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.