* * *

  I relax. In our up-against-the-door-frenzy last night, he tossed my wallet on the floor. My license must have skidded out. I bound downstairs and grab my wallet from the table in my foyer. Flicking through it, I confirm my license is indeed missing. So’s a condom.

  Hmm. That must have landed on his floor too.

  I’ll take that as an opening, thank you very much. But first, I need a new text name too. I settle on one quickly, a perfect contrast to Beck. Maybe it’ll show him that we fit together. By the way. I’ll be Mister Social.

  * * *

  Then I return to the good stuff.

  * * *

  Mister Social: Looks like my license isn’t the only thing I left behind.

  * * *

  Mister Anti-Social: Gee, were you trying to leave me a subtle message after our convo last night?

  * * *

  Hell, yes.

  Well, not intentionally, but I’m going to make the most of that condom in every way.

  I flip through my mental calendar. Tonight is out since I’d be too tempted to stay up all night fucking, and that’s a mistake leading into a game weekend. The Hawks play at home, so I’ll be in the football-only zone tomorrow and Sunday. Same for Beck. He flies to Chicago on Saturday for a Sunday afternoon game. We’ll both be back by Monday, so he could come over that evening.

  Perfect.

  That’s the plan, and I’m so damn eager to ask him to spend Monday night with me. But I don’t want to do this over text. He’s too sarcastic behind a phone. Besides, I need to read his body language. While we have boba this morning, I’ll search for the right moment to ask him to spend the night with me on Monday.

  With that settled, I write back.

  * * *

  Mister Social: I promise I’ll be unsubtle when I see you. That is, if you liked my “date idea” from earlier?

  * * *

  I want to make sure he knows my post-gym invite was a date. I hit send, even though my steady hands are shaking. I’m fucking nervous now, for real. I hope he says yes to seeing me after we hit the machines.

  * * *

  Mister Anti-Social: When you mentioned that boba shop the first time I saw you at the coffee place, were you hoping someday I’d say yes to a date?

  * * *

  Mister Social: Are you still trying to prove I have a crush?

  * * *

  Mister Anti-Social: Yes.

  * * *

  Mister Social: You win.

  * * *

  Mister Anti-Social: Excellent. Also, why do they call it a sister shop? Why not a brother shop?

  * * *

  Mister Social: You’re killing me. Bro shop, sis shop, who cares? Give a dude an answer.

  * * *

  Mister Anti-Social: With you, it’s always yes.

  * * *

  When I shut the front door behind me on my way out, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Anyone who sees me will be able to tell I’m deep in the red zone with infatuation.

  I jog down the steps, but once Zena’s house comes into view, I erase the I-got-laid-and-I’m-getting-laid-again look as best I can. She’s watering flowers on her porch, so I call out, “Hey, Zena. I have some good news for you.”

  Her smile brightens against her olive skin. “You changed your mind?” She flies down the steps, watering can in hand.

  “No, but do you know Carter Hendrix?” I ask as she reaches me on the stone path.

  “Of course. I love my Renegades!”

  I roll my eyes. “You never really wanted me anyway for your app,” I say with exaggerated disdain.

  “Of course I did. You were my first choice, and I still want an out athlete as a partner. But the Renegades are the Renegades, so I’ll happily work with one of their players,” she says.

  “I mentioned to Carter you might be interested. I can have his agent get in touch.”

  “You’re a doll,” she says, then leans in to give me an air kiss.

  “For a Hawk,” I grumble.

  “That’s true,” she says. When we separate, she dives into business mode. “But you can’t escape me entirely. Date Night is also sponsoring the Ultimate Player Auction, both here and in New York. With so many queer and straight players doing the event, there was no way I’d let another app beat me to it. My app is very LGBTQ friendly.”

  That gives me another idea. “If you really want a queer dude too, I might know someone,” I offer. Hell, maybe I’m a matchmaker now for my buddies and sponsors. It’s that kind of day, and I am spreading the love.

  Zena’s eyes sparkle. “I’d love any recommendations you might have.”

  “Let me make a call.”

  After I say goodbye to Zena, I text Carter the Zena details, then call my friend Luke, the second-string quarterback for the New York Leopards.

  “McKay, I’ve told you before,” Luke says when he answers. “I’m not sharing the playbook with your sorry ass. You’re gonna have to find another way to win.”

  “Ha. We’ll destroy you next weekend, regardless. And I hope they put your sorry and slow ass in so I can personally annihilate you,” I say as I walk along Jackson Street.

  “I can’t believe I ever said you were nice.”

  “Did you, Luke? Did you ever say that?”

  “Hmm. Actually, nope.”

  We shoot the breeze for a minute or two, catching up on events since I saw him in New York over the summer. “So, are you doing this Ultimate Player Auction in New York again?”

  “I am. I want some hot dude to bid more on me than anyone bids on one of the straights. I pulled it off last year when I went for the highest price. I want to do it again. I’d love for a bad boy with a sexy accent to place the winning bid,” my friend says, going a little dreamy.

  “That is both a noble goal and a very specific one.”

  “Put it out there and the universe will deliver. Or something like that,” he says.

  “I think you want the bad boy to deliver, not the universe, buddy.”

  “Or maybe I want the bad boy to deliver in my universe,” he says.

  “Maybe you should try out for the New York Horn Dogs. Anyway, I wanted to pass on a tip for you and your agent if you’re looking for sponsorship deals. Zena Palladium is dying to have a gay dude be the face of her app. I can connect you. I turned her down.”

  “Aww, you’re giving me your sloppy seconds.”

  That’s not the case, and I want him to know it. “I’m just not dating.” I feel bad lying, so I shift gears as I near the ice cream shop on the corner, where black spiders and cobweb cutouts decorate the shop window in the spirit of the season. “Anyway, are you coming here early next week before our game?”

  “I’ll fly out a day or two early to see the family, but I’ve got some time. You want to hit the links?”

  “Yes.”

  Wait.

  I stare at the too-cute-to-be-spooky décor, and inspiration strikes. Halloween is six days from now, on a Thursday. I am an evil genius! If I have a Halloween party, I’ll have reason to invite Beck . . . along with everyone else.

  Can’t ask him out to the movies, or for dinner, or anything that screams real date, but a party is a perfect cover. I won’t have to flash the I like you Bat-signal to get another night with him, both with friends and then alone.

  When the party ends, Beck can stay behind with me. Just me and him and my Alaskan King bed. That’d give me two nights with Beck—Monday and Thursday—and I don’t have to serve up my heart.

  I ad-lib an invite to Luke. “And I’m having a Halloween party next week too. My house. Sports-themed costumes, but you can’t be an athlete in the sport you play,” I tell him.

  “Rules. God bless ’em. And yes, I’m in for the party and a round of eighteen,” Luke says.

  I say goodbye, thinking of the party prep I’ll need to do over the next few days. But I love that shit.

  A few minutes later, I reach the gym.

  Even though I saw Beck mere hours ago, the prospect of seeing him again now excites me on a whole new level. I hope he’s feeling the same way.

  25

  First Date Woes

  Beck

  * * *

  I don’t believe in signs. But if I did, a condom would be a good one. When I spot it under the entryway table, I pick it up, finger the foil wrapper, then tuck it into my wallet like a good luck charm.

  Maybe it’ll give me the balls to ask Jason a big question.

  If all goes well on our clandestine date this morning, I’ll ask to see him regularly on the down-low. A crazy thought, but it’s got a hold of me. After his surprise visit, I can’t let go of the idea.

  Last night was unexpected and amazing. I didn’t open up to Rachel that quickly. But Jason’s so easy to talk to. He makes me feel . . . safe and understood.

  It’s a warm and wonderful feeling. I don’t want it to end, and I don’t want to wait around for one of us to get jealous or horny and just show up at the other’s door. I want to find a way, any way, to keep having him. If that means sneaking around for the rest of the season, I’ll do it. If it means darting out before dawn, I’m on board.

  I leave for the gym, heading down the stone path toward the sidewalk, plotting possibilities.

  Portia is sauntering down the pavement toward me, swinging a paper bag in one hand and cradling her phone with the other. “I just picked up bagels at your favorite place,” she says into the phone. “You better come here for Thanksgiving because I know how much you like your Thanksgiving bagels.”

  Thanksgiving, yes! That could happen too.

  Buoyed by the prospect of turkey and mashed potatoes and sex, though not in that order, I wave to my landlady, then turn down the street.

  “Wait, Beck!”

  I turn around. “Hey, Portia.”

  Covering her phone, she nods surreptitiously to the driveway. “If you ever have a guest, they can park in the driveway instead of the street. It’s a perk of renting.”

  Shit.

  Did she see him come over? Or spot us making out by the door? I slap on my game face, giving nothing away. “Good to know.”

  As I head for the gym, I pick up the pace, needing distance from that uncomfortable moment. My brain crawls with new questions: Is a secret fling too risky? Is it even worth it? Do I need to worry about Portia?

  Sliding open my texts, I tap out a message to Jason, asking Did my landlady see you leave?

  Once I write that, the question looks accusatory, so I erase it.

  After getting off on the wrong foot a few times with Jason, I don’t want to misstep again. I definitely don’t want to step backward.

  But I don’t entirely know how to move forward with him.

  I picture my tattoo of the sun and the sky. Breathe.

  I don’t need to rush. I’ll take my time. Analyze. See how our date goes this morning before I ask for more.

  At the boba shop counter an hour later, we order drinks, then Jason swipes his phone across the reader before I can get mine out.

  “I was going to pay,” I say quietly. I don’t want him to think he has to cover me just because he makes more money.

  “I got it,” he says, then lifts his hand like he’s going to set it on my back. My breath catches in excitement, even though he stops himself, tucking his hand in his pocket.

  But I saw his intention. He’s possessive. I log that as a good sign.

  “I kinda pay for everyone when I go out. But I want to pay for you,” he adds, his voice soft. He’s not showboating. He’s reassuring, and his quiet confidence is a booster shot to my own. Still, I’m not entirely sure how to behave with him in public. I’ll need to keep taking the temperature of this . . . date.

  Once we have the drinks, we weave through the mostly empty shop. Pop music plays overhead, but otherwise, the place is quiet on a Friday at ten in the morning.

  Jason slides into a booth in the far corner of the shop, and I grab the seat across from him. He’s wearing an ocean blue T-shirt that’s snug across his pecs. Even though I’m sure his wardrobe is blue shirt central, I still like this attention to detail.

  I tighten my fingers around the cup. I’m not sure what to do. I’ve been on dates, but none like this. None with a guy I like so much my bones hum just being near him. I dart my gaze around, scanning for new customers, for anyone who might know us, who might be able to read me. I don’t entirely trust myself around people when I’m with him. If I smile, I might as well be giving away my soul.

  I try to keep my expression neutral.

  Jason studies me, then clears his throat quietly. “You okay?”

  I suck on some tea. “Yeah. Definitely.”

  Jason sighs doubtfully. “You sure about that? I can kinda read you and tell you’re not.”

  That melts me too, the easy way he understands me. “Do you think everyone here can tell what I’m thinking?”

  “You have a good poker face, Beck. I don’t think everyone else can tell, but I can tell you’re worried. I can see. That’s all. And I want to know what’s going on with you.”

  Busted, but I like it. I don’t want to act around him. “I don’t know how to . . . do this,” I say, gesturing subtly from him to me.

  “From where I sit, you’re doing okay. But we can leave if you want. Or I can go,” he says.

  I shake my head adamantly. “Don’t go.”

  He smiles. “I won’t.”

  Taking another drink, I try to untangle my thoughts. “My landlady said something this morning that made me feel . . . see-through. She mentioned I could use her driveway if I had guests over. Like maybe she knew I had a guest last night.”

  Jason’s eyes flicker with guilt. “Does she have dark, curly hair?”

  “Yes. Did you see her?”

  “Pretty sure she saw me drive away, but I don’t think she knows I was at your house,” he says, wincing. “Shit. I’m sorry, Beck.”

  His apology tugs on my heart. So does the way he says my name—like I matter to him.

  I reach to take his hand but jerk back . . .

  That’s the issue.

  I thought Portia’s comment was what made me second-guess dating, but the real issue is, I can’t hold his hand, and that sucks. But that’s the shitty reality of our situation. “It’s not your fault. Portia’s cool. I trust her. She won’t say anything.”

  “Good,” he says, then takes another drink.

  “She’s a huge Renegades fan. She offered me a discount on rent the day I signed the lease. I think she’s a mom type.”

  “That’s sweet. Not that I’d know personally, but it sounds nice,” he says.

  He told me his mom left when he was eight, but that’s all I know. That kind of comment needs following up, but as I work through how to gently ask what happened, he asks me more about Portia, and before I know it, I’m telling him about the birdhouses, her son, the candle I bought her. Talking to Jason has always been easy, and being here feels like a nice, regular date, the kind we’d have if we were just two guys going out. We’d talk about our everyday, ordinary lives like I’m doing. The more I share, the calmer I feel—happier too. “Anyway, she’d consider it rude to reveal anything, so you don’t have to worry,” I say, and holy shit, I just reassured him.

  That feels right too.

  “Good,” he says, wearing a big grin now.

  “But I do have an issue with everyone being a damn Renegades fan. Like Zena,” Jason gripes. I take my turn, listening as he shares his morning. He tells me about his realization that Halloween is next week, how it’s been his favorite holiday since he was a kid, and that he loves any candy with peanut butter in it, even though he tries to avoid candy since he aims to eat healthy most of the time.

  I savor every single second of this secret date. When his stories wind down, I try to hide a smile, but I can’t. I lean in and give a dirty whisper, “I like the pic you sent. You looked good in that hat.”

  “You want to see me in it again?” he asks, low and raspy.

  “I do,” I say.

  “Good. I’d like to keep it in rotation,” he adds.

  His words spur me on. I’m this close to making plans with him for more stolen moments.

  But the door to the shop swings open. “I’ve been wanting to try this place for so long,” a loud, boisterous blonde says to the bearded man by her side.

  I hit pause on the be mine plans. Instead, I zero in on practical matters. I reach for my wallet, then slide him the ID. “So, Finley’s your middle name?”

  “It’s my mom’s maiden name.” His voice is uncharacteristically cold, the edge of a knife as he tucks away the license.

  “You’re not close to her at all?” I ask, thinking about his mom comment.

  He shakes his head. “She took off when I was eight. Left my dad and my brother and me then. A few years later, she married a new dude. Barely saw us. I don’t really hear from her unless we make the playoffs, and it’s just to say congrats. The only good thing I can say is she doesn’t try to ride the gravy train.”

  A pang of sadness lodges in my chest. “That’s why you don’t use the name anywhere,” I say, understanding him more.

  He smiles sadly. “You figured me out.”

  I’ve figured out a lot of things about Jason McKay. He doesn’t want that kind of life for himself—disconnected from his family. He doesn’t want to be like his mother at all. He wants to be like his dad and his brother. He likes to take care of people. He’s a giver. He’s a lover. He’s a protector.