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.