“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.