“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?”