“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.