starts, pop music pipes through my sound system while black cat decorations and spiders line the walls. The mood is set, and the vibe is on.

Luke dons his referee costume, apropos for tending bar. Hazel pulls her red hair into a ponytail, pops on a white skirt the size of a postage stamp, and twirls the tennis racquet in her hand.

I head upstairs, lock the cat in my bedroom, and get into my costume. First, I dunk my head under the faucet, then slather gel in my hair so it’ll look wet all night. Next, I drape a pair of swim goggles around my neck, strip to nothing and pull on a swimsuit. I add shower shoes to complete the look, then head downstairs.

Luke’s setting out glasses on the counter, and he scoffs when he sees my get-up. “Why are you not in a Speedo?”

Nate smacks his shoulder. “What if there’s a hot guy here?”

Luke points at himself. “Dude, there is.”

I laugh, but they’re not why I picked board shorts over Speedos for my swimmer costume.

Nate walks closer to me and lowers his voice. “Oliver wants to talk,” he says, sketching air quotes and making a talk sound spookier than Halloween. “I’m going to head off.”

“Good luck, buddy,” I say and haul him in for a hug.

Soon, the first guests arrive. I open the door for everyone, greeting Orlando and Lucy, dressed as goalposts, saying hi to Devon decked out as a dodgeball star. Xavier shows up in a fighter pilot costume, insisting pilots are athletes. I don’t bother arguing. It’s a valid point, and besides, I’m not the costume police.

I’m just a guy hoping the guy I like enjoys my costume. I mean, the no-shirt look was strategic. I look good in just my abs.

But Beck hasn’t made it yet. Each time I open the door, I peer down the street, looking for him.

A couple of my friends on the Renegades arrive next. Hayden’s dressed as Ted Lasso, with Isaiah looking the part of his sidekick coach.

And still, there’s no Beck.

Beer in hand, I mingle but never take my eye off the door. Every time someone bounds up the front steps and rings the bell, my dumb heart jumps.

But it’s never Beck, and that sucks.

After an hour empty-handed, I’ve figured out the answer to Hazel’s golf question. I don’t need help from anyone. I do need to help myself.

The timeout is over. It’s time for action.

I steal away to the bathroom, shutting the door, then tap out a message on my phone.

Are you coming? I can’t stand not seeing you here. I need to see you. I need to talk to you. And I need to touch you.

27

NUDE SEWING

Beck

My costume rocks.

Jeans, a foam finger, and the number twelve painted on my bare chest for the twelfth man.

I am a certified fan, and I’m prepped to have a damn good time at Jason’s party. I’ll get to know new people. I’ll talk to teammates. I’ll have a blast.

Doesn’t matter if I speak to the host or not. Hell, who cares if I even see him? I’ve spent the last few days shutting down my emotions. That’s not cruel—it’s necessary to get through tonight as just one of the guests.

Carter should be here any minute, so I settle into the beanbag and read till he knocks, a deafening sound. I set down my phone and head to the door, letting in my friend.

And . . . whoa. “I just went blind,” I say, shielding my eyes from the intensity of the fuchsia.

He’s wearing black shorts and, I think, an upside-down pink thong. “What the fuck is that?”

The bearded receiver groans, plucking at the pink nylon strings on his shoulders, or maybe they’re straps. “I’m the Super Bowl stripper.”

Oh, right! A dude in a bright pink mankini and black shorts streaked across the field a couple of years ago during the big game. “If Jason is having a costume contest, you win,” I say, then I want to kick myself. I make a mental note to call the host McKay next time.

But Carter is too busy fiddling with the crotch of his get-up to care. “This thing is too loose. Do you have a sewing kit?”

“I do,” I say, heading for the kitchen. Griffin loved to camp deep in the woods, so he taught me to always be prepared, including a sewing kit. “But I’m not sewing your mankini.”

Carter sighs, relieved. “I can sew. I just need a needle and thread. I forgot to try this on when it arrived in the mail, and my balls are dangling.”

I hold up a stop sign hand. “I didn’t need to know about the free-ranging.” I find the kit in a drawer and toss it to him. He catches it one-handed, naturally. “And maybe do your nude sewing in the bathroom or bedroom.”

“Will do.”

As Carter repairs his costume, I flop onto the beanbag again, about to click over to my book when I catch the time. Shit. We’re going to be more than fashionably late.

I should let Jason know. That’s just polite.

But when I thumb over to my texts, my phone buzzes.

It’s like it can see inside my soul. The name Mister Social appears at the top of my screen.

I click on his note so fast, then groan in anticipation as I read.

Are you coming? I can’t stand not seeing you here. I need to see you. I need to talk to you. And I need to touch you.

I read it again, once more, then I have to close my eyes and experience the heat flashing through my body.

It’s bone-rattlingly good.

I wasn’t waiting for a note from him. I tried to stuff any hopes on a top shelf in the closet, far out of reach.

But I can’t lie. This is the greatest text message in the history of the cellular world. As I’m about to respond, the bathroom door swings open, and Carter marches out. “Say it! I look good.”

He saunters through my living room, his costume fitting now.

“You look good. Let’s go.” I stuff my phone into my back pocket, and we take off.

Even though I’m the passenger in his car, I don’t risk replying as Carter drives us to Jason’s house. I don’t take a chance, either, as we park and walk down the street in the October night.

I don’t dare respond as we bound up the steps.

The second Jason opens the door, my pulse skyrockets. I’ve never been so affected by a person. I don’t know if it’s the residual effect of that text or what he’s wearing.

Or not wearing.

Either way, my brain is toast.

Jason McKay is not a friend. I am not detached. I didn’t shut down a single emotion. They rage inside me. They rattle their cages. They fight to escape my mouth. Any second, I’m going to tell him he’s mine.

First, though, the host admires Carter’s costume. “You. Win,” Jason tells the Super Bowl stripper. “But word to the wise—do not post a pic of that on your Date Night profile.”

Carter pumps a fist. “I don’t know about that, McKay. Some women like mankinis.”

“No. No, they don’t,” someone calls from the living room. A pretty redhead in a tennis skirt laughs at Carter as he struts past us and joins the sea of race car drivers, team mascots, and umpires downing shots in Jason’s home.

The other guests seem so far away they might as well be on Mars. Here in the doorway, it’s just the quarterback and me.

Two shirtless guys in their costumes. I want to pounce on him. He wants me too.

His blue eyes are flames. He parts his lips to speak but barely gets out a sound beyond, “Hey, you.”

He’s all rasp and fire. He looks like he’s about to combust. Good. His lust thrills me, and I take charge. “How’s your cat?”

Jason blinks at the question, but I don’t need an answer. It’s only a means to an end.

“Is he in the downstairs guest room?”

Understanding jolts Jason into action. “Let me show you.”

“I know the way,” I say as a mirage of heat wraps around me. I weave through the crowd as if heading into the downstairs bathroom, but instead, I duck into the guest room beyond, snicking the door shut.

I set the foam finger on the floor, then count for an eon.

Thirty interminable seconds later, the door creaks open. When Jason comes in and shuts it behind him, my libido tries to Incredible Hulk its way out of my chest. “Hey—”

“I threw this party for you,” he blurts.

I barely have time to react to that confession. He grabs my face, and I burn. His voice is pure desperation. “When I left your house last Friday, all I knew was I wanted to make plans to see you again. I had to find a way, so I threw this party just so I could see you again. Do something with you.”

“You didn’t need a party to see me. I’d have come over any night,” I admit, matching his confession with my own.

“Fuck,” he says, his tone thick with regret. “I should have just texted you on Monday and asked you to spend the night then. I knew I should have, but I stewed on it instead. But do you get it, Beck? I was dying for a chance to see you, even with other people around. I wanted to see you again so badly, I planned a fucking party.”

I’m buzzing all over. I’m going to rocket to the moon. It’s extraordinary to want and to be wanted. It’s exhilarating in ways football has only ever been to me.

Music pulses beyond the door. Voices float from the other rooms. He doesn’t seem to care. I don’t either. He dips his face closer to mine and brushes his mouth along my jaw. His lips worship me.

I want to climb him. But I’ve also learned a thing or two about Jason McKay—he likes a good, long tease. “Well, when does the party end?” I ask in a low and growly voice.

“Not soon enough.”

I slide a hand down his chest, over his abs, on a fast track for his cock. He groans when I squeeze his dick.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Don’t die. Let’s fuck instead,” I whisper.

“God,” he growls, then jerks up his gaze, staring hotly at me. “I’m not letting anyone stop me now. Most of all—me. Stay, Beck. Spend the night with me. Spend the morning with me. Don’t leave at five. Don’t leave tonight.”

Jason McKay begging me to stay is the most surreal thing that’s happened in my life.

I slide my hands up his chest, my fingers electric as I explore. I want to tease him. I want to drag out my yes. But my throat is dry, my body is aching, and my emotions can’t handle the on-again-off-again of the last several weeks. I want us all the way on even if it’s just after-hours. “I’ll stay, but tonight isn’t going to be the only time I spend the night with you,” I tell him, my voice hoarse as I lay myself on the line. “You better know that.”

“I know that. I want that too,” he says, and he sounds like he’s begging me.

I want to hold on to that sound forever. Only, it vanishes when he crushes my lips in the neediest kiss. As he consumes my mouth, I hear his desire in his sighs, his murmurs.

I hear, too, the risk of this kiss. One hundred people are beyond that door, and he’s kissing me like he’ll go mad without me.

I clutch at him, grabbing at his swim trunks, jerking him against me, feeling the hot, hard length of him against my jeans.

Then feeling the bare skin of his chest against mine.

When I break the kiss, I glance down at his shorts. He won’t be able to leave this room for a bit. I’m feeling pretty cocky about that as my eyes travel up his abs and torso, but I stop at the blue paint. A splotch of my number twelve marks his chest.

Evidence of us.

“Hold on,” I say, then wet a finger, and wipe it off. He’s protected me. I can protect him.

“Thanks,” he says, and it sounds like he’s swooning.

“I’ll see you later,” I say.

Then I go and do my best to blend into the party. Once I have a beer in hand, I duck into the living room corner, near a shelf of books.

Wait. Is that my hat? I glance around furtively. No one’s looking, so I back up against the purple Seductive hat, then push it behind some books.

Whew. With that out of sight, I take out my phone and finally answer Jason’s text, fire scorching my veins as I type.

I want to fuck you so badly. But when I top you, I want you to feel amazing, so I want you to top me tonight. And I want you to teach me how to make a man moan with pleasure. Show me how to make you feel so damn good with the way you fuck me.

A few minutes later, his name lands on my phone, followed by ten fire emojis.

28

SAINT DICK

Beck

Time slogs on. I’ve never wanted an event to end so badly, but I also do my best to have fun. I hang out in the kitchen, chatting with Luke from the Leopards, who gives me a fist bump for my coming out interview, then to Hazel.

“I heard you’re a writer. Which book of yours should I try?”

She smiles, patting my shoulder. “You do know I write romance?”

I frown. “Um, yes. Why would that deter me?”

“Well, a lot of guys look down on the genre,” she explains diplomatically.

“I’m omnivorous when it comes to a lot of things, books included,” I say with a smile. “Now, tell me which book of yours to try.”

“Try Plays Well With Others. If you like it, I have a signing event next week with a few other authors,” she says.

I take my phone from my pocket and make a show of buying her book on my e-reader and downloading it in front of her.

She hugs me. “If you hate it, don’t tell me, but I already love you for buying it.”

I smile. “I won’t hate it. I’m sure I’ll like it.”

Hazel beckons me to step closer, then cups my ear. “Whenever you leave, I’ll make sure the party wraps up, and then you can come back in thirty.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Does she know everything about Jason and me?

She senses my unsaid question. “Don’t worry. I figured it out. But that’s kind of what I do. I got your back,” she says like I’m her friend now too.

Briefly, I picture being friends with his friends.

And, as I catch sight of Jason in the living room, toasting to Carter, I can see him being friends with my friends.

I like the images.

Eventually, Carter’s ready to take off, and I leave with him.

When I’m home, I take a shower, washing the paint from my chest. But I have a bigger goal than hygiene—jacking off. I don’t want to fire too soon with Jason, so I get one out of my system now, picturing tonight. Takes all of two minutes.

When I’m out of the shower, I pat on the aftershave Jason likes, then pull on fresh boxer briefs, jeans, and a T-shirt he’ll strip off in seconds.

Good. I want to be naked with him all night long. My phone buzzes from the bureau. A text flashes.

Hazel cleared everyone out. When you’re a block away, call me, and I’ll open the garage. Here’s the code to get into my house.

I grab some clothes for tomorrow, stuff them into a canvas bag, and then get the hell on my way. I’m bouncing with hormones and excitement as I drive and ring him when I’m near his house.

“And,” he says, as I hear a rumble in the background once he’s pressed a button, “you’re in.”

The garage opens, and I feel like a rock star as I pull in next to his car and cut the engine. The garage door closes, sealing me in for the night.

I get out of the car, punch in the code, and walk inside. His house is eerily quiet, especially since we were on the phone less than two minutes ago.

Weird.

I slide off my shoes, leaving them at the door, then pad up the stairs to the foyer, canvas bag in hand. I peer around the first floor. Black and orange streamers line the couch, empty glasses litter the coffee table, and plates with half-eaten chips and dip decorate the kitchen counter.

A gentle thud breaks the silence as Taco lands there, beelining for a plate of nachos. He sniffs the cheese.

I scoop him up. “Not a good idea, buddy,” I say, and the critter purrs in my arms.

I’m tempted to call Jason’s name, then hear the patter of falling water from upstairs.

He’s in the shower.

It’s a gift from Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the patron saint of two dudes fucking.

Saint Richard, I believe.

Gently, I set the cat down on the floor and then take the stairs two at a time. But before I reach the top, the faucet squeaks. The shower’s off.

Dammit.

Seconds later, there are footfalls from the main bedroom, and I turn down the hall toward the sound, stopping in the doorway and dropping my bag on the floor.

I stare shamelessly as Jason strides from the bathroom into his bedroom. A towel is slung low around his waist, and he’s drying his hair with another. Droplets slide down his broad chest.

Thank you, Saint Dick.

“Had to get the gel out of my hair,” Jason says, then tosses that towel on the bed.

“Glad it’s gone now,” I say, mesmerized, as I cross the room and rope my hands into his wet hair.

I kiss him hard and ruthlessly, setting the tone.

He’s on my wavelength, his hands merciless as he grabs at me, riling me up with his explorations. Soon, I don’t know who’s touching who. My life narrows to hands, heat, and breath. To us.

I break the kiss, look into his eyes, and say what he already knows. But I’m learning how much I love telling him my dirty wishes. “I want us to fuck. A lot. I want to do everything with you, Jason.”

He grabs my jaw. Holds me rough, the way I like it. “You telling me what you want turns me on so fucking much.”

I reach for his towel and whip it off, so his dick pops free, proud, standing at attention.

Quickly, but hardly fast enough, he strips off my shirt, and I shed my jeans and boxers. We tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and muscles and need.

When Jason bites my neck, my dick twitches against his. When he licks my Adam’s apple, my whole body shakes. And when he rumbles out a throaty mmmm against my skin, my brain overheats right along with my body.

Breaking free of his grip, I meet his eyes. “I jerked off in the shower,” I tell him, thrilling at the naughty confession.

His eyes darken. He’s picturing me naked under the water. “Want to watch you do that.”

“Same,” I say.

“Here’s a preview,” he says, then sits back on his knees and grips his cock. Sliding his thumb over the head, he teases out a drop of arousal.

Groaning, I stick out my tongue.

He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, and I dart my tongue over it. “You taste so fucking good.”

“Bet you do too,” he says like he has a secret. “Get on your hands and knees.”

I blink. “Already?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Baby, I’m not going to fuck you yet. I won’t even be touching your dick.”

Oh God.

Oh hell.

I connect the dots, wild excitement tripping through me. In a flurry, I get on all fours. He moves behind me and palms my ass. I crane my neck, needing to watch.

“Mmm. Want you,” he moans, then he drops his face, kisses the top of my crack, and makes me shudder every-fucking-where.

My body feels heavy and woozy. When he flicks his tongue down my ass, my brain goes haywire. It sparks and crackles.

A warm brush of his tongue there. Right there.

My elbows wobble. My dick aches.

I had no idea anything could feel this good. I murmur something, I don’t know what. I’m grasping for words. I don’t know anything anymore except this decadent pleasure zooming through my body.

Noises surround us. Grunts and groans fall from my lips. But he’s loud too. With every stroke of his tongue, he moans. With every hot kiss, he murmurs.

He eats me like he’s obsessed with my pleasure, and I’m obsessed, too, with these wild, new sensations torpedoing through me.

He spreads me apart, teasing me with the tip of his finger while he licks. “You taste fucking incredible,” Jason murmurs, and he sounds like he’s high.

My entire body jumps with pleasure. “Want to do this to you,” I mutter.

He freezes, then kisses my ass cheek. “Yeah? You sure?”

So fucking sure. “Yes. Can I?”

Another kiss. “Next time. If you do this to me, I will come so fucking hard, and right now, I want to shoot inside you,” he says.

I’m cooked. We have to screw, stat. “Get me ready,” I demand, stroking my cock furiously, not even caring that I might come soon.

Laughing, Jason licks a long, slow line down my ass before he pulls away. “On your back and stop playing with that beautiful cock till I’m inside you.”

In a heated daze, I flip over, watching him stride to the bathroom, admiring every inch of his body. His muscular thighs, his thick cock, his strong chest.

I hear the sink, then the sound of brushing and spitting, and a few seconds later, Jason comes back to the bed, grabbing the lube from the nightstand. “You still good?”

“So good.” Telling Jason what I want in bed is freeing. I love speaking my mind to him. It’s the antithesis of worry. “But next time, you need to finish me that way.”

He grins, shaking his head in amazement. “You are the most fearless man, Beck,” he says, settling between my legs.

I’m so aroused, but I want to make tonight good for him too, and he likes it when I taunt him. I give him a show, parking my hands behind my head, lifting my hips. “C’mon. What’s taking you so long?”

“Such a greedy lover,” he says as he pours some lube onto his hand. Then, with a quickness I don’t see coming, he drops his face between my legs and hoovers my dick into his mouth.

Sparks skitter across my flesh as he hauls my cock down his throat and pushes a finger inside me.

My brain relocates to my dick. Hell, my heart too, beating in my cock. Everything aches intensely between my thighs. My entire world is there, right there, and Jason McKay is lighting up my body.

He sucks me deep, thrusts another finger into me, then crooks it just so.

“Ohfuckfuckfuck,” I shout.

My vision turns neon, billboards flashing brightly in my mind. I can barely withstand the pleasure whipping through me. But I manage this much: “Now. Fuck me now,” I demand.

My dick falls from his mouth. His lips are obscenely wet. He reaches for a condom on the nightstand, swiping his hand across the towel he left there.

On his knees, he opens the wrapper carefully, then rolls the protection down his shaft. I want to be a part of every moment, so I push up on my elbows. “Let me lube you up.”

“Do it,” he says, handing me the bottle.

I coat my palm, then slick up his dick. He spears my fist for a few long strokes, then bats my hand away so he can dip his face to mine and plant the most devastating kiss on my mouth.

“How do you want me?” Jason asks when he breaks the kiss.

“Don’t make love to me. Fuck me,” I tell him, then spread my legs, and lift my knees.

With one hand, he pushes the back of my right thigh up toward my chest. I’m so vulnerable right now, and I don’t care about anything but how I feel.

Ready.

He locks his gaze on mine. “You trust me, Cafferty?”

How can he even ask? “You know I do, McKay,” I say plainly, baring my soul.

“Then I’m gonna fuck you hard like you want.” He growls, and I’m so damn relieved that he’s not treating me like I’m precious. I don’t want him to go gentle with me.

He notches the head of his cock against me and pushes in.

I grit my teeth. And wow. Holy fuck. This hurts.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he rasps.

“Not a chance in hell,” I mutter, then grab my left thigh and open myself more.

His entire body shudders above me. It’s beautiful and sexy. “Beck,” he moans, then sinks into me.

All. The. Way.

The pressure is intense. The stretch is uncomfortable. But the sensation is almost good. The man I’ve fantasized about for two years sinks deep into my body, and I’m this close to pleasure. I’m even closer when he kisses me, a bruising kiss that overwhelms me. Then, with his lips barely on mine, he starts to move.

I haul in a breath, shivering. He swivels his hips, eases out, pausing, and then plunging back in.

There is no pain. Only pleasure.

“You,” he moans.

He can’t finish the sentence. I don’t think I can speak either. I can only grunt and groan as he fucks me in long, slow strokes. My skin buzzes with excitement. My bones rattle with lust as we find a rough and dirty rhythm. He doesn’t treat me like I’m a virgin. He pounds me like a man who wants to bury his cock in his lover.

“Harder,” I urge.

“Yeah?”

“I can take it. I want it.” I’m a fucking pro athlete. I can handle whatever he can bring. I reach around, grab his ass, and jerk him deep.

My body lights up with each jolt. It hurts in the best of ways. I’m being fucked within an inch of my life, and it’s everything I imagined.

With each punishing thrust, Jason gives me the sex I’ve been craving. Deep, hard, passionate sex with him.

Desperate to come, I slide a hand between us, gripping my length.

“Let me do it,” he says, then rises to his knees and takes over for my hand, jerking and fucking me and setting my nerve endings on fire.

I can’t take it. The wicked heat twists inside me and then bursts. I cry out, shooting all over my stomach and his hand. It feels like I’ll never stop coming. With one long guttural groan, he drives deep, stills, and shudders.

Then he collapses onto me, his slick chest against mine, his face buried in my neck, his lips tenderly kissing my skin. “That was sooo . . .”

“Incredible,” I say.

“You are just . . .”

“So are you,” I whisper.

My body feels used in the best of ways. I am spent, and I am happy. Especially since I’m not going to wake up at five in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve taken my third shower of the day because sex is both awesome and messy. At least this one isn’t solo. Jason and I get out, dry off, and slide under fresh sheets.

In the dark, he reaches for me. “How was it?”

I know he wants an honest answer, but I love to have fun with him. “Not too bad,” I say drily.

He bites my shoulder.

“We can do it again if you want to try to improve your technique,” I add.

“I can’t wait to critique your technique,” he says, laughing, then kisses my neck. “Mmm. Make me breakfast in the morning, ’kay?”

I huff. “That’s why you wanted me to spend the night?”

“Maybe,” he says. A minute later, he’s asleep, and I’m exactly where I want to be.

Curled up with this man, sleepy and sated. The cat joins us, and I say goodnight to Taco too, because he’s definitely not a CockBlocker tonight.

29

GOD BLESS BLACK CARS

Jason

Sun streams through the window above the stove, brightening the entire kitchen. Hell, the whole house shimmers with light on this first Friday in November—including Beck.

I’m learning he looks good in the morning. He wears a snug, gray T-shirt, tight jeans, unkempt hair, and just the right amount of morning stubble. He’s like a dream come true. “I had a fantasy like this the other week,” I say as I set two places at the kitchen counter, and Beck lowers the heat on the stove.

The buff, muscular football player making me breakfast, turns to me, lifting a brow in a question. “You’re saying you want me to bend you over the kitchen counter when I’m done cooking?”

I shake my head, grinning selfishly at the meal coming my way. “Nope. My fantasy was eggs and potatoes.”

He rolls his eyes. “Walked right into that.”

“You sure did,” I say, then fold cloth napkins as I give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry I don’t have coffee. Or a coffee machine.”

“I’ll live. But while we’re at it, tell me more about your food fantasy,” he says as he serves the scrambled eggs onto red and yellow Fiestaware plates and then scoops breakfast potatoes next to them.

My stomach rumbles. This guy is such a good cook. I can’t wait to tuck in. He hands me a plate and then doles out his own food. “Last week, when I was leaving your house, I was thinking I wanted to take you to Lulu’s Diner,” I say, picking up a fork and diving into the meal.

Beck joins me at the counter, completing my morning-after fantasy of us in the kitchen after the sun is up, talking and eating. What can I say? I’m a simple man, and when I like a dude, I want him with me after we bone down.

“So, you fantasized about having a meal with me,” he says, inviting me to elaborate.

Feeling the warm glow of the morning after, I go for it. “I did. I wanted to grab some food and get to know you more,” I admit as my heart thumps a little harder.

He smiles like he can’t quite believe I told him that. “What did you want to ask about?”

“I had a bunch—”

The doorbell rings, and he sits up straight, alert. “Someone’s here?”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I know who’s at the door. I pat his thigh, then hop off the stool. “I got you something.”

“You did?” He sounds enchanted.

Feeling smug, I head to the door, swing it open, and thank the Ding and Dine driver for the coffee, adding a big tip.

“Thanks, man,” he says with a grateful smile. “Go Hawks!”

“Go Hawks,” I repeat as he bounds down the steps and out to his wheels. I shut the door and return to the kitchen, presenting the cup to Beck.

He takes it and regards it with surprise. “You got me a coffee?” he asks, despite the evidence in his hands.

“It’s from Doctor Insomnia’s. The way you like it,” I say, nerves tapping on my shoulder from his uncertain reaction.

Beck goes strangely quiet.

Shit. Did I go too far into the boyfriend zone? “Did I get your order wrong?” I ask, staying focused on the coffee.

“No. I just . . .” He sets the cup down on the counter and clears his throat.

My stomach sinks.

When he raises his face, his eyes are sparkling. “It’s great, Jason,” Beck says, voice thick with emotion. Then he cups my cheek and presses a tender kiss to my lips.

“It’s just coffee,” I murmur as we end the kiss, our lips still chasing each other.

“And these are just eggs,” he says gently.

There it is. We both have our simple fantasies. We both are living them. When I sit on the stool, Beck takes a sip of the drink and then taps his finger against it. “This is the good stuff.”

See? I’d be an excellent boyfriend, even if it has to be behind closed doors, with secrets and a distinct lack of things being easy. But I refuse to let reality get me down.

“How did you feel when you threw your first touchdown?” I ask as I spear a chunk of potato.

“Psyched. I was seven or eight. My dad taught me,” he answers.

“How long does it take you to play Wordle each day?”

A smile spreads nice and slow across his lips as if he enjoys my random queries. “A couple of minutes. Do you play?”

“Nope.”

“You were playing a word game that first night I came over. What game was it?”

I wave a hand dismissively. “Just some app. Like a word find. Nothing fancy like you play.”

“You think I’m a smarty-pants,” he says with a smirk, then takes another drink of his coffee, sighing contentedly.

“Kind of.”

“You like that?”

“You know I do,” I say, then take another bite of the eggs. “What do you listen to when you work out?”

“Beethoven, alt-rock, Bob Ross, or heavy metal,” he says.

This guy is so unpredictable, and I like it. “Those are the Beck Cafferty four basic food groups when it comes to music? Also, Bob Ross? That’s so you.”

He lifts his chin defiantly. “And what do you listen to? Wait let me guess. ‘We Are the Champions’ by Queen? ‘Time of Your Life’ by Green Day?”

I scoff. “Thank you for mocking my musical taste. For that, you’re going to need to suck my dick to see my playlist.”

He wiggles a brow. “I’m in.”

I laugh, then toss one question his way. A question that has me on the edge of my seat, hoping we can pull it off, hoping he’ll want to try. “Do you want to go to Hazel’s book signing next week?” He tenses immediately, and I quickly finish the request. “We can go as friends.”

His shoulders relax. “Like a date. But not really.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

He smiles, his tension gone now. “It’s something,” he says, and he sure likes that something.

Me too.

When we’re done eating, he stands, moves behind me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and rubs. I might purr. It feels so good. “I need to tell you something, Jason,” he rumbles near my ear.

“That sounds intense,” I say, but I’m not worried. Not yet, at least. Not as he massages my neck.

“You know my BMW?”

“I do,” I say as he moves to kiss me, sliding his mouth over to my ear.

“I got it for this.”

“What do you mean?”

He’s cautious, taking his time as he answers. But hopeful too. “After the first time I was here, I wanted to come over again. I was hoping we’d do this. See each other again that is. I didn’t get a red Porsche for many reasons, but this was the main one. I got a generic black car with tinted windows, that looks like every other car, so I could come over, spend the night, and leave unseen. Maybe that’s presumptuous.”

My stomach flips in a good way.

I spin and curl my hands onto his hips. “No. I love that,” I say, ready to cozy up to him again when I glimpse the clock on the wall. I wish I could stop time, but my dream morning is over.

“Come over Sunday night when you return. You play Los Angeles in the afternoon.”

“You know my schedule,” he teases.

I roll my eyes. “And you got a car, so we can fuck.” I slide a hand into the waistband of his jeans.

“You got me coffee,” he retorts.

“And you got a car so we can fuck,” I repeat.

“You win.”

We both win when I get down on my knees and give him a taste of what I’ll be thinking about in bed the next few nights.

30

DIRTY LITTLE LIAR

Jason

A New York lineman lasers in on me. He’s snarling, hellbent on knocking me to my knees.

No way.

I am not losing my first game after fucking Beck.

I’m just not.

We’re down by three, and time is running out. Less than three minutes left.

I scramble, hunting for an open receiver. C’mon, Nate. Where the fuck are you, Orlando?

But then, Devon darts past a Leopard cornerback, arms up, hands beautifully ready. I gun the ball to him in a gorgeous spiral, and the rookie hauls it into his arms, right as the defensive lineman barrels toward me.

Andre, my left tackle, swings around and catches the lineman’s thighs, and we all go down in a pile.

My head rings. My teeth rattle.

For several horrible seconds, the ground feels like my new forever home.

But Andre took the brunt of the hit. He’s made of concrete, so he’s pushing up, offering me a hand.

I grab it and pop to my feet, exhaling hard as my body resets.

“You okay, McKay?” Andre asks.

I nod, then blink. “Thanks, man. Yeah, I’m fine.”

That’s football.

You get knocked to the ground. You get back up. You go into the huddle then you run the next play.

And when my short pass lands in Nate’s big hands, my buddy carries it all the way into the end zone.

Sweet!

As I trot to the sidelines, Xavier’s the first one to greet me. “You all good, bro?” he asks, draping an arm around my shoulder. “That looked bad.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He smacks my shoulder. “We’re gonna keep that lead you gave us,” he says, his tone fierce. And I believe him.

After our kicker nails the extra point, Xavier leads the defense onto the field, and the man keeps his promise.

The line doesn’t even allow a first down, and when we get possession, we let the clock wind down till the W flashes on the scoreboard.

We leave the field, smacking palms with the Leopards. When I pass Luke, who didn’t get an ounce of playing time, I drag him in for a hug. “See you soon, buddy. Glad you lost.”

“Fuck you,” he mutters.

“Love you too.”

“Fuck you again,” he says.

“Fly safe.”

Then he waves. “Catch up with you on the flip side.”

In the locker room, the mood is fiery. The guys are amped up. We’ve got a six and two record and a Coach who isn’t ripping us to pieces.

As I toss my sweaty, muddy jersey into the laundry bin, Xavier calls out to the crew. “Spotted Zebra? You men in the mood?”

Orlando shouts a yes.

Elroy gives a salute and says, “I’m there. Because defense shows up.”

Johnson smacks his palm. “We fucking do.”

I toss a knowing glance at Nate. He smiles back. It’s good to see these two getting their mojo back.

Xavier points at Nate, then me. “Team captains better be there.”

Nate shakes his head. “Can’t. Sorry guys.”

He sounds like he has shit to deal with. I need to check-in and see what happened with him and Oliver. For now, I jump on the “no” train, too, yawning. “I need a long, hot shower and to hit the sack. Next time,” I say.

Xavier arches a brow.

Elroy boos and Johnson scoffs.

Nate and I take off, and as we’re walking down the corridor, he shakes his head, smirking.

“What?” I ask.

“Taking a shower?” He sketches air quotes. “They believed you, you dirty little liar.”

“It’s true,” I insist.

He calls bullshit with a long nod. “Right.” Then he nudges my arm. “Have fun in the shower.”

I do my best to ignore the kernel of guilt that wedges into my chest. “How’s everything with Oliver?”

“On a scale of one to not good, it’s a negative fifty,” he says as we reach the stairwell to the stands.

I pat his shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”

Then I put the game and my dirty little lies behind me. I head to find Dad.

I don’t offer him an arm today. He stands on his own—no cast, no crutches, no walking boot, just a proud grin. “Look at your old man,” he says.

“You’re such a show-off. You did this when I came over to watch Privilege two nights ago.”

“And I will continue to remind you I’m capable.”

I laugh. “I know you’re capable, Dad.”

“And I listen too. You’ll be glad to know I only answered a few emails during halftime,” he says as we head up the concrete steps.

I cough under my breath. “Translation—inbox zero.”

He laughs. “You throw masterful touchdowns. I run a tight cookie business,” he says, then squeezes my shoulder when we reach the concourse. “Great game. This whole season is looking so good—”

“Don’t jinx me, Dad.”

He rolls his eyes. “As if you believe in that.”

“But I do. If I start thinking I’m having a killer season, then I might get cocky. I might rest on my laurels. We’re on a helluva streak, and I don’t want to blow it.”

He mimes zipping his lips, but when we get into my car a few minutes later, he unzips them. “Want to get a late dinner tonight?”

That guilt I felt earlier wedges in deeper. I hate lying to people I care about. I hate lying in general.

But, hold on. I can actually tell my dad. At least, I can tell him something, and boy, do I ever want to.

“I can’t, Dad. I’m seeing someone,” I say, and holy shit.

That felt amazing to say.

Like I just drank a glass of sunshine. I’m grinning now too as I look at him across the console.

Dad smiles. “You really like this guy.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fatherly delight.

“I really do,” I say, and tingles rush over my skin as I think of Beck, his musical taste, his cooking, his car purchase, and the endless questions I love answering. “But it’s complicated. Like, really complicated.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “No. Not yet. Right now, I just want to enjoy . . . tonight.”

And that feels good to say too.

After I drop off my dad, I return to my home and get ready for a late-night rendezvous with my rival.

The man who won his game too arrives an hour later. God bless black BMWs, garages, and secret affairs.

Sometime around midnight in my bed, Beck makes good on his Halloween party text message promise.

I walk him and talk him through his first time, showing him how to make me moan with pleasure as he gets me ready. When I’m writhing and begging, he grabs a condom.

His eyes are more intense than they’ve ever been. All he wants is to make it good for me.

But I want to make it easy for him, so I get on all fours. “Fuck me like this, baby. I love this position, and you will too.”

The sounds he makes are insane as he takes me, as he obeys my every instruction, going faster, pushing me down into the mattress.

Then I jerk till I shout in pleasure.

He follows me off the cliff, shuddering and saying my name.

Then, we shower.

I guess I’m not such a liar after all.

31

SEE-THROUGH MAN

Beck

Thursday morning, I set out for a run along the Golden Gate Bridge, counting the hours till my not-a-date tonight. As I reach the Sausalito side of the bridge, my phone pings with a text.

Mister Social: Hey! So, Nate just told me he’s going tonight too. He’s buddies with Hazel . . . ergo . . .

I heave a sigh of annoyance. Things will be weird if it’s the three of us. Or maybe it’ll make things easier since our not-a-date will look even less romantic. I have no idea. I don’t have a clue how dating a dude on the down-low works. But Jason’s great with social situations, and he never minds my questions.

Mister Anti-Social: Should I invite Carter or some of the guys? Hayden? Anyone? Will that be weirder?

My phone’s quiet as I pound the pavement along the Pacific Ocean. I’ve reached the edge of the bridge by Muir Woods and turned around before he replies.

Mister Social: Look, I want to go just with you, but at this point . . . strength in numbers?

I want to type: Can we just skip the signing and hang out at your house? but that would make it look like all I want from him is sex when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I want a real date, and then another, and then still more. But tonight was never a real date, so what’s the point of getting worked up? I’m about to reply, It’s all good, when my phone buzzes again.

Mister Social: We’ll probably all grab a drink after. Okay? But you’re coming to my house later. You just fucking are.

My heart springs like Snoopy doing a dance. Why is he so easy to like?

Because he gets me. He fits with me. And his certainty unlocks my own.

Mister Anti-Social: I fucking am.

The sign looms above the shop on Van Ness. An Open Book.

It’s just a bookstore. It’s just a signing. It’s just my heart hurtling itself against my rib cage, thump after painful thump.

No one knows you’re falling for the other quarterback. You’ll be fine.

But even after several deep breaths, I still can’t make my feet move. I’m stuck outside the shop, staring into the window, past the sign advertising Hazel’s event.

The crowd stretches around the chairs set up in the back of the store, visible even from here. Jason stands next to Hazel, smiling, not stealing the pre-event limelight, just flanking his friend. Carter’s with them too, laughing because, of course. Carter gets along with everyone. Carter goes with the flow.

Just go in. Just do it.

But how am I supposed to act like I’m not crazy for Jason? Where is the playbook on that? I need to find it because my right arm is trembling. I throw touchdowns with this stupid arm, and I hate its shaking for giving me away.

My feet are like bricks, and my head is made of cotton, and I have to get the hell over this feeling that I’m trapped inside my body.

I push out a breath past the fear that’s strangling me.

“Hey, man.”

With a flinch, I jerk my gaze to the voice. It’s Nate. How long has he been standing there? Long enough to see me freaking the fuck out over Jason. Might as well have a neon sign flashing overhead: “I’m involved with your quarterback!”

“Hey,” I mutter.

His brow knits. “You doing okay?”

Yup. He can tell. I’m so screwed.

“Yeah, sure.” I flap a hand toward the signing. “I was inside, and now I’m just, um, getting some air.”

That excuse seems to track for him. “That place is balls hot,” Nate says, hooking his thumb at the store. “I went to a book event for Axel Huxley here a few months ago, and I swear I sweated off five pounds.”

The familiar name is a lifeline, and I hold tight to the common interest. “The thriller writer? He’s awesome.”

“I’m obsessed with his stories,” Nate agrees. We talk for a minute about the twist in Huxley’s last book, and the shaky feeling starts to wane.

Then Nate tips his head toward the store. “I’m gonna head in. See you in there, Caff.”

Once the door swings shut, the panic slams back into me like a gut punch.

If I step foot in that store, Nate will know how I feel about Jason. Carter will know. Everyone will be able to read me. I can’t hide my feelings for my rival. They’re so big and so consuming. They’re growing roots deep inside me.

The field is the only place where I don’t feel these nerves. Football soothes me. Football makes sense. On the gridiron, I’m aces at making my brain, heart, and body work in tandem. But conquering the pre-game nerves took years of practice. No way can I pull off a clandestine date.

I scan the block, peering around the steady trickle of evening crowds on the San Francisco street. There’s a coffee shop still open at the corner. Feels like a safe house. Must get there.

Gulping air, I wheel around and walk away from the bookstore, grabbing my phone from my pocket to text Jason.

Mister Anti-Social: I can’t go in there right now. Everyone will know. I’m going to the coffee shop. I’m sorry I ruined the night.

I walk up the block, knowing I’m the worst date ever. But thirty seconds later, I hear sneakers slapping the pavement behind me.

“Cafferty.”

The strong, confident voice should reassure me, but it doesn’t. He can’t cure me. I am the guy who couldn’t go through with a date.

Jason points to the café door. “Let’s go inside.”

On autopilot, I go in, nerves still thrumming. The shop is empty. Jason gestures to a quiet table in the corner, and we grab the chairs. Then he meets my eyes, and his are full of caring. “Are you freaking out?” he whispers gently.

I exhale hard, shakily. “Yes.” No point in lying. He can see it on me.

He reaches out and pats my knee—a bro gesture, but it settles me a bit. “Go to my house, okay? I’ll be there in an hour. Just watch TV, read a book, hang with the cat. I’m not going out with them after. I want to see you,” he says, so gentle, attentive. His voice is like a warm summer breeze.

I swallow past the stones in my throat. “You don’t have to skip the time with your friends. I’ll go home,” I say quietly.

“I want to, Beck.”

My pulse slows like a spinning top winding down. “What will you tell them?”

Jason’s grin says he’s got this. “Your landlady called. About something. Doesn’t matter what. No one’s gonna ask. You had to check on the house. You’re sorry you took off, and you asked me to have Hazel sign the book for you.”

God, I could kiss him. I have a million things I want to explain, but not as much as I want to get far, far away from these crowds.

“Can you do that?” he asks. “Wait for me at my home?”

I can’t believe he truly wants to put up with me. “You sure?”

“Positive. Now, I’m gonna text you a link for the garage door app I use. I’ll send you my login. Go. Chill with Taco. He likes you better, anyway. I’ll see you soon.”

I watch him walk away, feeling calmer. Feeling understood.

32

A HAT IS MORE THAN A HAT

Jason

Handling Beck’s regrets is easy. No one thinks twice about it. Shit happens, people cancel—it is what it is.

Only Hazel has a clue, but she gives good poker face at the signing table as I slide her a copy of Plays Well With Others. “It’s for Beck.”

She grabs a pink pen, signs with a flourish, then shows me the inscription. You make good choices.

I crack up, then give her a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, girl.” Tucking the book under my arm, I catch up with Carter and Nate in the thriller section.

“You want to grab a beer?” Carter asks.

“Nah. I need to take off.”

Nate gives me a curious look, one brow lifted. “That so?”

“Yeah, I have this thing known as practice tomorrow,” I say drily. “And a game this weekend I intend to win.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Nate sasses back.

“So we’re not getting a drink?” Carter asks, bummed and giving me the chance to change my mind.

“Sorry, guys,” I say. Then since there’s zero need to dwell on stuff I won’t get into, I change the subject with Carter. “But how’s everything with Zena?”

Carter’s eyes light up. “Dude! Thanks again. My agent worked that deal, and we are all good. You’re the man.”

“Excellent. Glad to hear,” I say, stealing a glance at the door, eager to go home.

“It would have been cool to share a sponsor with you. But you’ve got Seductive too, right?” Carter asks.

I shake my head. “They’re not one of mine. Must be thinking of some other gorgeous guy.”

Carter waves a hand dismissively. “I thought I saw a Seductive hat at your place on Halloween.”

My heart clenches. Our disguise hat. I’m so glad Beck isn’t here. He’d be a wreck, even though everyone leaves shit around at parties. “Nope, but maybe your mankini cut off the blood flow to your brain that night,” I say.

“As well as his balls,” Nate weighs in.

Laughing, we all leave together, and I’m glad I managed to keep our romance on the DL.

I want Beck to know he can trust me to take care of situations when he’s overwhelmed. That I’ve got his back.

Once Carter takes off for his car, I head for the side street where I parked, and Nate says, “I’m going to grab a Lyft.”

Ah, hell. I can’t let a friend do that. “I’ll drive you home,” I offer.

Nate doesn’t live far, and it’s the right thing to do. We hop into my wheels, and on the way to the Marina, we chat about the game this weekend. As the bay comes into view, dark and inky at night, Nate blows out a long stream of air. “So, anything you want to talk about?”

He’s too damn perceptive. I don’t think the Seductive hat was the giveaway. My friend knows I hang with my buddies unless there’s a guy I’m into. So, of course, he’s added up the clues of my disappearance after our last game and, now, tonight.

It’s a good thing it’s only Nate who’s sleuthed it out. I’m supposed to be a team leader, and role models don’t mess around with off-limits guys. My teammates wouldn’t like it if they knew. Coach would think I was sharing plays or some stupid shit like that. Fans would lose their minds and call me a traitor. It’s an unwritten rule—don’t mess around with your rival.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and slap on a smile. “What’s on your mind?”

“Jaybird,” he says, a gentle warning. “Be careful, okay?”

My shoulders tighten as I pull over in front of his house and weigh my options—deny, lie, or evade.

I’m tired of lying, but there’s no way I’m serving up the truth. I’ve got to protect Beck, so I choose avoidance. “Appreciate that, man.”

Nate gives a crisp nod and goes into his home.

Maybe I’m not such a role model after all. But for tonight, I’m more than fine with just being me—a guy who wants to take care of his guy.

At home, I find a sexy man stretched out on my couch with a cat curled up on his chest, both of them sound asleep.

My heart clutches. Like a happy fool, I gaze at the pair of them as I pad to the couch, sinking down on the other side. Maybe I’ll read here till he rouses. Check my messages. Play a word game.

I set Hazel’s book on the coffee table, and Beck stirs. Rubs his eyes. Blinks them open. “Hey,” he mutters as Taco leaps off his chest like his furry ass is on fire and hightails it to another room.

“Hey, you,” I say softly.

“Sorry again,” he says, then sits.

I slide over next to him, threading my hand through his hair, savoring the soft strands. “Don’t apologize. I’m where I want to be.”

“I owe you a blow job. Or maybe fifty,” he says, guilt threading through his tone.

“I won’t turn one down, but no, you don’t.”

“You knew what to do.”

I cup his cheek and turn his face to make him meet my gaze. “I care about you.”

I know he believes me. I can see it in his eyes, all vulnerable and bright. But I know, too, this is hard for him—this secret thing between us.

“What can I do for you, Jason?” he asks, his voice stretched thin. “I was going to cook you something amazing, but I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten dinner. And I thought maybe I could train your cat to shake paws, but then he decided to sleep on me.”

I laugh, stroking his hair. “Baby, you already did something for me.”

“Were you looking for an excuse to get out of the drinks? Bennies of me being anti-social, I guess,” he says, poking fun at himself.

“No,” I say, not taking the humor bait. We can only be like this in these stolen private moments. I want us to be as authentic as possible. “What you did tonight was a big fucking deal.”

He scoffs. “You’re crazy.”

“I’m not. You told me what was going on with you. That means a lot to me. That is a big deal.” I take a beat and blow out a breath. “Thank you.”

A sliver of a smile shifts his lips. “You mean it?”

I kiss the corner of his mouth. “It takes a lot of guts to be honest. You were, and I’m really glad.”

Beck kisses me back, and it’s a devastating kiss. I want to read so many things into the possessive way he holds my face and strokes my jaw. I want to read words into his touch—scary and wonderful words.

When he breaks the kiss, he squares his shoulders. “Are you hungry?”

I laugh. “Always.”

“Then let me cook for you.”

He’s determined to repay me, but he doesn’t need to. Still, I won’t turn down a good meal, especially when it will make him happy. “Let’s do it, Chef Cafferty.”

He stands, reaches for my hand, and takes me to the kitchen. There, he makes me sautéed chicken and asparagus, along with shishito peppers—my absolute favorite food. As he whips up the meal, he tells me his favorite parts of Hazel’s latest book. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to show me he can be easygoing. Pretty sure he needs to show me, so I let him have the floor.

“I liked her story almost as much as an Axel Huxley tale,” he adds when he sits down with me to eat the spread he made.

“Oh! She had to do a podcast with that guy, and he drives her crazy,” I say, picking up my fork.

“Why? Is he a jackass? Oh man, please tell me he’s not a sexist pig. I don’t want to have to stop reading him,” Beck whines.

Shaking my head, I laugh. “Nah. He’s not like that. More like he thinks love is bullshit, and he hates romance. But, in her words, his voice is so stupidly sexy he makes it hard to focus on how much I want to hate him.”

Beck cracks up. “Sounds like she should write a hate-to-love romance about him.”

“I’ll pass on the tip,” I say, and once we finish eating and cleaning, we go to bed together.

When we’re under the covers, Beck turns to me again, a wry grin on his face. “So, that was a great date for me.”

“Me too. And it’s not even over.”

I slide down between his legs, draw his soft cock into my mouth, and then lick and suck for a few seconds till he grows harder, filling my mouth with his arousal and my senses with his sounds of pleasure.

“Mmm. Yes,” he moans, urging me on.

I indulge in him, giving him a luxurious blow job. His dick gets the whole damn treatment. I lick long stripes up and down his shaft. I kiss the head. I suck on his balls. I’m so turned on from getting him off that I’m rubbing against the mattress.

Then, I’m even more worked up when he grabs my head, ropes his fingers through my hair, and grunts for ages. The noise is long and carnal like he’s so lost in the moment.

Same for me. I’m obsessed with making him feel good.

Taking Beck apart in bed is such a high. He’s so daring after dark with me. But he’s daring during the light too. His gutsiness, even when it hurts, makes me want him more.

And I show him how much I want him with the way I touch and suck and kiss.

“Jay,” he moans. “I fucking love what you do to me.”

That makes me harder. Happier. I take him deep, lavishing all the attention in the world on his dick.

His fingers grip my skull. He thrusts his hips, pushing his cock farther down my throat. Bring it on. I don’t care if my throat is sore tomorrow. I want his pleasure. I crave his release.

“God, I can’t take it,” he mutters.

Then, he’s helpless to the pleasure, panting, writhing, and fucking my face with reckless abandon until he comes in an animalistic cry that trips my wires.

I swallow him down then, like I’m going for a record, I straddle his abs and fuck my fist till I’m coming all over his chest.

It’s an epic orgasm, but a joyful one too. Sex with Beck is both pure pleasure and pure joy. There are no games. He lets down his guard and lets me in. And I have no secrets from him.

I know the risks of falling harder for my rival. My head says to get the fuck out, but my heart pulls me in Beck’s direction.

I wouldn’t want to give him up, even if I knew how.

33

MY SECRET BOYFRIEND

Beck

If my brother were here, I’d ask him for advice. How do I handle a secret boyfriend?

He’d probably tell me not to have one, so I amend the question.

Am I doing enough to manage my anxiety?

I ask myself that question over the next few days—as I practice on Friday, as I help Portia fix a loose drawer in the kitchen on Saturday morning, and as I go to the team hotel that night.

Jason talked me off the panic ledge when I needed him to, but what if it happens again and he’s not around? I’ll have to step up for myself.

After dinner at the team hotel, I do some research online in my room. There are meds, and alternatives like hypnosis, biofeedback, maybe even therapy.

Good to know there are more options for me to consider.

Then, there’s this welcome nugget—get a good night’s sleep. Sounds like a great idea, and I’m about to turn off my phone when Carter texts me with a link to Jason’s Instagram feed and a note saying Make him eat crow!

I laugh—because Carter is soooo Carter—then hit play.

Jason stands on the Hawks’ football field, grinning into the camera. “Hey, there, Hawks fans. Just want to say we kicked ass last weekend in attendance because you are the best. And I know we’re going to beat that other team in the city—I can’t even remember their names, I’m sure you can’t either—in the attendance game. And if we don’t, then any of their players can come out to our field and gloat on my Instagram feed.”

I can easily handle gloating without therapy or hypnosis. I’ve proven it this whole season of podcasting with my rival.

But as I turn off my phone, I hardly think of him as my rival anymore. He’s definitely my boyfriend, and that’s kind of terrifying and kind of awesome too.

I try to focus on the awesome part for as long as I can.

I never doubted our fans, but it’s still sweet to walk through the tunnel at the Hawks facility on Monday, head out to their field, and find Jason waiting there—stoic, chin up, ready to eat a whole plate of blackbirds.

Reese is with him, waggling her cell phone, prepped to shoot the video. “Hey, Beck,” she says, then lifts the phone and hits record.

I turn to the Hawks’ quarterback, savoring this moment. First, because our fans rock. Second, Jason loves it when I’m hard on him on-air, online, and between the sheets. Win-win-win.

“Tell me, McKay, how does it feel to know that the Renegades have five thousand more fans than the Hawks? Five thousand,” I repeat.

“It feels like it’s raining cats and dogs at the city’s shelters since my awesome, amazing, caring team is donating money to them,” Jason says with a big grin, and I laugh.

“Aww. You’re so sweet. Trying to turn the convo around. But we matched the donation, and we also beat your team at attendance.” I blow on my fingernails.

He scoffs. “This guy,” he says to the camera. “Can you believe him?”

I just shrug. “I get it, Jay. Our numbers feel pretty unbelievable.”

He laughs again. “You’re killing me, Beck.”

He’s using my first name, and I don’t even care. It feels right for this moment.

“Don’t die before we beat you in the Super Bowl,” I say.

“Better switch that up, Beck. It’s more like the other way around.”

Then, we lock eyes, and his are glimmering. Holy shit. I know that look. That’s how he stares at me in bed when he’s about to tackle me. A charge ignites inside me. We’re talking to each other like we do before we fuck.

If we go another second like this, everyone will know we screw when the cameras are off.

This is how I can be a good boyfriend to him today—by knowing when to pump the brakes for us.

I zip up my emotions and smile at Reese’s camera like the rival I’m supposed to be. “Thanks again. Go, Renegades.”

Reese stops shooting, and I blow out a relieved breath.

Jason mouths a quiet thanks, just for me.

“Anytime,” I murmur.

A few minutes later, Reese escorts me out of the facility, full of energy as she keeps glancing at her phone. “They are going wild for this video! Jason’s fans love the banter between you two. It’s just so deliciously electric.”

There’s a reason for that, but no one seems to be catching on, so I’ll take that as another win.

The next week, we both win our games. I can start to smell a playoff berth. I return home well past midnight on Sunday, so I don’t go to his place. But on Monday, I text him in the Lyft on my way to the studio.

My car is in the shop today getting an alignment, but I’ll pick it up this afternoon. I should be able to drive the fuck-me car when I come over tonight.

He writes back quickly. Good, so then I can come all over you.

I laugh. I walked right into that one.

Also, why the fuck didn’t you tell me your car was getting serviced? I’d have picked you up.

I write back as the Lyft pulls up to the building on Market Street. I would have wanted to maul you in the car.

Fair point. But I will drive you home. No car make-outs, though. I won’t be able to resist if you start one.

I reread the sexy exchange in the elevator as I head up to the twelfth floor, amazed we’re pulling this off. I didn’t ruin our thing at the bookstore, and no one has figured us out.

While we’re on the air, near the end of the show, Megan gives that impish smile that says she has something up her sleeve. “Guys, listeners are loving you. How would you feel about taking some calls from your fans when we return after Thanksgiving?”

In the last few months, I’ve learned a thing or two about what makes her tick, so I execute the roll with it play. “Would love to, Megan,” I say.

I have a play for the coming holiday too. Something I’ve wanted since Jason and I went out for boba. I didn’t act then. But I will act as soon as we leave the studio and reach his car in the parking garage.

I slide into the passenger seat, meet his gaze, and jump. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Jason’s blue eyes twinkle like the sea. “I usually spend it with my dad and my brother. But I want to see you too.”

“Do you want to get together later that day?” I ask, buoyed by that possibility.

“Or,” he begins, taking his time. “I’m hosting it at my home. Do you want to come to my house and cook?”

“You mean, I’ll cook and you’ll watch me?” I tease.

“That’s what we do,” he says, and holy shit. It sounds like we’re a couple. Like we both want to be a couple.

I crave that so badly, but I try to slow down my wild thoughts because something nags at me. If he’s inviting me to spend the whole day, does that mean we need to hide our feelings from his family? I love being at his home where I can relax with him. I don’t want to revert to how I felt the night at the bookstore. “What about your family, though, and you and me?”

A shy grin tugs at his lips. Jason’s never shy. Fuck, that’s cute. “Would you be okay with them knowing about us? I don’t want to hide with them.”

My heart leaps. “I don’t either,” I say, revved up, spurred on by the plans we’re making. “Want to kiss you so badly.”

Jason peers out the back window, weighing the risks. “Parking lot’s empty,” he says.

I grab his face and brush my lips against his. When I break the kiss, he whispers, “Wow.”

“I feel that way every time we kiss.”

“Me too.”

He backs up the car and heads for the exit, passing a sleek green Jaguar. The car is a beauty. I crane my neck to admire it and catch sight of the woman at the wheel.

Chestnut brown hair, sharp cheekbones, looks like money.

That’s . . . Nadia.

My heart ricochets painfully, boomeranging around in my chest like an out-of-control pinball machine.

I lean back in the seat, take a deep breath, and picture my sky tattoo.

Then, I look over at Jason. He’s focused only on driving. He didn’t see her.

Maybe she didn’t see us.

Yeah, that makes sense. These days, we both have all the luck.

34

THE TRUTH ABOUT MASHED POTATOES

Jason

I stop by my dad’s after practice the next day, and we take Snickerdoodle for a walk around Russian Hill.

As he tells me about a new cookie his chief baker wants to roll out—imagine if a chocolate chip cookie and a habanero pepper had a baby—I hunt for just the right moment to tell my dad about Beck.

I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. I also don’t want him to tell me what a bad idea it is to get involved with my rival. I already know, and I hope he doesn’t judge me for it.

I buy some more time by asking him if he has a name for the new recipe. “Cookie Pepper? Papri-cookie? Sweet and Hot Cookie?” I suggest.

He laughs to humor me. “We’re going to call it . . . wait for it . . . the Habanero Cookie.”

“Simple. Direct,” I say as we reach the corner and Snickerdoodle decides to get acquainted with a fire hydrant. “When can I try it?” I ask, still stalling.

“Probably next month. But maybe I can snag an early batch.”

“I’d love that,” I say as the pooch sniffs a tree. I stop delaying. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“That guy I’m seeing?” I begin, my stomach doing a loop-the-loop.

“Yes? It is going okay?” He sounds so concerned, the way he’s always been for me.

I glance up and down the street like I’m assessing the secondary’s coverage on the field. I lower my voice. “It’s Beck Cafferty,” I admit, a little embarrassed. Not about Beck. About my own poor judgment. About the fact that I didn’t stop it. That I embraced this rule-breaking.

My dad’s eyes widen in surprise before he tactfully rearranges his features. “Oh. And it’s going well?” He’s so diplomatic.

“Yes. I mean, it’s a secret, of course. Right now. But yeah, he’s . . .” I sigh happily. I can’t hide my feelings. “He’s great.” My stomach swoops for a whole new reason. “I really like him.”

My dad smiles. “I can tell.”

“Yeah?” I ask, grinning too.

He rolls his eyes, then stage whispers, “It’s a little obvious.”

“Are you going to tell me this is foolish? That our fans will hate us? That Nadia will be pissed?”

“Do you want me to tell you that?” he asks earnestly.

I shake my head. “No. I tell myself that every day.” Though, lately, not as much. Lately, I keep thinking we can make it work somehow.

He gives me a sad but sympathetic smile. “Then I won’t.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

We resume walking the pup, but I’m not done. “I want you to meet him when you come over for Thanksgiving like you usually do. He’ll be there. He’s a great cook.”

“Want me to bring anything?”

That’s all. It’s that easy. He understands. “Just those cookies if you can snag an early batch.”

“To impress your guy?”

“Maybe,” I say as he reads between the lines.

He drapes an arm around me. “I’m always here for you. You know that.”

“I know,” I whisper, emotions crawling up my throat. “Do you think you’re this cool to make up for Mom?”

He laughs, a little confused. “What do you mean?”

“Like, did you feel as if you had to give us double the love to make up for her leaving?”

He stops, and the dog stops too, sitting perfectly at his feet. “No. This is how I feel for you.”

And I’m this close to crying. “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you so much. And I can’t wait to meet your beau.”

I can’t wait either. The prospect of spending the holiday with my family and my guy makes me feel like anything is possible.

Next Wednesday afternoon, the world slows down. Traffic thins. Phones ping less. Social media takes a day off.

Around three, a guy rings the bell to deliver groceries. I wish Beck didn’t have to wait in the kitchen, out of sight, but maybe someday soon, he won’t have to hide.

I thank the delivery guy, tip him extra on the app, then shut the door and call out: “Coast is clear, sexy beast. Get your ass out here and lift this turkey.”

Smiling, Beck joins me in the foyer, grabbing bags of groceries and hauling them to the kitchen.

We unpack them together, me stopping to sneak kisses on his cheek, his earlobe, his jaw. We move around the kitchen, but I’m no good at keeping my hands off him. “You’re going to make it tough for me to prep,” he warns as I circle my arms around his waist and bite his neck. Who could blame me? He’s wearing that outdoorsy aftershave.

“I can go upstairs,” I offer playfully.

He grabs the waistband of my jeans and tugs me against him. “No, just behave for a few hours.”

I kiss his nose, then shrug. “I make no promises.”

We get to work, prepping the turkey, making the stuffing, and quartering the potatoes.

A few hours later, I’m slap-happy from all the cooking and horny from all the not sexing, so I slather a dollop of cranberry sauce on his cheek. I lick it off, but a drop slides into his hair.

“Bummer,” I murmur. “Guess we need to shower.”

Ten minutes later, we’re under the stream, his wet, warm naked body pressed against mine. “I’ve got an idea for tonight,” I say.

“Tell me.”

“How about I show you?”

“Knew this would be a great idea,” I moan as he presses his hands on my thighs and spreads me wider.

Fucking love seeing Beck’s face between my legs. My guy has become an expert at giving me head. He can work me over in the most fantastic long, slow tease ever.

But he works me over in other ways too. Right now, he’s driving me wild with his tongue.

Inside me.

I grab the sheets and claw at them. “Fuck, baby. You have to stop or . . .”

He eases out, flicks his tongue against me, then lifts his head to ask ever so innocently, “Or you’ll come all over my face like the last time I did this to you?”

“I like rim jobs,” I say defensively. “Giving and receiving.”

He licks me one more time, making me shudder. “Not true, Jay. You love them. Giving and receiving,” he says, and I smile as I heat up more from the way he knows me so well.

Beck rises, grabs the lube and gets me ready. When I’m amped up, I throw him down on his back, so I can climb over him and slick up his hard shaft.

The second I touch him, he’s cursing. “Fuck yes,” he groans. “Get on me.”

“You love it when I ride your dick.”

“I fucking do,” he says.

We ditched condoms a few weeks ago; we’re both negative and exclusive. I sink onto his gorgeous shaft with no barriers, reveling in him stretching my body. “Gonna fuck your cock like I own it,” I tell him.

“You do,” he says, curling his hands tight around my hips.

I ride him like a cowboy, treating his dick like it was made for my pleasure.

“Jesus, you’re so big. So fucking strong,” he mutters as he stares at me. He’s not talking about my cock. He means all of me, and I feel the same way about him. I can push his body to the limits in bed just like I push mine to the limits on the field. We know how far we can go, how hard we can ride, how hot we can fuck.

And we know when to switch.

A few minutes into a fantastic, sweaty trip up and down his shaft, I’m damn ready to bury my cock inside him.

“There’s this other idea I have,” I say in a rasp.

“Do it. Fuck me now,” he begs.

Soon, he’s on all fours, and I’m working him open with my fingers. When he’s thrusting his ass against my hand, I’m sure he’s ready, and I notch the head of my cock against him and slide home.

Beck reaches back his arm, grabs at my hip, and mutters, “Give it to me.”

“Take it,” I say, hitting a relentless pace. He’s moaning, urging me on.

I’m on the verge of coming, but I always take care of my man.

I cover his back with my body, reach for his cock, and jerk him till he’s shooting all over the bed. He goes boneless, collapsing under me. I ease out quickly, finishing myself off in my hand with two long, tight strokes before I unload on his back, marking him with an orgasm that annihilates all my senses.

Then I sink down against him, my own climax smearing all over my stomach, and I don’t care one bit. I kiss his neck.

He hums.

Then hums a few more bars.

That sounds familiar. “What are you humming, baby?”

“Beethoven’s Fifth.”

“Only you would hum a workout song after sex.”

“You did work me over,” he says. “And besides, it reminds me of you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my favorite,” he says, and my heart flies away into his hands.

I was the tiniest bit worried Beck might be sad around Nolan and me. But he’s been laughing and talking a good portion of the day. At first, when my family arrived, he was quiet and polite, making standard small talk, but letting them do most of the chatting.

Now, as I scoop a third helping of mashed potatoes, he gives me a sly smirk. But it’s not just for me. It’s for the whole table. “Are you secretly in love with mashed potatoes, Jason?”

I plop the tasty treat onto my plate. “Nothing secret about it. Mashed potatoes and I are out in the open,” I say, then wince slightly over my faux pas.

I wish Beck and I were in the open.

But no one notices my mistake since Nolan nudges Beck’s shoulder. “Has he enlisted you to make him shishito peppers yet?”

Beck grins like he’s been admitted to the secret society of my food fetishes. “Only ten times.”

I scoff. “Ha. I wish. More like once.”

“Aww, do you want Beck to make you peppers again?” Emerson chimes in, joining the teasing.

“Yes,” I say, intensely serious. “I really do.”

My dad just smiles as he eats, as if this is his proudest moment as a father. His two sons happily enjoying Thanksgiving with their . . .

I stop that thought. Nolan is with his girlfriend, and they’ll leave my house together, hand in hand.

My stomach curdles, and I set down my fork. I won’t do that with Beck. I can’t hold his hand in public.

My dad can’t really be proud of me for being with a good guy who gets me. This isn’t why I came out at seventeen, having to hide who I love.

Because, as I look at Beck, at ease, relaxed, and so damn happy with my family, the full weight of my heart registers on the scale.

I’m in love with him.

And yet I’m not truly with him.

I try to enjoy this almost perfect moment, but I can’t quite embrace the rest of the holiday, even when my dad breaks out the habanero cookies. But I do my best to fake my enthusiasm for everything and hope no one notices.

Later, when everyone is gone, I straighten up with Beck. We load the dishwasher and clean the counter. We pack up leftovers in Tupperware.

It’s so domestic, and it’s like my eggs and breakfast potatoes fantasy all over again. But so much better because I know him better, and I know what I want too.

I want this life with him, here in my house and out on the street.

This secret romance isn’t enough. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to make that happen.

I move past him by the sink, stopping to kiss the back of his neck, savoring today.

And vowing to make a plan tomorrow.

The next morning, after Beck leaves to hit the gym early, I shower, and as I towel off, I check my phone on the bathroom counter, where it charged. An email flashes at me. It’s from Nadia, and it’s titled: You and Beck.

The floor falls out from under me.

35

THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING HAT

Beck

On Friday morning, I hit the gym to work off that stuffing and those pies. But that meal was worth it. The whole day was worth it. These last few weeks have been worth every garage exit and entrance, every late-night visit, and every morning escape.

Today, though? I need exercise and lots of it.

I pound the treadmill on a high incline, blasting Beethoven, running through plays for this Sunday’s matchup against the Vegas Pioneers. As I’m finishing, Carter strides in, heads over to my row, and claims the treadmill next to mine. I pop out my earbuds. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good, man. I had a date last night.” He punches in a program on the machine and starts a light jog.

“On Thanksgiving?” That’s unusual.

He wiggles his brow. “She likes me, dude. I told you, I’m an excellent boyfriend. We went out last weekend too. Her name is Sasha. And, get this,” he says, stretching across the machine to smack my arm. “We’re meeting for a coffee in an hour at Doctor Insomnia’s. She’s an athlete too, and she loves post-workout dates. She’s at a jump-rope class nearby.”

“She sounds great,” I say, thrilled for my friend.

His face turns ashen. “Shit. What should I do if I’m still seeing Sasha at the auction next month?”

I laugh at his quandary and offer an obvious solution. “Have her bid on you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sheesh. Of course. But I’d need to foot the bill, right?”

“Probably,” I say.

“What about you? Are you still not dating?”

A flash of guilt rushes through me. “I just want to focus on football. That’s all,” I say, hoping he can’t tell I’m lying. If I can ever come clean about Jason, I hope Carter will understand why I kept it a secret.

“So when some chick or some dude bids ten large, you’re just going to go on a platonic date, right?” he asks.

“Well, yeah. The marketing agency has that in its bios, I think,” I say.

I picture the auction. Me on stage in a sharp suit. An emcee reading my bio. I smile. I pose. I wait for bids like a cow at the market. Yeah, that night will require about ten thousand hours of meditation and an extra serving of breathing exercises. Why the hell did I sign up for it?

Oh, right. To make Jason jealous.

What a brilliant plan that was.

But I smile to myself. The night he showed up at my house, hot, bothered, and jealous, was all worth it.

I finish my workout and tell Carter I’m taking off. “Good luck on your date.”

“Thanks, man. See you at practice this afternoon.”

I head out, walking the few blocks to my home when my phone pings with a text from Carter. Dude! My hair looks like shit. You’re close to the gym, and I don’t have a hat with me! Can you bring me back that Seductive hat?

I stop in my tracks at the curb, my throat hurting. I knocked the hat behind the shelves at Jason’s house on Halloween.

But I’ve got this. I open my mental playbook, flip a few pages, and pick a play fake. I’ll tell him I lost it. Easy enough. I start to reply, but he writes again.

Oh! Did I ever tell you I thought Jason was with Seductive too? I was sure I saw a Seductive hat at his house. I swear that hat is like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and before you ask how I know that book, I have a little sister, and I’m the guy who likes T-Swift. Also, that book is awesome.

My stomach slams upside down like an underground fighter just flipped me to my back.

Is this his way of telling me he knows I’m with Jason? I’m standing on the corner of Hayes and Linden, thoroughly flustered as I reread his note. Do I go home? Do I answer this message? Do I make a joke about hats or books or Taylor Swift? No idea, so I respond with, Sorry, bud. I don’t have the hat.

I draw a deep breath, trying to stay ahead of my worry. I practice four deep breaths in, then four breaths out the rest of the way home. If I can just calm myself, I won’t have to worry Jason about Carter’s texts. I can manage this minor situation on my own. But when I get to my house, my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s an email from Wilder.

And it’s titled How’s today?

My hands shake as I open it.

Can you and Jason McKay meet in my office at noon?

I pace, wearing a rut on the floorboards as I wait for my phone to ring after texting Jason and asking him to call me ASAP. Finally, my cell takes mercy on me, and his name flashes on the screen.

I slide my thumb so fast to answer it, slamming the device against my ear. “Hey. I got this email from Wilder asking to meet with him and you in an hour. Do you know what’s going on?”

“No idea. I got an email from Nadia asking the same thing. Asking to meet with you and her,” he says. “I got it twenty minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” I snap.

“I was trying to figure out what to do. What to say. I don’t have a clue. Okay?” he fires back.

I sigh, but I’m still annoyed with everyone. Mostly myself, since I’ll need to tell Jason about Nadia in the garage. That will suck. “Sorry. This is just freaking me out. They know. They obviously know. I mean, Carter might even know.”

“Why would Carter know?”

Still flustered, I run through the text exchange from Carter, telling Jason everything.

“Shit,” Jason says, and he sounds guilty.

“What? What is it?” I ask, strung tight with something worse than nerves. With utter fear.

“He asked about the hat at the bookstore event. Well, he asked if I was working with Seductive. He said he thought he saw a Seductive hat at my house.”

I sink onto the beanbag and drop my head in my hands. This is bad. This is so fucking bad. “What did you say?”

“I said his mankini must have drained out his brains, and then Nate said something about it going to his balls. It was nothing, Beck. The whole thing was nothing. Carter laughed it off. No one thought it was a thing,” he says, trying to reassure me.

But clearly, Carter thought the hat was a thing, and it is a very big thing. My heart gallops like a thoroughbred in the Belmont Stakes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you were already stressed that night,” Jason says, defensive and this close to exasperated. Then he takes a beat. “And I didn’t want you to worry,” Jason adds softly. “I wanted to handle it. I care about you.”

He sounds worried now—but in a way I never expected. Worried that he hurt me.

I drag a hand down my face, slumping deeper into the chair. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. I should have told you I saw Nadia at the parking lot last week. When I kissed you,” I say, hoping he won’t hate me for hiding the truth.

The line goes deathly silent for several horrible seconds. “What did you say?” he whispers.

I feel like I’m confessing a crime. “When we pulled out, her car drove past us. I don’t think she saw us, and I didn’t want to say anything because we were having such a good time, and we’d made Thanksgiving plans, and I don’t want to be the guy constantly causing problems for you.” The words come out in a six-car pile-up.

Jason breathes out hard. Once. Twice. “We need to go see them. Now. I’ll pick you up. We have to figure out what to say.”

Then, he hangs up. Dread roars through me as I wait for him to arrive.

36

GETAWAY DRIVER

Jason

I pound on Beck’s door. I don’t care if his landlady sees me or hears me. We need a plan, stat.

Beck lets me in seconds later, and he’s a Jack-in-the-box. His jaw is tight. “Hey,” he bites out as he shuts the door, then jams a hand through his messy hair. That hand has been a frequent visitor there this morning.

My heart clutches and I want to make this better for him.

But I can’t fix this the way I want.

I follow him into his kitchen. We don’t touch. I stand by the stove and Beck leans against the counter, like magnets repelled.

I’m going to have to take the lead like I do with the team, even if it tears my heart in half.

There’s only one option, and I pray Beck gets that. “We need to tell them the truth,” I say.

Beck blinks, swallows, then blows out a breath. “Come clean,” he says like he’s absorbing the option.

“We can’t lie. We need to tell them we were involved. They obviously know, so we can’t deny it,” I continue.

He goes completely unreadable, his face suddenly a mask. That must be how he is on the field. That’s why he’s so good at the game. He transforms into a superhero. Finally, he speaks again. “Right. We can’t,” he says, and his voice is hollow.

This hurts so much. But coming clean isn’t all we have to do. The next part will be so much worse.

“And we have to—” I begin, but I can barely get the words out. They taste so awful.

He steps up, finishing for me. “We have to break up.”

My heart screams obscenities. It’s revolting against me. But at least I don’t have to convince Beck that this is the right thing to do. I take some small solace in being on the same page as we engineer our demise.

“I’m sorry, Beck,” I say, and every word hurts.

“I’m sorry too,” he repeats, moving like a cheetah. He closes the distance, cups my cheeks, and presses a poignant, goodbye kiss to my lips. When he steps away, he looks devastated.

Like I feel.

I ache to reassure him. To tell him we’ll connect in the off-season. We’ll find a way. But if the owners are about to ream us for messing around, we need to stop for good.

No matter how painful.

Words churn in my head. Words like I fell in love with you.

But that won’t help now. The only thing left to do is what I’ve always tried to do in life, in sports, in love—the right thing.

We leave together, but breaking apart.

Wilder’s corner suite is sleek and classy. A pristine white couch claims the center of a silvery plush carpet. Blue armchairs, the color of the Renegades, sit across from the couch.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offer million-dollar views of the San Francisco Bay, with its dark sparkling waters. The day is uncharacteristically sunny, an affront to my mood.

The charismatic man with the regal chin and green eyes gestures to the couch. “Have a seat,” he says. His tone gives nothing away.

With jitters I never feel on the field, I sit on one end. Beck takes the other. He crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them. Then sets his hands on his lap.

My heart lurches toward him.

Nadia strides in a minute later, smiling at me and waving. “Hey, Jason,” she says.

She’s hey Jason-ing me? She takes a seat and rubs her palms. “Thanks for coming on short notice. We know we’ve worked you a lot this season.” She’s apologetic. Fuck. She feels bad having to handle this kind of PR disaster.

“And we asked you to do a lot to promote this rivalry,” Wilder weighs in, his tone completely businesslike, as I expected. “And we know how one thing can lead to another.”

I sit up even straighter. It’s coming. I brace myself.

“And things sometimes go in unexpected directions,” he adds.

Nadia presses her hand to her chest. “We really didn’t expect this to happen,” she says, pointing from Beck to me.

Oh shit. It’s the kill-’em-with-kindness play. Don’t know why they’d employ it, but that has to be what’s happening.

There’s a pause, and the silence in the suite is overwhelming. The owners look like they’re waiting for one of us to say something.

“We didn’t expect it either,” I say quickly.

Nadia blinks. “Oh, I’m sure it was a total surprise. It was to all of us. We honestly thought that the rivalry would just be a fun thing. We didn’t know it would turn into this big deal.”

Well, guess what, folks? It turned into the biggest deal in my life. The best time ever. The deepest feelings. And one huge heartache that started, oh, say, an hour ago.

Wilder clears his throat. “Please know we understand how unconventional,” he stops as if searching for a word, “arrangements can come together.”

“It’s over.” Beck blurts the words like he’s hurling them from inside his soul.

I turn to him, shocked he spoke up. But impressed too, even though he’s vibrating with nerves, tense beyond anything I’ve ever seen.

Nadia jerks her gaze to Beck, concern in her eyes. “But does it have to be over? We’d just love to have you two do this one fantastic sponsorship for us.”

Wait. What?

Beck draws a sharp breath, then seems to rewire all his circuits. “I meant, it’s over? Like the show is over? I was asking a question. I thought that’s where you were going. My bad,” he says, and wow. Beck pulled off an ad-lib.

Way to go.

“Oh, God, no,” Nadia says, relieved. “Monday Morning Quarterback has insane ratings. The video of Beck gloating with Jason was off the charts. Attendance continues to rise. TV ratings for both franchises are through the roof. I hate to admit this, but your rivalry is the best thing the Hawks have seen, marketing-wise, in a long time.”

“And it’s everything I could want from a new quarterback who’s stepping in for a legend,” Wilder says to Beck.

They’re. Pleased. With. Us.

White is black, in is out, and I am shook.

“And since both teams have a deal with Ding and Dine, the food delivery app, we were hoping you could do a series of local spots together promoting the app. Service so good even archrivals can agree,” Nadia explains. “We called you in last minute because it’s one of those fast-moving deals.”

Are you kidding me? They’re not busting us?

“We’d talk to your agents. Make sure the deal is fantastic for you both,” Wilder adds, turning to face Beck. “But we think it would be a huge boon to the postseason run we’re making.”

Not to be outdone, Nadia squares her shoulders. “And the one we’re making with the Hawks. So if you’re game, we could do the deal with your agents this weekend and start shooting spots next week.”

I turn to Beck. His eyes say holy shit, we didn’t lose our jobs.

I turn back to the owners, reining in a wicked grin. “Works for me.”

“Same here,” Beck seconds.

On the way out of the building, we don’t talk. I’m wrung out and reeling. I go to the parking lot in a fog, Beck quiet by my side.

Once we’re in my car, I breathe at last.

Beck does too, long and relieved. “Wow. That was . . .”

“That was a close call,” I finish in the understatement of my lifetime.

I don’t know what to say next. No clue what to do. I turn to Beck, and he’s shoving his hand through his hair. Again and again. Then he drops his head against the dashboard. “Jason,” he says, and it sounds like a plea. He turns his face to me, his cheek still resting on the dash. “I feel like we just got away with murder,” he says, ashamed and maybe embarrassed too.

“We kind of did,” I say. That’s the problem. We might get away with the crime the first time. But trying to pull off a perfect heist twice is too risky.

He sits upright now. “We got lucky. We have to stay lucky,” he says, pressing the point, begging for me to understand.

But I do understand. I reach for his hand and squeeze it. “I know,” I say in a broken voice. “And I’m going to drive you home now.”

We’re quiet on the way, cruising through the city as shoppers flood stores on Black Friday and Christmas lights hug trees and streetlamps.

That feels like a mockery of my heart too.

When I reach his home, a heaviness sinks into my gut. This is the last time I’ll drive here.

I could tell him I love him. I could tell him I’ll miss him. But that’ll only make our getaway harder.

“Goodbye, Beck,” I say as stoic as can be.

“Bye, Jason,” he says plainly. He’s stripped all the emotion from his voice.

He gets out of the car, walks to his front door, and goes inside without looking back.

I hit the gas and go.

37

ZOMBIE DAYS

Beck

What in the name of Joe Montana’s powerful arm is that unholy twittering at this hour on a Saturday morning?

I roll over and pull my pillow over my ears. I haven’t heard that sound in . . .

Oh. Right.

I haven’t heard the birds sing in two days because I spent the past two nights at Jason’s house.

But last night, I slept alone. As I’ll be doing for the rest of time.

With a miserable groan, I push up in bed, rub my eyes, and glance at the window. My love life is over forever, and my backyard neighbors are tweeting Beethoven’s freaking “Ode to Joy” out there, which is just rude.

The birds flutter past as if they’re spreading news from nest to nest. I peer out the window to get a better look. A yellow birdhouse is upended in the yard, like Dorothy’s home when it landed in Oz.

Ah, hell. I can’t repair my own sorry situation, but I can help Portia fix that. Even if the birds are insensitive A-holes.

I drag my pathetic ass out of bed, pull on shorts and a T-shirt, brush my teeth, and run my fingers through my hair. After sliding on flip-flops, I trudge to the door. I should be grateful. Jason and I escaped unscathed. I should focus on moving on. But mostly, I’m sad.

I walk around the home to the small yard in the back and discover I’m not alone. There’s a well-built guy bent over the birdhouse, his muscular back rippling through a thin red T-shirt. He straightens to his full height and turns, blinking when he sees me. He’s tanned, toned, and all guy-next-door. His sun-streaked golden hair is a little long like he can’t be bothered to cut it on the reg.

He shoots me a welcoming smile. “Hey. You must be Beck. I’m Bryan. Portia’s son.” He gives a chin nod in lieu of a handshake since he’s holding the birdhouse.

“I am. Nice to meet you,” I say, lifting my hand to wave. Funny that Portia wanted to set him up with me. This dude probably has no trouble finding dates up and down Los Angeles.

“You too,” he says, and I hesitate because I came out to help Portia, but her son beat me to it, so I’m no longer needed.

But I could be more social starting now. I’m not interested in a single soul other than Jason. But I don’t have to be Mister Anti-Social, nursing a broken heart.

I gesture to the birdhouse in his arms. “I saw it had fallen and was coming down to pick it up. But I have to work on my speed when it comes to saving birdhouses.”

He rolls his eyes but with humor. “I’m speedy because I’ve been too well trained. When Portia banged on my door five minutes ago, I had flashbacks of high school,” he says as he heads over to the post where the birdhouse belongs. “I never got up in time for school, and she was always shouting at me to get out of bed this second. Which is kind of what she did this morning when she saw the carnage.”

“She likes her birds just a little bit,” I say drily as he gets to work reattaching the wire to the hook at the top of the house.

“‘Like’ is an understatement. Her birds and her Renegades are her big loves,” he says, testing the strength of the wire. “I believe her words a few minutes ago were the birds are watching over Beck. Get out there now, Bryan! I know my place in the pecking order,” he continues. Meeting my eye with a grin, he raises his free hand as if measuring a spot well above his head. “Renegades up top. Which means you’re on that level too.” Then he lowers that hand as far as he can. “Then, everything and everyone else.”

I laugh for a few seconds, but my laughter disappears quickly with the unexpected reminder—that the Renegades and their fans are my priority. The fans don’t want me moping for the other quarterback.

“Everything okay?” Bryan asks.

Ah, shit. I quickly clear my expression. “Yeah. I’m great,” I say.

He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry if that was pushy, man.”

My brow furrows. Why would he think that? “It was nice.”

“Cool, cool. My mom’s a shrink. I’m used to her asking are you doing okay all the time.”

Portia’s a shrink? I had no clue about her job beyond landlady, but shrink makes perfect sense. “Now that you say it, that tracks.”

He smiles like he’s proud of her. “She’s a Tarot-card-reading, candle-loving, Renegade-rooting, rainbow-flag-waving therapist. God bless her.” Bryan walks past me and claps my shoulder. “Good to meet you, Beck. You’re having a killer season. Keep it up.”

He heads around to the front door and goes into Portia’s home. From the second-floor window, she waves, bright and buoyant.

All is well in the pecking order of her world.

I’d do well to remember the pecking order of mine. My job is to throw the football.

That’s why I moved to San Francisco. To lead this team, not to fall in love. Besides, football makes me happy, so I’m going to embrace the fuck out of it.

The next day, I do my job on the field, shutting out everything else as I lead my team to victory.

I’m happy, but not as happy as the last time we won, and I celebrated with the guy I now miss so desperately.

On Monday, I can’t avoid seeing him.

Wish I could because there’s no way being near Jason will help me move on. But it’s time for Monday Morning Quarterback, so I better put on my happy face when I walk into the studio.

He’s in his chair already, and the second I see him, my heart thunders. I long for him. His smile, his eyes, his big, warm embrace, his blue shirts that are the color of a sapphire.

I give a chin nod. “Hey, McKay.”

“Hey, Cafferty.”

I settle into the chair and fight like hell to keep my eyes on Megan’s animated face. I ball my hands into fists as we talk about the game. I focus all my energy on keeping still, so I don’t lunge across the soundboard, kiss the breath out of Jason, and say fuck it, let’s find a way.

When it’s time for the two-minute warning segment, Megan whips her head toward me. “Any tips for Jason on his game?”

It’s like the day I met him again, only this time it’s not social anxiety tripping me up. It’s a broken heart. I don’t have any energy left to zing him on-air. “He played well,” I say tonelessly.

Her brows shoot up, and she stares at me wordlessly. Yay, me. I’ve surprised the queen of surprises.

But Jason is never speechless. He leans a little closer to his mic. “Some days, it’s hard to rip apart the other QB when he had such a stellar game,” he says with a cocky grin.

But he’s not cocky.

He’s helpful. He wants the show to succeed. He wants us both to look good. I can see that in his eyes. The guy wants to make everything better. But he can’t make me better. Not this time around.

On Thursday morning, we’re in a warehouse studio in the Dogpatch district, doing the ad for Ding and Dine. Just my ex and me, standing in front of a green screen, shoulder to shoulder, scowling like we hate each other, except when it comes to food delivery services. The food app wants customers to believe the only thing these two rivals could possibly agree on is the awesomeness of Ding and Dine.

Well, I do like the app. Jason used it that morning to get me coffee. My heart wheezes painfully at the memory, but I shake it off. It’s just a food app. It was just coffee.

With a forced smile, I deliver the line Nadia fed us the other day. “Service so good even archrivals can agree,” I say to the camera.

Jason grins too.

“Fantastic! You even looked like you liked each other at the end,” the videographer remarks as she gives a thumbs-up.

Great. We’re aces at pretending. Fan-fucking-tastic.

When the shoot mercifully finishes, I want to bolt. The longer I stay in Jason’s orbit, the greater the chance I’ll blurt out I miss you so much, and I can’t stand being this close without touching you.

But there’s no playbook on how to fake an archrivalry with your ex. So I go through the motions for Ding and Dine, thanking the camerawoman and the producer, then I change out of my team jersey and into a red shirt. I walk out with Jason, eyes front, poker face on, pretending I’m not aching inside.

When we hit the parking lot, and we’re alone, he clears his throat. “So, good game the other day.”

I hazard a glance his way. “Yeah, same to you,” I say. Then I register what he’s wearing. His sky-blue shirt. I remember the day he gave me a ride in his Tesla, how I confessed I knew all his shirts, and a wave of nostalgia clobbers me.

Then it drags me underwater when I fast-forward to the Ultimate Player Auction in a few more weeks.

I’ll see him then too.

He’ll be looking impossibly handsome in a suit. Maybe he’ll even gaze at me like he’s doing now, with longing in his eyes.

How the hell will I handle being at the auction with this man?

“I have to go,” I say, then I get in my car, drive home, and slump onto my beanbag.

I fiddle with my phone, scrolling through my contacts, hunting for a name, a friend, or someone to talk to. I can’t reach out to Carter, and I’m not close enough to any of the other guys on my team.

But then I slide past my last text exchange with Rachel from a month ago. I’ve been a bad friend. I shoot her a note, asking how she’s doing, but she doesn’t reply in kind.

She calls, and I answer it quickly, desperate for a friendly voice.

“Hey there,” I say.

“Hey. It’s been a while. How’s everything going?”

I could bullshit her, or I could spill my guts. Easiest decision ever.

“Not well,” I say, so tired of faking it.

“Oh sweetie, what’s wrong?”

I get up, walk around my home, and serve up my sad, bruised heart. I don’t tell her Jason’s name, but I tell her enough.

“And now, I feel like a zombie,” I say at the end of the tale of my secret romance. “I’m worried this breakup is going to make my anxiety spiral in a whole new way.”

That’s it.

That’s what’s freaking me out. My anxiety over . . . my anxiety.

I feel weirdly better having said that out loud. “I want to get through this breakup. I just don’t know if I have the right breakup playbook for a guy like me.”

“Maybe you don’t, but someone else does,” she says and shares some more ideas.

The rest of the afternoon, as I make lunch and putter around my apartment, I think about what Rachel said. But I don’t have to stew on it for too long.

I may have learned how to manage my anxiety flawlessly when it comes to my job. I’m mostly able to handle it when faced with the media. But I definitely need help when it comes to, well, to love.

And I have a resource mere feet away.

I leave the house, head up the stairs, and knock on Portia’s front door.

As I wait, I catalog my emotions. I feel surprisingly calm like I’m stepping into the right choice. This is what I need.

She answers a few seconds later, her curly brown hair swishing over her shoulders. “Hey, Beck. How are you? Do you want to come in?”

“I do,” I say, then once I’m in her home, I draw a deep breath and find the guts to speak. “I struggle with anxiety. I need to find a therapist to talk to. I was wondering if you could help me find someone good and trustworthy.”

She beams. “I can.”

Portia calls in a favor, and my first appointment with Rosemary is the next day. After an hour of talking and listening, I’m worn out, but the good, workout kind.

It’s a welcome feeling, even though it’s painful too.

I see her again the next week, walking in with amazing news. “I’m taking my team to the playoffs,” I say, doing my best not to bounce off the walls. I’m still flying.

She grins devilishly. “I know. I read the news. I’m a Hawks fan, but I’m happy for you,” she says. “How do you feel?”

A few nights ago, my teammates showered me with sparkling cider when we clinched. I felt out-of-this-world elated. “Like I delivered on the promise of the trade.”

Her eyes sparkle with happiness. “That must have felt wonderful. You faced huge expectations.”

I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, still taking in the immensity of the accomplishment. “Now I just have to finish the job with a ring,” I say drily.

But Rosemary doesn’t want to dwell on the postseason road. “Can we talk about your brother?” she asks gently.

My throat tightens in a tangle of knots. “Okay,” I say, wary.

“How does it feel that you can’t tell Griffin you’re going to the postseason?”

I expected her to ease into the topic, not push me into the emotional deep end. I fight hard to hold back tears; I’ll lose it if I let go. “Awful,” I choke out.

“I can imagine,” she says softly.

I’m not sure I want to dig any deeper than awful, but I also didn’t walk through her door to back out.

“Can we talk more about it?” she asks.

I buckle up and do the hard thing.

For the next forty-five minutes, we talk until I’ve gone through a box of tissues.

When I’m wrung dry, she folds her hands in her lap and takes off her glasses. “Beck, it’s possible this loss has amplified your anxiety at times. You may not even be aware of it, but the trauma has likely heightened how you react to some uncomfortable situations,” she says.

I replay the night at the bookstore with this fresh insight. I hadn’t felt that itchy in ages, like I wanted to escape from my own body. “A month ago, Jason asked me to go to this bookstore event. Just as friends,” I begin, then tell her what happened. “Do you think it was related?”

“I think you can get trapped into a cycle of negative thoughts. I think you’ve had a lot of changes and triggering events in your life in the last two years. The loss of your brother, moving to a new city, taking on a big, new job, falling in love in secret.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Guess that is a lot. But do we have to talk about my past and my childhood and shit like that? I don’t want to go all Freud. I want to figure out how to live in my present.”

“We can if you want, or we can talk through your negative thoughts in certain situations and how to challenge them.”

She goes on to explain more about cognitive behavioral therapy.

I feel brighter with every sentence she speaks like I’ve sipped from a cup of possibility. She’s a magician, and she just pulled off the prestige. I had no idea this therapy existed. I thought I’d just talk about my past. I don’t mind that, but I do better with tools and exercises. I like a playbook. That’s what she’s offering.

“I want that. I can do that. I’m very good at practicing things.”

Rosemary smiles. “I’m not surprised.”

When I leave, I’m already excited to return next week.

The following week, she’s the first person I tell the latest good news. The Hawks are going to the playoffs too, and when I watched my rival’s game from my beanbag the other night, I went full fanboy when I saw the final snap. “I’m ridiculously excited for Jason,” I say when I sink onto Rosemary’s couch. It’s a relief to tell someone without hiding what I mean.

She smiles sagely, staring at me through cat-eye glasses. “Have you considered telling him that?”

“Will that help me?” I ask curiously.

“What do you want it to help you with?” she asks, turning the question back on me.

I mull that over, thinking out loud. “Will it help me get over him? Will it help me manage my nerves? Will it help me to be human?”

“Which one do you want?”

I sit with the question for a minute, trying to picture the outcome of each throw. But this isn’t football. It’s life, and it’s love, and it’s the guy I still have big, messy feelings for.

“I’m happy for him, so I want to tell him. That’s the kind of guy I want to be. I’d rather be that guy than the one who can barely handle being around him,” I say.

Time to stop running away when he’s near.

In a few more days, I’ll see Jason at the auction, then the next morning, we’re doing an extra edition of Monday Morning Quarterback, a playoff preview.

I’ll have plenty of chances to tell him I’m happy for him. I just need to find the right way to do it.

But it’s not that easy, and that’s why I’m here. “I’m worried it won’t go the way I want it to,” I admit, feeling safe.

“Then let’s work through some scenarios,” she says, and she takes me through my worries about the worst-case scenario versus the potential reality. Then she gives me homework, asking me to write down the anxious thoughts as they come to me so that we can work on replacement thoughts for them.

“Since I know you like homework,” she says with a wry smile.

“I do,” I say, then she says she’ll email me some worksheets.

I leave that session exhausted once again. With Rosemary, I feel like I’ve started running a marathon. I’m at mile one, but I’m determined to finish all twenty-six miles. And maybe more after that, even if it hurts.

38

CAN I SAY WAZOO?

Jason

My dad hasn’t knotted a tie for me since I was in high school. But for some reason, he’s doing up my neckwear tonight.

“I know how to tie a tie,” I grumble in the kitchen of my home. He’s stubborn, though, and he insists.

“Let your old man have fun,” he says.

“Tying a tie is fun?” I arch a brow.

“Helping you look dapper is,” he retorts with a cheesy grin.

I groan. “Who am I even looking dapper for?”

“Please. You’ll have bids out the wazoo.” He lets go of my tie with a quick frown. “Wait. Can I say wazoo?”

I roll my eyes. “You can say wazoo.”

He steps back, regards my attire. “You look good. How are you feeling?”

It’s a loaded question. I take the first stab at an answer. “About the auction?”

“Sure. Let’s start with that.”

I count off on one finger. “Let’s see. I have to mingle with Beck at the cocktail hour. That’ll be fun. Not,” I mutter.

“It’s hard seeing him, isn’t it?”

Hard doesn’t even cover it. “He can barely stand being in the same room as me.”

My dad tilts his head like he’s considering a puzzle. “His coping mechanism?”

Hmm. I hadn’t thought about it like that. I’d only thought about it from my point of view, and his avoidance feels like a jab, then an uppercut, then a chokehold. “Maybe,” I say.

“And how are you doing?”

I square my shoulders, but what’s the point? I let them slump again. “Miserable. Awful. Terrible.” Then I affect a plastic smile. “But no one can tell.”

“Jason,” Dad says, full of concern and love.

I sigh. I’ve got no fight in me.

“What if there was a way for you to be together the way you want?”

I rub my ear. There’s no way Dad said that. “Like what?” I ask, incredulous. “What way would that be?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t possibly be the only rivals in the history of the world who fell in love,” he says.

I hold up a hand to object. “I don’t think he’s in love with me.” I certainly won’t let myself believe he is.

My dad scoffs. “I’m not going to convince you. That’s his job. My job is to tell you what I’ve been thinking since you split. Think about whether you’d be willing to brave being together the way you want. Being together would be hard, but it’s possible.”

I turn that word over in my head—possible. That’s how I felt on Thanksgiving. Like a future with Beck was possible. I’m intrigued that my dad can see it too. I want to sit down with a beer and dig into this conversation all night long.

But I’m due to mingle soon. “I should go,” I say as a flash of black and white fur skids past me on the counter, stopping short at the end. Taco stares at me with big green eyes and unleashes a monster meow.

“Oh, shoot. I forgot to feed him. Now he hates me more,” I say.

My dad points to the door. “I’ll feed him. You go.”

I take off, trotting downstairs to the garage, climbing into my car, then heading across the city.

I park in a garage a block away from the Luxe Hotel and pep-talk myself as I cover the distance. I can do this. I can fake my way through any event.

I’ll stride across the stage when the emcee calls my name. I’ll smile and wave like I haven’t been tunneling my way through cartons of small-batch ice cream and bags of habanero cookies for the last four weeks.

Fine, fine. It was one night I did that. Maybe two. I have no regrets. Mostly.

Every man has his own way of moving on. Beck has his, and I have chocolate peanut butter swirl.

When I reach the hotel, Nate’s stepping out of a Lyft, dressed to the nines in a charcoal suit and a wine-red tie. That’s odd. He’s not in the auction catalog.

I stride up to him. “You’re going to bid on me as a practical joke?”

My buddy cracks up. “You wish.”

“It’s not that funny. No points for you.”

He straightens and claps my shoulder. “It’s a little funny.”

I gesture to his fancy get-up. “What’s the story? Are you a last-minute entry?” I ask, a little surprised since he and Oliver haven’t finalized the divorce yet. I didn’t think Nate was ready to advertise his single status to the world yet.

Nate shakes his head. “Maybe I’ll bid on Cafferty,” he says, an evil glint in his eyes.

All the humor drains from me. I go stock-still. That’s not remotely funny.

He points in victory. “I fucking knew it!”

I roll my eyes. I almost don’t care that he’s officially figured it out. “Don’t bid on him,” I hiss out.

My friend grabs my shoulder and hauls me away from the entrance, scanning the street left and right. It’s quiet enough for a night in late December. “I was right. You’re involved with him,” he says.

At this point, who cares? Nate is a vault. “Correction: was.”

He sighs heavily. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve been in a funk these last few weeks? You didn’t even sing karaoke when we went out to celebrate our playoff slot.”

I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm for Frank Sinatra or Ed Sheeran last weekend. “Yeah, you’re right. And I didn’t say anything while it was going on, but we were together for . . .” I pause, blow out a breath, and stop lying. “Pretty much since a few weeks into the season until right after Thanksgiving.”

“Wow. Man. That’s intense.”

“I’m sorry I kept it a secret. I just didn’t see any other way.”

He scoffs. “Do not apologize. I one hundred percent understand why.”

I breathe, and it feels like the biggest breath I’ve taken in ages. Nate is a good friend. Of course, he understands. “Thanks.”

“You miss him?”

I just shrug. It’s answer enough.

“Are you going to bid on him tonight?”

I snap my head back and forth. “God, no. But you can’t either.”

He chuckles. “You already told me that. I get it. You’re marking your man.”

I wish I could slap an off-the-market sign on Beck. “Someone’s gonna bid on him,” I grumble.

“You’re cute when you’re jelly,” Nate says.

“Thanks. Appreciate that,” I say, then I let this whole moment with Nate sink in. He didn’t judge me. He’s on my side. We stop on the street corner, the mist of a San Francisco evening wrapping around us as cars and trolleys crank by. “Thank you. For not hating me for what I did.”

He shakes his head, scoffing. “I’m not a hater. And hey, you love who you love,” he says easily.

I sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

“That you love him?”

I gulp and nod.

Nate spreads his hands wide like he’s lighting up a marquee. “Like a motherfucking billboard.”

On that melancholy note, we turn around, but when we reach the Luxe, I realize I still don’t know why Nate showed up tonight. “Why did you say you were here?”

He smiles like a devil. “I didn’t say.”

I wiggle my fingers, determined to find out. “’Fess up.”

“I figured you could use the moral support,” he says, then offers a warm grin.

Ah, hell. I have great friends. “For that, sir, you get ten points in our tally.”

He pumps a fist. “Yes! I remain in the lead.”

Once we reach the ballroom, Nate darts off to the bar since I have to mingle with sponsors. I head inside, where innocuous pop music plays overhead, and servers in black ties circulate with appetizers and champagne. Zena’s in the center of the ballroom, dressed in a black, sequined number and a feather boa. She chats with Nadia, and they clink champagne flutes. Wilder holds court at a high table. Dressed in a black tux, he’s deep in an intense conversation with a bearded man in black glasses. Something about the man looks familiar. I’m not positive, but I think he’s a minority owner of a baseball team.

I tick off the cocktail hour, doing my thing, smiling, and making small talk. Nadia finds me and makes intros to various corporate sponsors and charitable donors. The whole time I keep my eyes peeled for Beck, but I don’t catch sight of him anywhere.

No big deal.

Maybe Beck’s chatting with Ding and Dine. Or with Renegades-only sponsors. Maybe Wilder corralled him.

It’s not my job to look out for Beck anymore. Too bad, since I loved looking out for him. But life goes on.

When the cocktail hour winds down, Reese weaves through the glittery room, coming to collect me. Maybe I can ask her if Beck’s here. But she’s smart, like Nate. She’d add up the clues.

Besides, what’s the point? He’s probably here and avoiding me. He’s damn good at that.

“Let’s head over to the hotel theater. Jillian is eager to review the lineup quickly,” Reese says, ushering me backstage.

Jillian smiles professionally when I join the crowd of big men in tailored suits.

“Okay, sharp-dressed men!” Jillian’s cheery voice rings loud and bright. “I want you all sitting in the front two rows of the theater during the Ultimate Player Auction, so the audience gets to be near their fave athletes the whole time. Then, when your name is called, you’ll come up from the audience. That means while you’re seated, no Instagramming, no scrolling, no texting. Be present with the auction for a couple of hours, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carter says with a salute, and the rest of us nod our understanding.

“Thank you. I just want to run down the order one more time.”

She whizzes through the list of twenty-five, stopping after nine to point at Carter. “Beck’s not here, so we bumped you to tenth instead of eleventh,” she says to the Renegades receiver.

Carter nods. “Right. Yup. He told me that.”

My head spins around. What the hell? Beck told Carter he’d be a no-show and didn’t tell me? I stew on this nugget for a few minutes until I’m this close to marching over to Carter and demanding he tell me what the hell happened.

But then, I’ve made assumptions about Beck in the past. I thought he didn’t show up for our second date because he was ghosting me. I was dead wrong.

Beck’s not an asshole. He’s a great guy with a big heart. If he decided not to show, he has a reason.

Oh, shit.

My pulse roars.

What if he’s having a panic attack? I need to reach out. See if he’s okay. Jillian ferries us toward the theater. I grab my phone right as she slinks over to my side.

“Jason,” she whispers. “I need you to represent. It’s really important all the guys be engaged. Can you put your phone away?”

Chastened, I turn off my phone and then tuck it into my inside jacket pocket. Beck will have to wait.

39

THE TROUBLE WITH SKIDDING CATS

Jason

When my name is called, I stand from the seat in the front row, turn around, and wave to the crowd in the theater. This place is jammed to the balconies, and it’s fantastic to see so many people showing up for charity.

I bound to the stage, running my hand down my lapel.

“And now we have Number Fourteen. Jason McKay, the quarterback for your very own San Francisco Hawks,” Jillian says from the podium at the edge of the stage. “Jason is a proud San Franciscan, loves spending time with his dad and brother, and still hasn’t gotten over what went down earlier this year in Unfinished Business. He has a cat named Taco who loves to knock things over, a deep love of smoothies, and a huge crush on a handful of TV shows. Someday he’d like to meet Mister Right. Can you tell us more about what he’d be like?” she asks, turning to me.

I take the mic and picture Beck. My heart squeezes painfully as I answer in an upbeat voice. “He’d be kind, clever, inquisitive, an animal lover, and a huge football fan.”

The crowd cheers.

Jillian takes the mic back. “For now, though, Jason’s looking forward to spending time getting to know any of the fans here tonight who want to bid on him for a platonic date.”

A lovesick part of me is hoping Beck will pop up from the back row, raise his hand, and stride to the stage, bidding on me. He’d say, “Number Fourteen is mine,” then rush to my side and kiss me like crazy. Fans would boo, and my teammates would blow their tops, but at least I’d have the guy I love.

I scan the room, hoping hard that the fantasy will come true. Instead, a sea of strangers bid on me, the price going higher and higher.

Then a familiar voice calls out, upping the ante by five thousand dollars. I search for the soprano voice and recognize Cheyenne from the boba shop in the fifth row. Her husband is right next to her.

“Can anyone top that bid?” Jillian asks, scanning the crowd. Paddles go down, and the theater turns quiet. “And the winning bid for a night with the Hawks’ quarterback is Cheyenne and Mitch Simmons.”

I smile, a genuine one because Cheyenne’s bouncing on her toes, and her husband is hugging her hard.

I return to my seat next to Nate, and we watch as Xavier, Carter, Devon, and the other guys strut their stuff. I keep peeking at the doors, hoping Beck will show.

He never does.

At the end of the auction, we all make plans with our dates, I exchange emails with Cheyenne and Mitch, then pose for pictures, with them, and with all the winners and all the guys.

When the night finally ends, and I say goodbye to my friends, I make my way to the garage, powering up my phone as I go. I’ve got to see if he’s okay.

Before I get to my car, I fire off a text. Hey, there. Just wanted to check in and see if you’re doing okay. I heard you decided not to do the auction. Everything all right? I’m here if you need to talk.

I want so much more than talking. But mostly, I want him to know I still care.

My phone is quiet the whole drive home. As I pull onto my block, I’m hoping he’ll be waiting at the door in a tux, like in the movies.

But that’s a farfetched idea, and my porch is empty.

I make one last foolish wish that he parked in my garage. When I open it, the garage is as lonely as me. I cut the engine and go inside.

My home is silent. So’s my phone. I toss it on the kitchen counter and trudge upstairs.

I strip off my suit, fall into bed, and crash, wishing this night had gone differently in every single way.

I open my eyes and look blearily at the clock the next morning.

I’m so late.

I jump out of bed, power shower, and dry off in record time. I yank on clothes, then bound down the steps, grabbing a banana and chowing down.

I toss some kibble into a bowl for Taco, then check the time again.

I have fifteen minutes to get to the studio. I’m never late. But I don’t usually have Monday Morning Quarterback on a fucking Friday, and I slept through my alarm.

I grab my phone from the counter, and I’m headed for the garage when I see a message from Beck. I didn’t get your text till late. I had an appointment in the evening with my shrink. But . . . I’m afraid to ask. Did you get my letter?

“What letter?” I blurt aloud. I stop and whirl around the living room like maybe the letter will skid under the front door like magic.

I write back, stat. In my mailbox? Or email or something?

His answer lands seconds later. I stopped by right before the auction. Your dad was there. I gave it to him to give to you.

“There’s no freaking letter anywhere,” I moan to no one, anxious as fuck for this letter. I’m about to call my dad when a furball rushes past me, skidding into the kitchen.

I smell a rat. “Did you take my letter, Taco?”

He says nothing, the sneak. But I know his routine. He jumps on stuff and knocks things over.

My dad would leave a letter on the living room table or the kitchen counter. I check the living room, but I don’t find anything there.

Heart jackhammering, I hightail it to the kitchen, circling the island counter, then I spot a rectangle of white wedged under a stool.

“Taco,” I mutter.

I pick up the letter. My name is written on the front in neat, blocky script.

Check it out. I never knew what Beck’s handwriting looked like till now. But why the hell does this personal detail thrill me?

Because this letter thrills me. It might explain why he wasn’t at the auction. But what if it’s more?

I hope it is.

I head to the garage and slide into my Tesla. I won’t even read it till after the show.

Except, I can’t resist.

I rip it open before I turn on the car.

40

YOU

Beck

Dear Jason,

I’m writing this letter because sometimes I do a bad job explaining where my head is at. I start conversations the wrong way. Or at the wrong time. And this conversation is important, so I want to say it right and say it from the heart.

I’m not going to the auction. That’s because I started seeing a therapist. I’ve only had four sessions so far, and I’m not a new man. But I have an open mind, and I want to learn and practice new skills. I’ll probably see her for a while. I’m okay with that. I’m ready for the work.

Already, I’ve learned a lot in a few weeks. Including this—sometimes I have to say no to events that make me uncomfortable. I pulled out of the auction earlier today. I called Ian and Jillian and donated to the Children’s Hospital instead. They understood. I’m so glad I told them.

I dreaded going on stage in front of hundreds of fans where I’d tell them what I wanted in a boyfriend or a girlfriend.

What I want is really simple. You.

But even if we didn’t play football, even if we were together for the world to see, I still wouldn’t want to go on stage and tell everyone all the reasons why you’re the one.

But I can tell you why I fell in love with you.

I fell in love with you because you try so damn hard at everything. You thought you didn’t work hard enough to understand my reasons for not showing up for our second date, but you did try, Jason, and then you tried again.

Thank you.

I fell in love with you because you’re not afraid to change. You named your cat Taco after I told you Bandit was boring. (But I think you changed his name to impress me. Spoiler alert—it worked.)

I fell in love with you because you listen. You listened when I told you about my brother, you listened when I told you about my inexperience, and you listened, too, every time I told you what I wanted to try in bed.

Sidenote—sex with you is the hottest thing ever. Like, equator hot. Lava hot. Surface-of-the-sun hot.

I fell in love with you because you understand my passion for football.

I fell in love with you because you look out for me in ways I suppose I truly need.

I fell in love with you because your taste in TV shows is exquisite. I fell in love with you because you enjoy it so much when I make shishito peppers, eggs, potatoes, and Thanksgiving dinner for you. I fell in love with you because you got me that damned coffee.

Most of all, I fell in love with you because you’re you.

I can’t believe I never said this when we were together, but better late than never?

I love you.

PS: I’m really happy you made it to the playoffs. That was why I sat down to write this letter, but then it turned out I had a lot more to say.

Beck

41

SCREW THE RULES

Jason

Pure joy powers me as I rush into the building, race to the elevator, and count down the seconds until the doors open on the twelfth floor.

The show starts in one minute. If I can just slide in before Megan goes on-air, I can steal a second with Beck.

Heart beating wildly, words building up steam inside me, I run down the hall, checking the studio light. It’s green, so I yank open the door, ready to blurt out I love you too.

But the second I bound into the studio, Megan waves her arms, points frantically to a chair, and mouths, “Headphones.”

Slamming on the brakes of my love confession, I park my ass in the chair like a good boy. I tug on my headphones and then hazard a glance at Beck across from me.

I’m not sure what I expected to see—either a deer in the headlights or a statue. But he’s neither. He seems calm but eager. He searches my eyes like he’s looking for my answer to his letter.

Screw being a good boy. I’m tired of rules and pleasing others. Time to take a chance at being happy. I’m putting him and me first.

Before Megan can even do the intro, I hold up a finger. “Excuse me, Megan. I’m not ready to go on-air yet. I need a minute.”

She’s startled and hems and haws, “Oh. Well. Hmm.”

“I’d appreciate that too,” Beck says, quiet but strong.

Damn, that’s sexy, the way he jumped in too, and asked for what we need.

“Okay,” she says, resolute. She’s a savvy woman, and she can read the room. She pushes back from her chair.

But before she can stand, I rip off my headphones and jump to my feet. “I’m going to step into the green room.”

Beck’s up in no time, following me, and Megan stays in the studio.

In the green room, I shut the door. It’s him and me. No recording equipment. I won’t push him beyond what he can handle, but I can’t sit across from him through the whole damn show without telling him the truth of my greedy heart.

“I love you, and I want to be with you for real, no matter how hard it is,” I say, throat raw with emotion.

I’m terrified he won’t jump with me into this great unknown, but I’m hoping with all I’ve got that he’s willing to take the same scary chance.

Beck’s answer is immediate. “I want that too, Jason.”

Then, I take another risk. I step closer and slide my thumb along his jaw. “Not gonna kiss you now because I won’t be able to stop. But trust me—we’re going to figure this out. We’re going to make this work.”

“I know we will,” he says, then he surprises me by leaning in and pressing a confident kiss to my lips, murmuring, “Missed you.”

“Missed you so much,” I whisper, and my heart calms down. It’s found him again.

“But we need to go in there,” he says gently, being the responsible one.

“It’ll be the longest thirty minutes of my life,” I whine.

“You’ll survive. We’re worth it,” he says with a smile.

“We fucking are.”

I reach for his hand, squeeze it, then let go when I open the door. Then we walk back in and take our places.

“And welcome back to a special edition of Monday Morning Quarterback,” Megan begins, and we’re on the air.

I’m jazzed as I talk up the playoffs, and Beck does the same. I do most of the chatting, but he’s always been fine with that. If I’m play-by-play, he’s color. When we’re done with the breakdown, Megan opens up the phone lines for listeners. “Our first listener is Grandma Sarina from Sausalito. Talk to us, Sarina.”

The gravelly-voiced lady asks about the importance of a home-field advantage, and Beck tackles that since his team has secured it. “It’s always good to play in front of your fans. They give us so much, and we want to win for them.”

Well-played.

“One more thing,” Sarina says. “Jason, you’ve been so serious the last few weeks on-air. It’s so heartwarming to hear how excited you are today for the playoffs.”

Maybe this is a chance to sow the seeds of whatever fan support we can get. I seize it. “Thanks, Sarina. I’m pretty stoked for the playoffs, of course. The reason I was so serious is that I went through a breakup recently, and I was hurt for a while.”

Megan’s eyes turn even more curious as she listens intently. Beck just grins, his smile saying he trusts me. He knows I won’t push his limits.

“Oh no,” Sarina says, sympathetic.

“It’s all good now, though,” I say, looking right at my guy. “We made up.”

Beck lowers his face, hiding that smile I adore.

“Oh, yay! I love happy endings,” Sarina chirps.

Megan’s about to weigh in, but Beck is faster. “Me too,” he says, meeting my eyes. “I’m happy for you and this lucky guy.”

My cheeks pinken. “Thanks. He’s kind of great, and for a while there, I thought it would never work out.”

“Sometimes you just have to work hard at football and love,” Beck says.

No kidding.

Megan cuts in. “And that’s one way to light up the phones, Jason. We’ve got about twenty callers waiting now if you two want to take this into overtime?”

“I will if Beck does,” I say.

“I’m game,” he says.

For the next several minutes, we field calls from listeners who want to talk about the playoffs or give me love advice.

“I’m just glad you didn’t let the breakup affect your gameplay,” a fanboy says. “This is your best season ever, Fourteen.”

“Thank you.”

“And seriously, maybe this guy is your lucky charm,” he adds.

I grin. “I’d like to think so.”

The next caller is a woman who sounds like a bruiser. “I can’t believe anyone dared to hurt you. I’d beat him up myself if I could.”

Beck laughs. “I don’t think there’s any need for that. It sounds like Jason’s guy figured out he doesn’t want to lose him.”

“Smart man,” the woman says, all tough and protective.

Finally, Megan wraps the show, then turns off the equipment. With glee in her eyes, she beckons for us to join her in the green room.

Once we’re there, she straightens her shoulders. “Call me crazy, but I’m getting a serious vibe that you”—she stops to look pointedly at Beck—“are Jason’s mystery guy.”

He shrugs wickedly, his form of a yes.

She flings her hand to her mouth, then drops it. “Listen, I know this won’t be easy, but fans have been going nuts for your rivalry. If we can take it to the next level on the show with your romance, I’m here for it. I’m behind you.”

I’m wise enough to know we’ll have haters, but I’m psyched to have a supporter already. “I’m pretty sure we’ll take you up on that,” I say.

Then Beck adds, “But we kind of need to go right now.”

Way to rev my engine, baby.

“Of course. Also, thank you for all you did this season.” Megan leaves the room, and we take off too, making a beeline for the stairwell. Once the door closes, I yank him against me. “Kiss me,” I tell him.

He drops his lips to mine and kisses me deeply and passionately.

And like he loves me, no matter the risk.

I wrap my arms around him and haul him close. I don’t care if anyone walks into the stairwell.

That’s how he kisses me too—like we’re free to make the choice to be together, even if it’s hard. Even if we get booed. Even if we get traded.

When we break the kiss, I’m amped up and lovestruck. “I want to be with you even if everyone hates me.”

“I don’t hate you. I love you,” he says.

I cup his cheek and kiss him once more. Then it’s time to deal with this choice we’ve made.

42

THROW DOWN

Jason

Sometimes the owners call a meeting with their players. Rarely do the players call a meeting with the owners.

But two rival quarterbacks falling in love is rare.

After I called Nadia and told her it was urgent we meet, she said she and Wilder would make time for us immediately.

We walk into his office. I sit on the couch, and Beck sits next to me, shoulders tall.

Wilder and Nadia have claimed the blue chairs, and she clears her throat. “Hey, guys. Thanks for reaching out. I’m guessing this isn’t about Ding and Dine?” Her tone is kind but professional as she feels us out.

“Or the auction?” Wilder asks.

“It’s not about either of those,” Beck says, then turns to me—my cue to take over.

On the drive over, we talked about how to do this. We agreed I’d take the lead only because I’ve been in the league for five years. I’ve had more experience with management.

“We’re together,” I say, then add, “Romantically.” Just so we’re crystal clear.

Nadia blinks.

Wilder frowns.

That’s not an auspicious start, but I power on. “We’ve been together pretty much the whole season,” I add.

Wilder jerks up a hand as a stop sign. “Whoa. What? The whole season?”

Here’s how you knock a smooth-talking man off-kilter: confess to a secret romance.

“Yes. Since the night after we won in Texas,” Beck adds.

Oh, hell. That’s hot. Just dropping his win into the convo.

Beck keeps going. Screw the script. “And almost the entire season in which I took the team to a thirteen-three record, with two games left to go, and a playoff berth. We’ve also maintained last year’s record-breaking attendance when your Hall of Fame, Super-Bowl-winning quarterback, played his last season, drawing packed houses. We haven’t lost a beat.” Then he rattles off his passer rating, one of the best in the league, his completions, also one of the best, and his touchdowns, near the top too.

The hair on my arms stands on end. Is this my boyfriend? Throwing down his impeccable stats before the team owner?

Yes. Yes, it is. And I am going to reward him in bed tonight.

“And the Hawks are going to the postseason too,” I point out, but who cares what I have to say? Beck already dropped the mic. And his record is a smidge better than mine, so that’s all I have to add.

“And we’re thrilled,” Nadia says to me, her eyes narrowing. Not in anger—more in contemplation. “I honestly wasn’t sure we’d make it this year . . . for various reasons.” She’s not going to dive into team woes in front of Wilder, though I’m sure he can read between the lines. “But you’ve played great, Jason.”

Wilder turns to the guy by my side. “So have you, Beck. But I’m just surprised. I didn’t see this coming, and I’m pretty perceptive.”

Nadia rolls her eyes, stifling a scoff. “Oh, please.”

“What?” he asks.

“You didn’t have an inkling? Their chemistry is incredible,” she says.

I peek at Beck. He’s mostly stoic, but a smile slips through.

“I thought it was just . . . banter and trash talk. Like you and I have. We’re not a thing.”

“No kidding. I’m married!” she says, brandishing her baseball-sized diamond ring.

“But that’s my point, Nadia. People might say we have chemistry because of our rivalry, but we’re not together.”

“And our quarterbacks are together. Focus on that, Wilder. Not on your astonishing lack of radar. We have guys to take care of.”

Scolded, he returns his gaze to us. “What do you need from us?” The question is earnest and absolutely wonderful.

But I still have to ask a painful question. This has been my biggest fear of all. “Are you going to let me go?” I ask Nadia.

Beck turns to Wilder. “I kind of have the same question,” he says quietly.

Wilder barks out a laugh. “No. Not for this. I don’t let players go because of who they date.”

Nadia smiles, shaking her head. “I don’t either.”

“I let players go for other reasons. Like poor character. If we were talking DUI, rape, smacking your partner, hitting your kid, or selling drugs, among other abhorrent and illegal behavior, then yes, I would let you go without a second thought and happily watch you go to prison,” he says, cold as ice, as he should be. “But you can fall in love with whoever you want,” he says to Beck, warmth returning. I even detect a little wistfulness, as if he’s wishing for love he doesn’t have. “And I’d let you go if you stopped performing on the field. But that, evidently, isn’t a problem.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. “Let’s talk about what sort of resources you need from us to support you when the fans find out. As for your teammates, all I can say is good luck.”

We’ll need it.

43

HEAVY LIFTING

Beck

After Jason takes off for practice, I leave, grab lunch at a nearby sandwich shop, and review my “homework” from Rosemary. I write down some notes outlining my thoughts and then the things I plan to say to my teammates.

Then I return to the facility and head to the weight rooms at the end of the east corridor, texting Carter to meet me there, adding, I have something to tell you.

His reply is swift. That sounds ominous!

When I reach the smallest and least busy of the weight rooms, I peer in the window first, assessing the situation.

Carter’s doing bench presses, and he’s the only one there. Good. Friends first.

I’m going to tackle this task one by one. I open the door and head to the weight bench, girding myself for another coming out. I got through the others; I’ll get through this.

“And . . . one thousand reps,” Carter says facetiously, then sets the dumbbell on the bar and sits up on the bench. “I am a beast.”

“Amazing that you can bench and text,” I say drily. Then I go serious as I stand next to him.

He studies my face. “What’s going on? You good after sitting out the auction? Oh! Sasha bid on me like you said. That was brilliant.”

“I’m glad things are going well with your woman. And thanks for understanding why I didn’t go.” I inhale and take the first baby step of my confession. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to be pissed at me for this, but I want you to be the first one to know.”

He frowns. “What’s going on?”

“I’m involved with Jason,” I say, then I add, “McKay.” Like I could mean any other Jason. “We’ve been seeing each other on and off most of the season.”

Carter doesn’t move. I’ve shocked him into statue-hood on the weight bench. Then, after an eternity, he chokes out, “For real?”

Shit. This is bad. But I’ve practiced, and I’m determined to push through this uncomfortable moment.

It won’t be as bad as I think.

“Yes. For real. He’s”—I stop to catch my breath because I’ve never said these words out loud to anyone—“my boyfriend.”

It’s like putting on a new pair of shoes that don’t quite fit at first. But soon, I’ll get used to them.

“Dude,” he says, his tone thick with disappointment.

My stomach craters. If he’s not on my side, I have no chance with the other guys. But I’ve dealt with being a loner before. I can do it again if I have to. My nerves settle. “I know it probably bothers you that I’m involved with a rival,” I say, taking my time to lay out the facts. “But I want to reassure you I’m not sharing the playbook with him. I don’t trade game secrets. I swear I’d never do that. My football loyalty is to the Renegades.”

Carter scoffs. “I know that,” he says, like I’m an idiot for suggesting it.

“Then, what’s wrong?” I ask, confused.

Standing, he drags his hand through his hair as if he can untangle his annoyance that way. “You didn’t tell me sooner. You didn’t trust me,” he says, hurt. “You told me you weren’t dating, but you were seeing him all along and you thought I couldn’t handle the truth.”

I never imagined Carter would be devastated to be left out of the inner circle. But I don’t have an inner circle to be part of.

“That’s not it,” I press. “I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid of what people would think.”

He stabs his chest. “I’m people. I don’t care that he’s your rival. You’re my guy, and I look out for you, but you couldn’t even tell me.”

My heart twists. His points are completely fair. “I’m sorry, Carter. I didn’t know how to deal with everything—the new team and the move, and then I met this guy I’d had a crush on for years, and he liked me too. It was all so overwhelming. I think I was afraid if I said anything to anyone I’d ruin what was happening,” I admit. “It’s way harder to tell you this than it was to tell you I was withdrawing from the auction because I wasn’t comfortable being on stage. And hey, you’re the only one who knew about the auction.”

He scoffs, but a smile sneaks through for a second. He’s softening. I think. “Did you back out of the auction because of McKay?”

I raise my right hand and swear, “I backed out because of me.”

“Fine, but . . .” His lips twitch slightly. “Can we talk about the part where you’ve had a crush on McKay for years?”

My cheeks heat.

“Aww. That’s cute. Tell me more about the crush, though,” he says, wiggling his fingers. “When did it start?”

I don’t want to go all teen diary with him, but I owe him. “More than two years ago,” I grumble. “Before I became a starter.”

He bats his lashes. “That’s fucking adorable.”

“Thanks,” I deadpan.

“C’mon. Let me have this moment. You kept a big secret from me when I told you everything, so I am going to enjoy the fuck out of your crush on Jason McKay,” he says, beyond smug.

I let him have his moment. “By all means, enjoy. While you’re enjoying it, though, I’ll tell you I still have a crush on him.”

Carter sighs like he’s satisfied. Then claps me on the shoulder. “I’m pissed you thought you couldn’t trust me, but you’re still my guy, and I’ll get over it. But if I’m not the first person on the team you told, I will lose my ever-loving mind.”

“I had to tell Wilder Blaine. You’re the first teammate I’ve told,” I assure him, glad I’m back on solid footing. But I figure I’ll need to keep proving myself to him, and I’m here for that.

“All right,” he says, rubbing his palms together. “Who’s next?”

I wince like a doctor jabbed me with the flu shot. “Everyone else.”

“Let’s do this.”

We leave the weight room. The heavy lifting is about to begin.

44

YOU HAD ONE JOB

Jason

Practice is sloppy. Devon misses throws. Xavier drags. Andre misses a couple easy tackles.

When it mercifully ends, Coach calls the starters to the edge of the field. He stalks to the left tackle. Andre has six inches on Coach, but the guy who protects my blindside looks like a kid when Coach stares up at him.

“You miss those on Sunday, your QB goes down,” Coach barks at Andre.

“I know, sir. Sorry, sir,” Andre says.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it on game day. Your job is to protect the quarterback. You have one job,” Coach says, and I cringe inside. Andre is such a gentle giant when he’s not on the field. This has to be killing him. “And you need to do a better job at your job.”

He wheels around to Elroy and Johnson, pointing at them. “Same for you two. Are we going back to the mistakes you made at the start of the season? I have no patience for that.”

“No, sir,” Elroy says.

“We’re not, sir,” Johnson seconds.

Then, Coach strides over to the new guy, singling out Xavier. “And I expect better of you. You came here in September strutting on the field like a peacock, but you need to keep your head in the game. Are you all distracted from the auction last night?” Coach whips his gaze to Devon next. “Was it just too exciting”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“when you went for a higher bid than you thought?”

Are you kidding me? He’s on our case because we did a charity event?

Before Devon can answer, I step out of the circle, closer to Coach, prepared to take the heat. “It’s not Sunday, Coach,” I say. “It’s Friday. It’s practice. Andre shows up in every single game. So does Devon. So do Elroy and Johnson and Xavier. So does every single guy here. We all do.”

Coach jerks his gaze my way, staring sharply at me. “And yet you’re all playing sloppy today. Gee, I wonder why? Half of you were parading around on-stage last night for dates.”

Are we supposed to live, eat, and breathe football twenty-four-seven? “That was a charity fundraiser. The owners wanted us to do it. We did it for sick kids.”

“And yet you still need to show up for practice like it’s a game.”

“It’s practice,” I repeat. “We don’t always have great practices. No athlete does.”

“But you should. I ask for one thing. Focus and excellence.”

Well, if we’re splitting hairs. “That’s actually two things,” I point out like an asshole. But fuck him. I’ve had enough.

Coach steps closer, breathing fumes on me like a drill sergeant in a war flick. “You want to correct me, McKay? You want to keep on doing that? Go right ahead. You’re the most distracted of them all, with your show, your media bits, and your archrivalry. You better not let it distract you in the postseason. You hear me?”

I seethe, wanting to rip him to pieces, but I hold back. He’ll blow his fuse in, oh, twenty minutes when I tell him I’m seeing Beck.

Better to leave something in the tank. “Yes, sir,” I say.

“Hit the showers, go home, study the playbook, and be ready for Sunday. We can still get home-field advantage in at least one game in the postseason. Maybe two.”

He marches off the field, leaving us to chew on his cruel words.

In the locker room, the mood is sullen. This would be the worst possible time to jump on a bench and shout, “Hey, remember me? Your gay quarterback? Guess what? I’m in love with the bi quarterback across the city.”

Gritting my teeth, I take a quick shower and then change at my stall, keeping to myself as I consider a new plan of action.

Nate’s next to me, and he catches my gaze. “You okay?”

I just nod. He knows Beck and I got back together. I told him before practice. He knows too, I planned to tell the team now.

“Tomorrow works just as well, buddy,” he says, reading my mind.

“Thanks,” I say, exhaling at last.

As I zip up my jeans, Andre comes over to me and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you for that. You know I have your back,” he says.

“I know you do, man,” I say, trying not to get choked up.

Emotions can suck it.

As Andre retreats to his stall, Elroy swings by. “Some people are just never happy, Jaybird,” he says sympathetically.

“Truer words,” I say.

I grab my polo shirt and tug it on, resigning myself to telling them tomorrow. Today is all wrong. As I’m about to go, I check my reflection in the mirror in my stall. I’m wearing the sky-blue shirt I wore to the photo shoot.

When Beck confessed he knew all my shirts.

It’s just a shirt.

Like the eggs were just eggs.

Like the coffee was just coffee.

But they aren’t just anything. They’re everything, and every boba tea, and every meal, and every night I spent with Beck drove me to where I am today. When I leave work in a few minutes, I’m going home to see my boyfriend, and if I want to go out to dinner with him tonight for the first time, I will.

Beck is worth it. I’m worth it.

I turn around and clear my throat. “I have something to tell all of you.”

Across the room, Xavier turns and meets my eyes with curiosity. The guys on the D-line look at me. Devon buttons up his shirt but angles his head my way.

“You guys may not like this, but I’m okay with that. You’re going to find out sooner or later. I’m in a relationship with Beck Cafferty, and I have been for most of the season. If you have any issues with that . . .” I stop myself. What am I offering them? A forum to discuss their issues? No way. It’s my fucking life. No one gets to decide who I love.

I reroute my impromptu speech. “If you have any issues with it, so be it. That’s life. I’m here for you every day, and every time we hit the field. Who I love has nothing to do with that.”

Nate grins so big I swear he’s going to break out clapping. I know he’s not on my side because he’s gay. He’s on my side because he’s a friend, and I’m damn grateful for that.

But when I stare down the line of my teammates, I have no clue what any of them are thinking.

Elroy’s eyes are wide. Johnson blinks. Orlando’s face is impassive. Devon frowns like he’s trying to do complex math in his head.

Andre breaks the silence. “That’s cool, man,” he says with a smile.

“Thanks,” I say, and he’s only one other guy, but his support is a lifeline right now.

Devon scrubs a hand across his jaw. “You don’t talk to Beck about our plays and shit, right?”

“No,” I say with a scoff. “I don’t.”

Devon shrugs. “So it’s no big deal.”

Thank the Lord. Two down.

Xavier unfreezes, scratches his chin, and rubs his ear. “McKay. What the fuck? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” I bite out. Do not fuck with me now, X-Man.

He whistles, long and low, like a warning. “Coach is gonna lose his shit, bro.”

As if I don’t know that.

“Yes, and now I’m going to tell him.”

I leave and head straight for Coach’s office. A minute later, I rap on the open door. He’s at his desk, head bent over his iPad. When he looks up, his face is made of stone. “You come to apologize, McKay?”

You wish.

“No,” I say.

He lifts a brow as if to say how dare you. “Then why are you here?”

Whatever is going on with Coach isn’t my issue. It’s his. But it’s clear from his comments that he monitors our social media. Someday, I’ll post about Beck. The prison warden should hear it from me now.

“I’m in a relationship with Beck Cafferty,” I say.

His eyes turn into torches. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“No.”

He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and shakes his head. “I hate distractions.”

That’s coming through loud and clear. But I came here to say my piece, then get the fuck out. “I don’t share plays with him. I would never do—”

“The show wasn’t enough?” he interrupts. He stands and stalks around his desk. “You couldn’t just do Monday Morning Quarterback with him? You had to get involved with him too?”

“I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” I spit out.

“Well, maybe you should want home-field advantage instead,” he says.

“Who I love has zero impact on whether I want home-field advantage.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all ‘love is love’ on me. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” I ask, reining in my anger as he tries to play a reverse psychology game on me. But it won’t work.

“It’s about you being the center of attention on this team. We are a team. But this season, it’s been all about you,” he says.

Holy shit. That’s his issue. He’s jealous of me. That’s what this is about. He hates the attention I get as the quarterback. Well, too bad, Coach.

“And management isn’t going to be happy about this. Good luck with that,” he adds.

I fight off a grin. I swear I do. But I fail because he comes back with: “What are you smiling about?”

“Nadia knows, and she’s cool with it,” I say.

It’s like watching the air leak out of a balloon but infinitely more satisfying.

Then, Coach scrambles. “Your teammates won’t like it.”

I cross my arms. “You may be right. But I told my teammates already. They know too.”

“Fans will be pissed,” he adds quickly.

Like Grandma Sarina? Like the bruiser lady? Like the fanboy? I don’t know anymore. I think they might like Beck and me together. We’re on fire in every way. We drove attendance, ratings, and excitement this season.

But that’s not the point I want to make to the man who hates everyone and everything except perfection.

I square my shoulders. “But the fans don’t get to police who I date. Who anyone dates.” I take a beat, staring at him, man to man. “Do you have any other questions, Coach?”

He grinds his jaw. “No.”

Some people are homophobic assholes. And some people are just assholes.

I leave the boxing ring, bloody and bruised, but having won that round. As I head for the parking lot, I drop my shoulders, but I can’t shake off the day entirely. Then, when I reach the row where my car is parked, I’m surprised and a little baffled to see Devon, Orlando, Nate, Elroy, Johnson, Andre, and a bunch of other guys gathered around my blue Tesla.

Xavier is nowhere to be seen.

Curious but wary, I walk to my car. One by one, the guys come up to me, clap my shoulder, pat my back, high-five me, or tell me it’s all good.

My throat tightens, but I don’t give in to the emotions swirling inside me. I just mumble a thanks I feel deep in my soul, then I get in my car and go home.

For the first time in ages, when I slump down on the couch, my cat jumps on me, curls up, and purrs.

“Well, you got what you wanted,” I tell him. “Beck will be here later.”

Taco purrs louder.

“Fine, it’s what we both want,” I say, then I pet the cat, and he lets me.

45

CHANGING OF THE GUARD

Beck

Once I’m dressed and ready for practice, I scan the locker room one more time, judging the mood, and noting the attendance. Most of the team is here. They seem chill. No red flags. Carter’s by my side, playing wingman.

I take a few more seconds to catalog my feelings. Nerves? Check. Certainty? Check. I’m calm enough.

“I’m ready,” I say to Carter.

My buddy cups his hands to his mouth in a makeshift megaphone. “Listen up, men. We got news.”

The floor is mine, and I take it, talking to the guys like I would if I were changing a play in the huddle. All business—no bullshit. “I’m dating Jason McKay. I have been all season. We’re together for real. Any questions?”

Stunned silence spreads to every corner of the locker room. For two, three, four seconds. Then, Hayden shifts his weight. “Let me see if I got this right. You took us to a thirteen-three record and pulled off a secret affair?”

“Yes,” I say, braced for wherever he’s going.

“Damn,” he says in admiration as he reaches for his practice jersey in his stall.

Isaiah finishes tying up his uniform pants. “I want that kind of magic. I can barely balance dating and playing. This lady I was seeing wanted me to come over on a Thursday night last month, and I conked out after practice. Woke up the next morning to a mean message from her about my no-show ass.”

I chuckle at their stories, light-headed with relief at how simple that was after I’d prepped for the worst. I just hope Jason has it this easy in his locker room.

“More power to you, bro,” Miles, the center, says, then fist bumps me. “Just keep racking up those W’s, and we’re all good.”

I never thought they would take the news this well. But then, my team has taken everything well. They were chill after the losses. They were happy after the wins. They’re good guys, plain and simple.

We finish gearing up, and I trot out to the field to practice for a game.

That evening, I park on the street at Jason’s house. I walk through the small front yard. I head up the steps and ring the bell.

It’s a brand-new day.

When Jason swings open the door, he shoots me a curious look. “You do have the garage code and app.”

I shut him up with a kiss.

He sighs happily as I kiss him on the front porch, in public, unashamed.

My boyfriend wraps his arms around my waist, hauls me closer, and kisses me like I’m what he’s needed most all day. I can feel it in his touch, in the possessive way he brushes his lips to mine, then digs his fingers into my back.

He needs me.

I need him.

We are so right for each other.

We kiss for another minute on his porch.

He’s wanted this kiss for so long. In the light, out on the street, for anyone to see. He is a social guy. He is a public figure. He relishes that.

I’m not that way, but I can give him these moments.

When he breaks the kiss, he jerks his gaze to his home. “We better take this inside.”

Ten minutes later, we’re side to side, panting and fucking each other’s faces.

I draw him deeper, squeezing his ass as I work his dick over with my lips and tongue. He’s giving me the same treatment, going to town on my cock, like he’s missed my dick fiercely.

Know the feeling, Jason.

I’ve missed him so much. I’ve missed everything about him. The guttural groans he makes as he sucks me. The tremble of his thighs as he gets closer to the edge.

Most of all, this incredible intimacy. This trust. This bed full of sex and love and fire.

When his cock pulses in my throat, he lets my dick fall from his lips. He comes first, with a loud and glorious grunt that makes my cells sizzle.

My orgasm is so blazingly near. I can feel it building strength in my spine.

Jason scrambles to his knees, pushes me down on my back, and slides between my legs to finish the job he started. I come hard as the bliss of being with him again washes over me.

He pops off and lies next to me with a satisfied sigh. I exhale too.

He runs a finger down my sky and mountains. “You still like my Alaskan King?”

“I love it. Especially when I can finally make you come first.”

Jason laughs, then drops a kiss to the ink on my arm. “Feel free to keep making up for that first time for all time.”

That sounds good to me. “I will.”

Later, after we’ve dressed and moved to his kitchen, debating whether to order or make dinner, Jason’s phone pings with a text.

He grabs it from the counter, reads it, then grimaces. “It’s Xavier. He wants to stop by.”

“You don’t want him to?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just want to be with you,” he says, but I can understand his hesitation since he’s told me what went down today.

“Same, but maybe you should hear him out?” I suggest.

“Ugh,” he groans, dropping his head like he just can’t deal.

I wrap an arm around his waist. “I can go upstairs. Or I can be with you if you want.”

He turns into my touch, looping his arms around my waist. “Now that I got you all locked up, I want you with me. You know that, right?”

My heart glows. “I do.”

He nuzzles my neck, then bites my ear. “Fuck, I’m getting horny again.”

I slug his arm. “You’re always horny!”

“That’s true.”

“But you can’t be horny if he’s coming over, so let’s order food and watch a show.”

“Watching a show with you makes me horny,” he says, shameless about his sex drive.

“Then I’m making dinner, since you only behave while I’m cooking.”

“That’s debatable.”

While he replies to Xavier, I gather the ingredients to whip up a quick veggie and tofu stir-fry.

Thirty minutes later, the meal’s ready, but before we can sit down to eat, the doorbell rings, so I set everything on simmer.

Jason lets in his teammate. I meet them in the living room, giving a chin nod and a brief wave.

“Hey, man,” Xavier says to me.

“Hey.”

“Let’s talk,” Jason says, but he’s on his guard even as he gestures to the couch.

Xavier sits on one side, and Jason and I on the other.

The guest wastes no time. “Listen, I wanted to explain myself. I might have come across like a homophobic jackass,” he says to Jason.

Jason doesn’t acknowledge the comment, but there’s a bit of if the shoe fits in his shrug.

“I come from a different world than you. I’ve been in the league for fourteen years, and times are different now, but when I started, man . . .” Xavier blows out a weighty breath, but Jason waits for him to go on.

“The world was not this world. Guys didn’t come out. I had a friend on my first team who was in the closet the whole time,” Xavier says, shaking his head in visible regret. “We went to bars together, and he went home with dudes. I kept his secret, but he was terrified of the backlash if anyone found out. He was sure the team would cut him, the fans would slash his tires, harass his mother. Anything.”

“That sucks,” Jason says.

“He retired eight years ago, and he only just came out earlier this year.” Xavier looks from Jason to me. “But guys like you are making changes. And guys like me—straight dudes who sometimes don’t have a fucking clue but want to do the right thing,” he says, then stops, struggling to find the words. “You hear me?”

Jason studies Xavier’s face. “I’m not sure I do, Xavier. But I want to.”

I might know what Xavier’s problem is. It’s something I struggle with at times. I don’t always talk in a straight line either. “You’re saying you worry about us because you’ve seen the flip side. And you know, too, that people are going to be assholes, so you want to keep your ear to the ground for us,” I supply.

Xavier thrusts his arms high. “Yes! Thank you for translating X-Man speak.” He turns back to Jason. “I’ve seen the way it was, and I know there are also guys like Coach, who are just pricks, plain and simple. I played for him back in Miami when he was an offensive coordinator, and I saw that ice in his eyes, you know?”

“Know that well,” Jason says, warming up to Xavier. He’s leaning closer, and his voice is less distant.

“And I pay attention to what people say on social media. Most are chill, but some are flaming turds. And at the end of the day, most fans just care about winning. But I want you to know where I’m coming from. I’ve seen some of the shittier days, and here we are in better days.” He takes a beat and locks eyes with Jason with ferocity in his dark gaze. “But I’m your teammate, and I’ll be here for you.”

Jason smiles and offers a hand. “We’re all good, X-Man. Thanks for coming by.”

Xavier leans forward to shake with him, then relaxes against the couch and stretches his arms across the back. I struggle not to smile at Jason’s expression as his teammate ignores the hint to leave, manspreads over the sofa, and sniffs the air. “Something smells good.”

“I made dinner.” Damn, that feels good to say. Yes, I made dinner for my boyfriend at his house.

Xavier hums. “Something smells real good.”

Jason cracks up. “You can stay for dinner, X-Man.”

The cornerback pops up. “Thanks for the invite, bro.”

We head to the kitchen and eat, the old guard and the new.

46

THE CHORE LIST

Jason

Once upon a time, back in October, I wanted to take Beck to Lulu’s Diner. On Tuesday, a few days after Xavier’s visit, I do. After we order, I slide in next to Beck and snap a picture of us, then I return to my side of the booth and type.

I show him a draft of a post. Having breakfast with my favorite person. I add a heart emoji.

That should get the point across. “Are you good with this?”

“Very,” he says.

I click post.

Xavier was right. I don’t wake up the next morning to a feed full of rainbow flags and thumbs up.

But there are plenty of those, and they make me smile as I check my social media while I work out on the StairMaster. My boyfriend is on the treadmill a row away, peeling off miles. As I climb another floor, I scroll through more comments, my heart squeezing as I read the ones from queer teens and queer athletes, thanking us for being out and proud. I spread smiley-face emojis all over those, as well as the ones from sports reporters congratulating us. I hide the comments from dickhead bloggers who say nasty shit, whether it’s about us sharing playbooks or sharing beds. Fuck them. I don’t need that in my life.

But I do pay extra attention to the ones from passionate fans like Hawks14forever, who writes So cute, but this won’t affect how you play against the Renegades? Or from HawksOrBust, who says You two are adorbs, but you better not help each other win!

I figured that would be a concern from some fans, though I don’t know how to reassure them without sounding like I’m dismissing them. As I read on, though, it turns out that most of the negative comments on my feed are from hardcore fans . . . of my boyfriend.

I give the finger to such gems as You still suck, McKay, and Whatever, just play the game, and How does it feel to be second best to your boyfriend? Renegades Repeat is coming to town!

When we finish our workout and leave the gym, I wiggle the phone at him. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you came to San Francisco and stole my fans,” I say.

He snorts. “Darling, let me make this clear. I’ve always had more fans.”

“You wish, you whippersnapper.”

Beck smirks. “When you’re good, you’re good.”

“So young, so cocky,” I say as we near Doctor Insomnia’s.

He points to the shop. “Want a Good Luck Morning Mango Smoothie? I hear it helps you perform at the top.”

I snarl at him. “I’ll take my magic blueberries, thank you very much.”

We go inside, and he orders. As we wait, I click over to my email next to get the lay of the land there. There’s a note from Cheyenne and Mitch, who won me in the auction, and I show it to Beck.

This is Cheyenne! You’re still my favorite, Jason! We can’t wait to take you out whenever it’s good for you. I know you’re busy with playoffs starting soon and your new boyfriend. Mitch and I are so thrilled you and Beck are together.

“Aww. That’s cute,” Beck says. “They probably understand falling for your rival too, since they’re a house divided.”

“Mitch loves you, and Cheyenne loves me.” That sparks an idea. “Any chance you’d want to get boba and play pinball with Cheyenne, Mitch, and me? You can say no and that’s cool. But they seemed really into both of us.”

Beck takes a beat before he answers, and I’ve learned this is part of his new skills. He likes to run through scenarios in his head. “I’m good with that,” he says as the barista slides us our drinks.

We thank him and grab our drinks. Then as we walk back to my place, I open the email from Reese: Try not to be shocked, but we have about 5,765 press requests.

I groan, read it aloud, then look to my guy. “I don’t know that I want to talk to the press about us.”

“So don’t. That’s my strategy.”

I furrow my brow. “Really?”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “If I’m good at anything—well, besides football and sucking you off—”

“I taught you the latter, whippersnapper.”

“And you taught me well. Anyway, I’m really good at saying no. Rosemary has helped me with that. But you can also just ignore it. I’m the king of ignoring stuff I don’t need to see or hear. That’s why I’m not on social media.”

“Stop being so smart,” I grumble, then sip my smoothie.

He bumps his shoulder to mine. “You know I’m right.”

“I know you have enough time before you see your shrink to jack me off in the shower in, oh, say, about fifteen minutes.”

He laughs as we turn onto Jackson Street. “And you know I’m right.”

“You’ll probably even give me a combo blow job and handy J.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I may even add a little something extra. But just say it, Jason.”

I stop, press my lips to his, and whisper against his mouth, “You’re right.”

But I’m right too. He takes me apart in the shower, so I don’t mind that he knows best sometimes.

The next week, in the pinball arcade in Hayes Valley, I attack the flippers on the Jurassic Park machine.

The game room is packed for a Tuesday night. It’s never been this crowded.

I’d bet a cool grand someone here tipped off a friend who told a friend who told a friend that Beck and I are here with the couple who won me at the auction.

So sad that my boyfriend sucks at pinball. It’d be such a shame if there were pics on social media tomorrow of Cheyenne and me destroying him and Mitch.

I stab the button on the right, sending the silver ball on a madcap race and padding our score. I sneak a glance at Beck, who’s double flipping.

Such a noob.

Oh well. I don’t have to share all my secrets with him.

A few minutes later, Cheyenne and I decimate Beck and Mitch, and I double high-five the bubbly blonde.

“Yes, we rock at pinball,” she declares, then taunts her husband with some kind of end-zone dance.

“Fine. I will do the dishes tomorrow,” he grumbles.

We take off for the nearby boba shop. Some people snap pics as we go. Out on Hayes Street, Beck reaches for my hand, and I thread my fingers through his.

Cheyenne and Mitch are a few paces ahead of us, so I lean close and whisper, “You doing okay?”

“I’m all good,” he says and squeezes back.

Before we left his home tonight for this date, he did one of his worksheets. It was adorable to see him at the kitchen table, outlining possible scenarios for tonight. That strategy gave him the confidence to know he could handle the eyes on us.

Now, we head into the boba shop, and I treat our guests to some tea and French fries. The four of us grab a table in the back, and Cheyenne and Mitch pepper Beck and me with questions about the playoffs, how we feel when we’re in the pocket, who our favorite receivers are to throw to.

On my turn, I ask them how long they’ve been together, their favorite games we’ve played, and who else they like to follow on the team.

Mostly, Cheyenne wants to tell us that they’ve upped the ante on the chore list they have at stake for the playoffs. If the Hawks win the Super Bowl, Mitch has to take out the trash every night for the next year. If the Renegades win, Cheyenne’s on kitty litter duty.

That’s brilliant. I turn to my boyfriend. “You’re so going to be on litter detail for the next year,” I tell Beck.

He laughs. “I can’t wait for you to handle the litter when the Renegades win.”

Funny, we don’t even live together, but we’re already divvying up chores.

In late January, the Hawks advance past the first two rounds of the playoffs and go all the way to the championship game for our conference. It’s my first time making it this far in the playoffs.

And for the first three quarters against the Denver Mustangs, we’re in striking distance of the Super Bowl.

But sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose.

I go home that night without a win, which sucks big time. My heart aches as I crawl into bed, wishing everything on the field had gone differently.

That’s football, though, and there’s always next year. I try not to dwell on the loss, especially since everything else in my life is pretty damn good.

Like this—my boyfriend is going to the Super Bowl.

EPILOGUE

COMEBACKS

Beck

The crowd was never this loud in Los Angeles when I played here. But then, I had never played a game like this.

With less than one minute left in the Super Bowl, we’re down by four. We are fucked if I don’t engineer a helluva comeback in the next fifty-eight seconds.

I can barely hear a thing in the huddle, and my voice is hoarse from calling plays.

When we go into shotgun formation, I scan the field, read the coverage, and take the snap.

But when I’ve got the ball, the Denver Mustangs are all over my receivers.

There’s no way I can complete a pass.

I hand off to the running back, who carries it just shy of a first down.

We get right back into it, and I go for a play fake, drawing the Mustangs’ defenders to the running back as Carter races downfield.

Yes, baby, yes! Go, go, go!

I sling the ball his way, but a tight end barrels in his direction, hellbent on intercepting.

My heart climbs into my throat as I watch and pray for two seconds that last forever as Carter launches himself into the air and grabs the ball . . . with the side of his motherfucking helmet.

Holy shit.

He’s got one hand on the precious cargo, cradling it against his head. He scrambles out of bounds and puts us twenty yards away from the biggest chance of my life.

With the clock ticking, I’m behind the center once more, taking the snap, then hunting for an open man.

Where the hell is a receiver when you need one?

But I spot an opening, a line down the right side of the field if I can just weasel past that big-ass linebacker.

Sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

Tucking the ball into my arm, I run like hell, dodging the defensive end, darting around a linebacker, and then the end zone is mere yards away.

All I have to do is run like hell. And I fucking do, carrying the ball all the way.

Holy shit.

I’m electrified as my teammates swarm me, high-fiving and chest-bumping. They’re so ready to crack open the sparkling cider.

But there are ten seconds left, and anything can happen. After Hayden secures the extra point, I pump a fist, then pace the sidelines, where all I can do is watch.

When the Mustangs’ quarterback throws a Hail Mary pass, time freezes as the ball sails down, down, and down the field, looking like it’ll land in a receiver’s arm right in the end zone. But Isaiah cuts in and snatches the ball from the air for a goddamn game-ending interception.

We did it. We fucking did it.

My teammates crush me in the most epic hug of all time as we pull it off—a repeat.

I guess trading for me wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

I look to the stands, wishing my brother were here but knowing he’d be as thrilled as I am.

But someone else who loves me is here. When I return to my hotel, my voice is nearly gone, but my energy is sky-high, especially since Jason’s waiting for me in the lobby bar.

He didn’t come to the game. He said it would look to fans like he was rooting for me. I could understand that. A compromise here or there for our fans is a small sacrifice for being together.

Here in the lobby bar, he holds out a glass of champagne.

“Fuck you. I hate kitty litter,” Jason grumbles as I stride over to him. I take the champagne, set it down on the bar, and grab his face.

Then I kiss the man I love.

When I break the kiss, I whisper hoarsely against his lips, “You may hate kitty litter, but you’ll love fucking a Super Bowl winner.”

In my hotel room, he shows me how much he loves it by bending me over the bed and taking me hard and fast. It’s intense and bone-rattling, and it borderline hurts as he drives into me, his hand on my shoulder blade, his mouth near my ear.

“Made me so hot watching you run that ball,” he grunts.

“Turned me on, winning a Super Bowl,” I rasp out in my fading voice.

“It gets me so hard, fucking a Super Bowl winner.”

“Winning one makes me wanna come on you,” I mutter.

He obeys, pulling out and then flopping to his back. I climb onto him, sink down on his cock, and stroke myself till the pleasure consumes me. I finish my night by finishing on his chest.

He follows me off the cliff with a dirty, satisfied groan.

A little later, when we’re cleaned up and under the covers, he sighs contentedly. “Question for you. I’m already on kitty litter detail since, you know, the cat lives with me. So, how does this change anything?”

“That’s a good question. I guess I’ll need to monitor you to make sure you do it every day,” I suggest, hoping Jason hears more in my offer.

“And how would you do that exactly, Beck? I mean, you do sleep over a lot already, I suppose,” he deadpans.

Enough crumbs. Time to be bold. “You could ask me to move in with you,” I suggest in my shredded voice.

He flips to his side and props his head in his hand. “Move in with me,” he says with a smile.

“So you can fuck a Super Bowl winner any time you want?”

He laughs. “Yes, baby. I love fucking a Super Bowl winner, but next time, that Super Bowl winner is going to fuck me on our Alaskan king.”

Our.

That sounds very good to me.

Another thing that sounds good is introducing Jason to my friends in Los Angeles. The next day, we go to breakfast at a café in Venice Beach where we meet Rachel.

Is this a bad idea? She’s my friend, but she’s also an ex. I hope it won’t be weird, even though Jason knows she’s a part of my life.

Rachel’s already here, and she pops up from the table, and rushes over to us. I’m expecting her to throw her arms around me, but she goes straight to Jason. Clasps his shoulders. Looks up at him since he’s a foot taller. “Thank you,” she says, earnestly.

He furrows his brow, but then a second later the line is gone. Doesn’t take him long to get her meaning. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says.

“You make my friend so happy,” she says softly. “And that means the world to me.”

My throat tightens as he hugs her back. Wow. I really can pick ‘em. I have an amazing friend in Rachel, and an absolutely incredible boyfriend in Jason.

The three of us sit and eat breakfast, and there’s nothing awkward at all about my guy meeting my ex-girlfriend.

When we finish, Jason and I go to the beach, heading to a basketball court on the edge of the sand. My friend Drew is by his lonesome, dribbling a basketball. He gears up to shoot.

“Hey! Want to see my ring?” I shout.

The ball soars, hits the rim, and wobbles off. He turns to me, shoots me a you’re dead look then says, “Why did I make plans to see you?”

“Because I’m your idol,” I deadpan.

Drew shakes his head, points his thumb at me, then looks to Jason. “You might need to expand the door frame in your home now that he’s got a ring,” Drew says.

“I can only imagine what it’ll be like when he actually has the damn thing to wear,” Jason says, then tips his chin Drew’s way. “Good to see you again, man.”

They know each other, since it’s a small world and all. But it’s good to see Jason hanging with a buddy of mine. This was something I once imagined. Something I wanted. Now, I get to have it, and it’s fantastic.

“You too. Wanna play?” Drew asks.

“Always,” Jason says, and as the three of us play an impromptu pickup game, Drew tells us more about his life here in Los Angeles, and this past season playing for the Devil Sharks. “No clue what’s going to happen next season. Sort of feels like everything’s up in the air. But maybe I’ll meet some beautiful lady who’ll take my mind off my team woes.”

“Sounds like a perfect solution to football woes,” I say drily, then shoot the ball.

“You know what? It sure does,” he says as the ball sails through the net.

The three of us hang out for a while longer, then I take off with my guy, walking toward the water, enjoying the day in the sun with the guy I chose.

The guy who chose me too.

As the waves crash, I reach for Jason’s hand, then give him a chaste kiss. Maybe people are looking, and maybe someone’s taking a picture, and maybe I don’t care.

I’m making him happy, and that’s what I care about most.

EPILOGUE

OTHER RINGS

Jason

When the next season starts, my dad comes to my first home game, and we grab a bite to eat after our win. The week after, when I’m out of town playing in Chicago, Dad goes to Beck’s home game. They check out a new food truck to celebrate his win.

The next day, once we’re all back in town, the three of us go out to lunch and take Snickerdoodle for a walk.

But sometimes, we dog-sit Snickerdoodle when Dad is busy with his new woman. Dad didn’t slow down much at work—he loves what he does, so I backed off on that push. I couldn’t resist the chance to set him up, though, when Zena asked me if my dad was single. Her older sister is a baker around my dad’s age. Zena had a feeling they might be perfect together, especially since her sister had had no luck on the apps.

Now, Dad is seeing Zena’s sister on the reg, and I can’t wait for Thanksgiving with the whole crew.

Beck and I are back at it with Monday Morning Quarterback too. But this year, we have a new addition to the show, a segment at the end called “A House Divided.”

We took Megan up on her offer to play into our romance and rivalry. During the segment, we take listener calls from any couple or family—even roommates—who live in a divided home with warring fandoms. Stars Wars versus Star Trek. Marvel versus DC. And, of course, Hawks versus Renegades.

And we share our chore list with the listeners every week. I don’t think we pacify everyone, but we adopted the Cheyenne and Mitch model, and letting people in on our housework incentives to keep besting each other has helped some worried fans come around.

We still have haters. Some fans still think we share team secrets, but I’ll never convince those people we don’t.

You can’t please everyone. But that’s life. Falling in love with Beck helped me get over my old habit of trying to make the world happy.

Now, I’m focused on making me happy, along with the man I love. He’s damn good to me—every now and then, when I volunteer at the Alliance, Beck comes with me to play table shuffleboard with the teens. We destroy him every time and beating him never gets old.

I also like making my teammates happy. This year, I don’t have to do the heavy lifting to make that happen.

Nadia did that for me when she fired Coach after the championship game last season. “Well, he didn’t get you to the Super Bowl, so he’s gone,” she told me over dinner one night with a twinkle in her eye that said she knew he was a douche.

He hasn’t gotten a new job yet in the league.

Boo-hoo.

Our new coach is a good guy who doesn’t ream us for stupid shit. Coach Tierney is focused, intense, and funny.

Turns out that humor goes a long way. Here’s hoping it helps the Hawks make it all the way to the Super Bowl this year.

We have a damn good season, but I’ll leave it at that. I’d be in big trouble with Nate if I gave away all the dirty details of everything that happened in his life, on and off the field.

But what goes down in the off-season is this:

I take my boyfriend to Cabo for a long February vacation. One night while we’re on the deck of our bungalow, under the stars, overlooking the ocean, I get down on one knee.

“Beck Cafferty, I love you more than football. Making you happy is the best part of my day, every single day. And I want to do it for the rest of my life. Will you be my husband?”

Then the guy with the great eyes and the big heart gives me a grin that melts me. “I was going to ask you the same thing tomorrow. You beat me to it, Jason.”

“And you beat me to a Super Bowl ring, so I guess we’re going to have to call it even,” I reply, then he kisses me, and I melt.

My heart grows ten sizes, and it was already huge, thanks to him.

I slide a platinum band on his finger, and he kisses the breath out of me. After hustling inside the bungalow, Beck quickly returns and puts a band on my ring finger.

Then I kiss the man who’s still my rival but will forever be my husband.

THE END

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One night with no strings was supposed to be the plan.

After barely escaping my last train wreck of a romance, I’ve got a new dating goal—play it cool.

I stick to that strategy when I bump into a charming Brit I met once before. He’s newly out and eager for all the things he’s never done, so I make the helpful suggestion we jet off to the city of sin for the night, then say goodbye.

But instead, thanks to a bet and some bourbon, we’re saying I do.

And in the morning I’m asking myself what the hell have I done? But we’ll just undo the holy matrimony right this stinking second.

Except, the pics of our nuptials are splashed all over the Internet–the pro football player eloped!

Great, just great.

Now, my agent says we need to stay Mister and Mister until the brouhaha blows over.

Thirty days as fake husbands with the sexy, irresistible guy who’s determined to prove that he’s nothing like my ex?

My bruised heart can handle that as long as I don’t fall for my husband.

And I won't. When we split for real, he'll be an ocean away.

Here’s a sneak peek…

Nate…

An hour later, I’m in the back of a town car, cruising down the neon Strip, making out with my sex date.

Funny, how we’ve been planning to get naked since we made this date, but we’ve spent the whole day together clothed.

Well, we were in public.

Still, even with clothes on, even with the long delay, it’s been a ridiculously good day with Hunter.

But now when we’re finally semi-alone, I’m not wasting a second. I kiss along his jaw, up to his ear, biting the lobe.

He moans and slides his hands along my chest. I’m starving for more, so I return to his lush mouth and devour him again. I need as much of the man as I can get because I don’t know when or if I’ll see him again after tomorrow. I don’t even know when his flight takes off.

You could see him in England.

Nope.

I tell that voice to shut up.

Tonight is a one-time only deal. And I need a sure thing. Badly.

Hell, I need to get the room stat.

When we’re close to the hotel, I wrench away from him. That’s the only way I won’t touch him.

What is wrong with me? I’m a ravenous beast when it comes to Hunter.  I want to eat him alive.

Is it because it’s been a while for me? That has to be it. I just need to get all this sex out of my system, after years of hardly any sex.

The car comes to a stop in the portico and I smooth a hand down my shirt then through my hair, while he does the same, trying to settle down.

“I really need to keep my hands off you till we get to the room.”

“Shame,” he says.

“Agree. But I don’t want any random fan to snap a shot of me and my very obvious hard-on.”

“I’ll do my best to make sure your hard-on isn’t obvious till we get to the room.”

Laughing, I say, “Thanks, Hunter. That’s big of you.”

“I was going to say the same of you.”

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Maddox…

I try again, shaking a little harder. “Hey, sleeping beauty,” I whisper.

Zane stirs, then stretches, inhaling a big breath of air. But he falls back asleep.

I laugh. He’s a tough one to wake. Curling a hand more tightly around his shoulder, I rustle him harder. “Zane,” I whisper.

He flinches and sits bolt upright. I jerk up too, and he grabs my shoulders. His eyes fly open, and his face is inches from mine. He blinks as if orienting himself but doesn’t let go of me.

“I fell asleep,” he murmurs, stating the obvious.

“Yeah, you did.”

“You stayed with me.” He’s still sleepy, his voice gravelly and all sexy…and I am so fucked.

“Of course I did,” I say.

I figured out within a minute of meeting Zane that he was the kind of man I wanted to go home with, and that’s rare for me—to know that, to see that, and to desire that so quickly. In the last few days, I’ve seen a little of his heart, some of his need. The more I learn, the more I like, and the harder it becomes to fight my desires.

Especially when he’s touching me.

Slowly, Zane’s gaze drifts down to his hands, curled tight around my shoulders. I want him to grab me with those big hands. Then throw me down on the bed. Pin me under him. Take me.

It’s fucking embarrassing how deep this desire tunnels into me, how far it claws through my chest. The last man I was with didn’t understand what I craved or why I craved it. Most men don’t know what to make of the sex I want, the intimacy I need. That’s why I hardly ever do hookups. I need to trust the guy I’m with, which rarely comes with a guy I meet on an app or for a one-night stand.

But you were willing to have a one-night stand with Zane when you met him.

“Thanks for waking me up,” he says.

“Anytime,” I say, hoping this moment never ends. I hope he doesn’t stop holding my shoulders. Maybe he senses my need, since his grip on me strengthens like he can’t let go. He closes his eyes, wincing. When he opens them, his voice is a scrape on the night. “What’s that ocean smell?”

I think I know, but I’ve got to make sure I understand his meaning. “The ocean’s not near here.”

“You. On you. It’s been driving me fucking crazy.”

A spark of hope races down my chest. “It’s my shampoo,” I say. It feels like sharing a secret with a lover.

“I thought it was your aftershave,” he whispers, sounding relieved, as if he’s been hunting for the answer for ages.

My mind is hazy with heat. “That’s Cedar Falls. The scent and the name of the aftershave. The shampoo is something like Ocean Breeze.” My heart beats in my throat, powered by wild lust that has me rambling about inconsequential details.

Zane leans in like he’s coming for a kiss and, God help me, I won’t stop him if he does. But he veers to the right, his lips brushing ever so gently across the shell of my ear, making me groan.

He runs his nose through my hair, inhaling deeply with a murmured mmm.

I think I might be made of liquid everywhere but my dick. That’s an iron spike, and I moan, low and long and unstoppable.

His mouth brushes against the top of my ear. “You on your hands and knees,” he mutters.

My body goes red-hot. “Every night I picture that,” I say, skin burning, pulse surging.

“Every night?” he asks, full of dirty wonder.

“Every night since I met you,” I answer.

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It’s not true that movie stars can have whoever they want. I have the worst crush on the guy who grew up next door to me. But, he’s off limits in every way. For starters, I just hired him…

On top of that, he has no idea that I’m wildly attracted to him AND that I have zero experience with men. Instead, I’m drooling over the sexy contractor as he fixes my home, all while I try to juggle my life as a single dad.

Oh, did I mention I just figured out I liked guys at the age of twenty-nine?

I can only imagine how well that nugget will go over. By the way, Mister Hottie with a Toolbelt, I’ve never even kissed a guy. Want to show me how it’s done?

I’ll stick to my fantasies for now, thanks.

Only, they’re quickly becoming more real when he starts staying in my guesthouse most nights. Chatting with me out by my pool. Then, having dinner and drinks with me when my kids aren’t here. Quickly, too quickly, I discover he’s easy to talk to, caring and the best listener.

And I wonder if my life could be a film. The kind where my character’s daring enough to say –  would you be my first?

Since I’ve got a long list of things I’ve been wanting to try…

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Author’s Note

Dear reader: Everyone’s experience of anxiety is unique to the individual. Beck’s experience is loosely inspired by moments in my life recently where I faced anxiety. His treatment choices are also informed by modalities that worked for me and that I continue to practice regularly—meditation, breathing exercises, and cognitive behavioral therapy. If you or someone you love struggles with anxiety, please seek help. There are many options and choices for dealing with anxiety, and what worked for Beck and me may or may not work for you. Please know you’re in my thoughts as you work through any struggles with anxiety. Here is a list of resources I compiled in partnership with a licensed therapist and a Mayo Clinic nurse.

-- National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)

-- Panic Disorder Information Hotline 1-800-64-PANIC (72642)

-- Crisis Text Line: text CONNECT to 741741. When you text this helpline, you’ll be connected to trained counselors for individualized support.

-- Mental Health America 1-800-273-TSLK (8255), https://www.mhanational.org/get-involved/contact-us

-- Smart Recovery https://www.smartrecovery.org/

-- Anxiety & Depression Association of America https://adaa.org/find-help/support

-- 7 Cups https://www.7cups.com/, online services

-- The Tribe Wellness Community https://support.therapytribe.com/

-- Daily Strength https://www.dailystrength.org/group/anxiety, this is an online support group with various postings.

You may want to contact your primary care provider (PCP) for a referral to a specialist in your area. If an attack becomes acutely debilitating, please seek assistance at your nearest emergency department. Seek out a friend you can talk to without fearing they will judge you.

BEHIND THE SCENES

Dear Reader:

Every story goes through edits, as it should! And every story winds up with scenes that simply no longer fit. With The Boyfriend Comeback, a number of scenes wound up on the cutting room floor. As I explored Beck and Jason’s romance more scenes than usual were cut, likely because of the complexity of the characters and the way Beck surprised me as I dug deep into who he is.

But I also had to shelve some of the sex scenes I started to write. I didn’t cut any sex scenes, but I did revise and reframe several. I’m including some deleted sex scenes here, as well as other scenes from the book along with a behind the scenes look into why. Let’s start from the beginning of the story!

In Chapter One, when Jason and Nate gather Jason’s dad, the three had a longer exchange and so did Jason and Nate on the way to gather Dad. I still love it, but it was slowing down the opening and slowing down getting to Jason and Beck, so I had to cut this, but I imagine this is what Jason, Nate and Jason’s Dad discussed when Jason finds his dad and walks him to his car post-game in Chapter One . . .

Here’s the scene from Jason’s POV:

After I’ve done my best to wash off the stink of defeat, I escape the dreary locker room with Nate as fast as possible.

“There’s only one thing to do tonight,” I say as we head up the steps from the locker room level to the stands. I’m eager to float my new plan to forget that game. Maybe a casual night with some of the guys will do the trick. “What if we—”

“—Never order your Good Luck Smoothies again?” Nate asks drily.

And the cheerleader routine dies a swift death. “Sorry man,” I say, heavily.

Nate slugs my arm. “Jay. I’m just messing with you. It’s not your fault or the mango’s. It’s one game.”

I get that on a big-picture level, but I’m frustrated that I failed so horribly at engineering attitude. I push open the door to the stairwell, then out onto the first level of the stadium. “I got ahead of myself. I was trying too hard,” I say honestly. At least I don’t have to put on a front with him anymore.

Nate pats his chest. “I’m right here with you, buddy. I feel the pressure, too, this season.”

“Yeah? You do?” I felt so alone for the last few weeks. While I don’t want Nate to stress over Coach, I’m selfishly glad I’m not the only team captain who’s edgy these days.

“Absolutely. I feel like it’s my responsibility to catch every pass, even the ones you throw to other receivers. So I understand the pressure. But I also know you can’t keep taking it. Maybe ease up on yourself tonight?”

Nate has the right attitude. He possesses the perfect amount of chill. I should try to adopt some of it. “Why don’t we just break down the game over a bite to eat, and then move the fuck on,” I suggest.

Nate smiles, wide and genuine. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

For the first time all day, I feel like I can turn things around, and maybe I don’t have to use brute-force will to do so.

“I’ll text Devon and Orlando to join us,” he adds. That’s our usual crew — Orlando’s the tight end and Devon’s the other wide receiver, so we tend to stick together. “I vote for burgers and karaoke at The Spotted Zebra. We’ll pick new karaoke tunes for the regular season. How’s that?”

I do enjoy crooning the Backstreet Boys or Elvis. “I’m in,” I say as we reach my dad’s section.

We find him in his seat with his head dipped low, his nose probably in a book. I glimpsed the title as I was getting him into the car—The Girl in the Hotel. He’s addicted to those psychological thrillers. But, when I reach his seat, the book’s not open. He’s resting his tablet on it instead, answering emails.

He’s such a workaholic. “Dad, did you bring your book just for show?” It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve busted him for working at all hours. He doesn’t work while I play, but I bet he was on email during commercial breaks and timeouts. The guy is obsessed with his business, making sure he answers every district manager’s questions, and responds personally to vendors for his nationwide cookie business at all hours.

He flips the device closed, muttering. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Mister McKay,” Nate chides. “When are you going to learn Jason has excellent vision.”

My dad laughs. Nate might be his favorite comedian. “You don’t say.” Then to me, “I finished the book. I swear I just checked email in the last few minutes.”

“Right. Sure,” I say, then offer him an arm.

“Here.” He hands me the book and tablet, then hobbles up the steps. “What do you boys have planned for tonight?”

“Stallions and Studs. Want to come, Mister McKay?” Nate asks innocently.

“I’d have to get some change for my big bills, but I’m in,” Dad replies, going toe-to-toe with my friend.

Dad would probably come along to be a good sport if we were really going to a gay strip bar, and really inviting him.

I’ve been out to my dad since I was seventeen and he’s only ever been supportive of me. Like he is in every single way.

I suppose that does make me lucky.

When Jason goes to the gym in Chapter Three after the call with Reese, he originally ran into Nate outside the gym and they had a funny exchange about dating. I cut the Nate bit because it was slowing down getting to Jason and Beck, but it also needed to be cut when I realized midway through the book that Nate was not a swinging single stud, but in fact a young athlete struggling with his marriage to a guy who didn’t get him. As such this was cut, but Nate is pretty funny.

Here’s the scene from Jason’s POV:

I hang up, passing the familiar mix of high-end and hipster boutiques on this hilly street as I try to figure out why I don’t want to do Zena’s offer, besides the obvious—do I really want to be the face of a dating app? If I am, that would mean getting back on the apps. I flirted with a few in the off-season, went on a couple of dates, but they all fizzled.

Nate watches me, head tilted, as I join him in front of the coffee shop. “Why so serious?” He sounds just like the Joker in Batman.

Dating is no joke, but Nate is definitely the person to talk to about my dating dread. I dive in without preamble and ask, “Do I want to get on the apps?”

He blows out a big breath. “That’s a bigger question than whether it’s fair that both teams aren’t guaranteed possession in overtime.”

That’s an endless debate. “Yup.”

“Do you want to date and all that it entails?” His earnest question calls up memories of awkward not-coffee dates and blocked phone numbers.

I shudder.

With a laugh, he pats my shoulder, and we set out for the gym. “There’s your answer.”

“Dating is awesome and terrible at the same time,” I say. Sort of like when I reconnected with my college boyfriend a couple of years ago. Wyatt and I rekindled the college flame and had a good thing going for a while. That was great.

Until we split. That was awful.

Learned my lesson. Don’t take another ride on the ex merry-go-round. They chew you up and fling you off.

Plus, after my winter on the apps with nothing to show for it, I’m not sure I want to go again. Sex, though? I do miss that.

“There’s only one problem,” I tell Nate as we stop at a crosswalk. “I did not get laid last year.”

Nate frowns in real terror. “Why are you telling me a horror story?”

I laugh as we cross. “It is kind of scary. But then, so is dating.”

His horror turns to excitement like he’s having a Eureka moment. “Wait. Maybe I didn’t have enough sex last year either. What if that’s why our football season sucked? What if we just discovered the secret to success? We all need to get laid more often. I bet Steve Jobs was getting his dick wet constantly when he founded Apple.”

I crack up as we near Fillmore Fitness. “And you, sir, just earned two points for that.”

Nate doffs an imaginary hat. “Thank you very much.”

I do miss sex. But I’m not in the mood for the bullshit that comes with sex—in the form of dating. Football is my first love, and it deserves all my attention.

My dick will just have to stay in time-out.

We head into the gym, pop music blasting and weights clanging. The gym is huge, with row after row of machines, and a faintly chlorinated scent drifting in from the adjacent pool. Smells like hard work and discipline, two of my favorite things.

I spot Harlan and Carter at the weights. Harlan retired more than a year ago from the Renegades, and Carter’s in his prime for that team, but while we don’t trade playbook secrets, we’re all friends.

When Nate and I join them, they’ve stopped lifting. They’re standing by a weight bench, crowding around Harlan’s phone.

I set down my water bottle and try to get a peek at the screen. “What’s cooking?”

Harlan looks up, a proud smile on his face, and spins his phone around faster than he ran to catch a football. “My little daughter Mia started crawling today,” he says, showing us his cute nine-month-old.

The kid is seriously adorable. “She’s a doll,” I say.

Nate leans in and coos. “Someday, I’m going to adopt one of those cutie pies.”

That’s news to me. “You are? When?”

He rolls his eyes. “Later, Jaybird. I’ve got football and founding Apple on my mind.”

Carter scratches his beard, confused. “Hate to break it to you, Nate, but Steve Jobs already took care of that.”

Nate snaps his fingers. “Damn. Guess I’ll focus on football and benching more than your sorry ass.”

The two receivers continue their trash talk as they hit the barbells.

The first time Beck and Jason have penetrative sex after the Halloween party, I got a little lost in the rabbit hole—hee hee, I said hole—of all the details. Beck was feeling adventuresome, and he wanted to know how to eventually top Jason, so before Jason topped him, I meandered down the path of Beck fingering Jason. Why? I was exploring Beck’s curiosity. But ultimately, this was a distracting segue from the main attraction. But here you go!

Here’s the scene from Beck’s POV:

So good, I have an idea. “Can I play with your ass first? I want to know how it feels to fuck you with my fingers.”

He grins, then shudders. “You are the most fearless fucking man,” he says, then tosses me the lube, drops a hand towel on the bed, and flops to his back.

I climb over him, settling between his legs, overwhelmed with the view. Jason parks his hands behind his head, spreads his thighs, inviting me to get him riled up.

I pour some lube onto my hand, slick up my fingers. “Tell me how you like it,” I say.

But he does me one better. He stretches out an arm, reaches for my wrist, and guides me down to his cock, then to his ass.

He covers my hand with his, a move that sends sparks skittering across my flesh, then he pushes my finger against his hole.

He shuts his eyes, breathes out hard, and then . . . moans.

It’s long, and low and sensual.

It guides me on.

“That. Do that,” he urges, then he lets go of my hand, falls back on the bed, and watches me.

He’s on his elbows, staring down at me fingering his ass. He’s hot and tight, and I’m burning up everywhere. Especially when he tells me to go deeper, then to crook my finger just so, and then he grabs at the covers and groans.

But soon, he bats my hand away, then wipes his hand. In seconds, he grabs my shoulders, jerks me against him, and plants the most devastating kiss on my mouth. He’s hot and hungry and I know—I fucking know—he’s about to rock my world.

“On your back, baby,” he tells me when he breaks the kiss.

I comply, then spread my legs, like he did. “Finger me,” I say, demanding.

“Someone knows what he wants,” Jason says.

Then, he gets between my legs, lubes up his finger, and presses one against my ass. He pushes in, and I wince at the intrusion, but not for long. “Keep going.”

He goes deeper, then crooks his finger, and my entire . . .

I STOPPED HERE AND REALIZED THIS WASN’T THE SCENE I WANTED! Instead, Jason preps Beck by sucking him and fingering him at the same time!

Also, when writing that first time scene, I tried putting Beck on top of Jason and riding him. You’ll recognize some of the words and dialogue because I rewrote this and reframed with Beck being on his back and Jason topping him missionary style.

Here’s the scene from Beck’s POV:

But Jason bends, whispers in my ear. “Want you on top,” he says, then he lies down, grabs my hand, and tells me to straddle him.

“Are you sure?”

“Do you trust me?”

How can he even ask? “You know I do,” I say, plainly, baring my whole soul.

“Then ride my dick, baby. It’s gonna be so much better for your first time.”

First time. Those two words reverberate in my mind as I straddle him, line him up, then slowly, ever so slowly, sink down.

And yeah. Wow. Holy fuck. That hurts. That’s a stretch I never expected.

I wince, gritting my teeth.

“We can stop anytime,” he says.

“Not a chance in hell,” I mutter, when he’s halfway in me.

He sits up, strokes my chest, touches my nipples, and seduces me down onto his cock. And then, I’m there.

I’ve got him deep in my body, and I’m this close to pleasure. Then, I’m closer when he cups my cheeks, and kisses me. A tender, bruising kiss that radiates through my body. He breaks the kiss, but hardly moves. Instead, his lips brush against mine as I start to move.

I rise up, down.

I do it again, and again, and then I moan his name. A guttural groan. He digs his fingers into my hips, and eases me along.

When Beck is going to the bookstore for the signing, I originally had a cute text exchange between the guys, but the bookstore signing took on such a key emotional turn with Beck’s anxiety attack that this text exchange felt too light, so I cut it. But I like to think these are the kind of texts they send each other.

Here’s the scene from Beck’s POV:

When I slide into my car, there’s a text waiting for me.

Mister Social: Send me a pic of you now, so I’m not dropping my jaw at the bookstore when I see you.

I dip my face even though no one can see me. I do it because he’s the fucking cutest. I snap a shot of me behind the wheel, then send it.

Mister Social: You in the black fuck-me car is so sexy.

I got nothing. I can’t even tease him about the size of his crush. The size of mine is city-wide.

Originally, the pre-Thanksgiving scene when the groceries arrive and Beck preps the food was written in Beck’s POV as was the start of the sex scene, but I wanted the sex scene where they flip/take turns to be in Jason’s POV to showcase his emotions at that point, so I needed to rewrite the Thanksgiving prep scene before it into his POV as well for consistency. So here was the kitchen prep scene originally from Beck’s POV, when we learn he left aprons at Jason’s house.

Here’s the scene from Beck’s POV:

On Wednesday afternoon the world slows down. Traffic thins. Phones ping less. Email quiets down.

Around three, a guy rings the bell to deliver groceries. I wait in the kitchen, out of sight. My heart winces. Maybe someday I won’t have to hide. Maybe someday soon. For now, I want to enjoy these twenty-four hours at his home.

Jason thanks the guy, then shuts the door. “Coast is clear, sexy beast. Get your ass out here and lift this turkey,” he says.

I laugh, but happily join him in the foyer, grabbing bags of groceries and hauling them to the kitchen.

We unpack them together, Jason stopping to sneak kisses on my cheek, my lips, my ear.

He moves fluidly around the kitchen, but rarely keeps his hands off me. He touches my waist, my ass, my stomach as he goes about his chores.

It’s a dream, this kind of connection. But soon, we’ve got to get to work. I open a drawer and toss him an apron.

He catches it easily, but quirks a brow. “Dude. I have aprons?”

“Yes. Two. I brought them over.”

“Because?”

“Because cooking is messy and you’re a noob, so you’ll need one. Plus, you look hot in an apron.”

He shrugs easily. “I look hot in everything. And nothing. Want me to strip and put this on?”

I roll my eyes. “Down boy. That’s for later.”

He comes up behind me and kisses my neck. “Show me what to do. I’m here to help,” he says.

And I lean back into his touch, letting him help me with affection for a few more seconds.

Then we get to work, prepping the turkey, making the stuffing and quartering the potatoes for starters.

A few hours later, Jason gets a little slap happy from all the cooking work, so he drops a dollop of cranberry sauce on my cheek. I wipe it off, then kiss him, sliding my cranberry hands in his hair.

Then, he reaches for the brownies we baked and offers me a bite, then mushes some against my lips. Laughing, I return the favor.

Soon, we’re a mess, and we shower.

Once he’s all cleaned up, I lean against his wet, warm naked body and whisper, “I’ve got an idea.”

“Tell me.”

“How about I show you?”

“Fuuuck. This is a great idea,” he moans, as he presses his hands against the tiles, water sluicing over his body as I roam my lips down his ass, spread him open, and kiss the man in one of my favorite places.

Never thought I’d be this into rimming—giving and receiving. But then, I never knew sex could be so extraordinary until I experienced it with Jason McKay. He’s so easy in his body, so sensual, so receptive to my touch. And I’ve learned so much since the first night. I’ve learned what turns him on.

The answer?

A long slow tease.

I give him that with my tongue, my mouth, my stubble, till he’s grabbing my head, and shoving me closer to him.

My cue to switch things up. I rise up, kiss the back of his neck, right where he loves to be drenched in kisses.

I reach for the lube we keep in the shower, and quickly prep him. Then when he’s begging me, I return my mouth to his ear. “There’s something we haven’t done yet.”

I guess then when I needed to get them out of the shower, the choreography eluded me, and my husband called me to dinner. So while I was eating, I realized I had to rewrite all the above into Jason’s POV!

In Chapter Thirty-Three, My Secret Boyfriend, I originally wrote a dinner scene at Beck’s team hotel. The sole purpose was to get to the Instagram video of Jason inviting a Renegade to gloat. Oi! Why did I take so long to get to it? I subsequently reframed this bit by cutting it and having Carter simply text the link to Beck when Beck’s in his hotel room. So much easier! But I imagine this is how the Renegades are when they have dinner together.

Here’s the scene from Beck’s POV:

While I’m out to dinner at the team hotel with Carter, Hayden, and Isaiah, I think through the ways I could get my shit together. Since I play sports, I don’t want to rely on drugs. But I’ve researched alternatives. There’s hypnosis. Biofeedback. Maybe even therapy.

I make a mental note to dig deeper into anxiety treatments, then set the issue aside when the server brings our food.

She sets down a chicken salad for me, and a lettuce-wrapped burger for Carter. Carter lifts the makeshift sandwich to his mouth, but Hayden darts out a hand to stop him taking a bite. “Wait! Camera eats first.”

“What?” Carter asks, as if Hayden’s gone mad.

“That is going on my Instagram feed. That lettuce is legend.”

Carter groans, but he’s smiling. “You’re such a foodie.”

“Dude, you are the foodiest of foodies,” Isaiah puts in as he slices his steak.

Hayden lifts a defiant chin. “Like you don’t all know the perils of eating out with me.”

Grabbing his phone, he snaps a pic of Carter’s food then uploads it. “This lettuce shines like an emerald. Done. Posted to my stories.” Then Hayden knits his brow as he studies his screen. Slowly, a smile forms. “Oh shit!”

“What is it?” I ask, mildly curious. Maybe he spotted a story about a new poached egg restaurant, or a cool food truck coming through town.

Hayden points to the phone excitedly, then spins it around to show us. “McKay is gonna have to eat crow on Monday. Guaranteed.”

I sit ramrod straight, swallowing roughly. Is it about us? Did someone figure us out? The back of my neck prickles. Then I play the role of my own therapist. Jason eating crow isn’t about us. Also, this is a golden opportunity to play it cool.

I adopt my best casual pose as I dig into my chicken salad. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Hayden wiggles his brow. “And you are going to make him eat all those birds. Check out this video.”

With a flourish, Hayden hits play on Jason’s Instagram post, and I go a little hot under the collar when I see his dimpled smile and hear his guy-next-door voice. He’s standing next to Nadia on the Hawks football field. “Hey, there, Hawks fans. Just want to say we kicked ass last weekend in attendance because you are the best. And I know we’re going to beat that other team in the city—I can’t even remember their names, I’m sure you can’t either—in the attendance bet.”

Nadia sweeps her chestnut locks off her shoulder. “And Jason and I will personally be back on Monday to update all of you on our amazing fan turnout that is going to be so much better than the Renegades.”

“And if it’s not, then any of their players can come out here and gloat on my Instagram feed,” Jason says.

I hope you enjoyed this exclusive behind the scenes look at the making of this story!

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CONTACT

You can find Lauren on Twitter at LaurenBlakely3, Instagram at LaurenBlakelyBooks, Facebook at LaurenBlakelyBooks, or online at LaurenBlakely.com. You can also email her at laurenblakelybooks@gmail.com