After last night and thanks to this morning, I figured out something else too—I could fall hard for him.

  Except, the second that awareness clobbers me, I know it’s a little late for that. Because . . . as we share more about ourselves, my whole body is warm, my brain is calm.

  Being with him feels utterly right.

  I’ve already fallen.

  My heart jackhammers, beating too fast, too hard. But this wild rhythm isn’t panic. It’s possibility. This date is giving me courage.

  I slide my foot under the table, braving a chance. I tap the toe of his sneaker with mine, and fireworks ignite in me.

  The grin he sends my way lights me up.

  Ask him to keep doing this crazy, risky, dangerous thing. Invite yourself over again. And again.

  “So I was thinking,” I begin.

  He nibbles on the corner of his lips. “Mmm. Me too.”

  That’s promising as fuck. “What are you thinking?”

  “I want to ask you something,” he says, nervous but excited too.

  The tone is an electric charge through my body. It tells me I’ll like his question. It tells me he’ll probably like mine.

  “Ask me—”

  Our pillow talk is broken by a high-pitched tone: “It’s the two-minute warning!”

  Like Coach blew a whistle, I whip around, hunting for the voice and spotting the blonde who came in a few minutes ago standing nearby, a cup of tea in one hand, a grin on her face.

  Jason’s my opposite, all cool and casual as he turns to the couple. The blonde clasps her mouth then drops her hand, going full announcer: “And now, team captain . . . Jason McKay!”

  The bearded man beams at me. “And now, your new starting quarterback, Number Nine . . . Beck Cafferty.”

  I affect a small grin, but the expression feels awkward. I wasn’t ready to shut the doors on that private moment. But the interruption reminds me that cooing over a café table isn’t very down-low.

  Jason’s smile goes wide and welcoming. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m such a Hawks fan,” the blonde says, clutching her chest with her free hand. “I’m Cheyenne, and I just love you so much.”

  “I’m Mitch. And I’m a total Renegades man,” the guy says.

  The woman bursts with energy. “And my hubs and I, we have this thing every weekend where whoever’s team wins, that person gets to pick the chore the other does. The other week, when the Hawks won, and the Renegades lost, he had to take out the garbage.”

  “The next week, she cleaned the litter,” the man explains. “But if you both win, we do the chores by points.” He couldn’t be happier to share their to-do list system.

  Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out what to say at all. “Cool,” is all I manage.

  “That’s awesome, Mitch. Lean into the rivalry,” Jason says, so much smoother than my cool.

  The bubbly blonde looks from Jason to me, then back. Can she tell I’m crazy for him? Does she know I’m sleeping with the enemy? I maintain a stony expression so no one can see into my heart.

  “Can we get a picture?” the blonde asks. “Then we’ll let you get back to it.”

  “Works for me, Cheyenne. We were planning Monday’s segment,” Jason says, then nods to me with a jovial grin. “Right, Beck?”

  I’m keenly aware I haven’t opened my mouth to say a word, but cool. He’s done all the talking. “Yes, that’s right,” I say.

  Jason stands, and I follow suit.

  “You two in the middle,” the blonde says, directing us, and I’m shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy I want to see again and again in secret. I should love this moment, but it’s also a reminder that this is all we’ll ever have.

  Moments where we pretend we’re not spending our nights together. When we pretend we’re simply two rivals who rib each other on-air.

  The blonde sticks out her arm and snaps a picture. When she’s done, she says, “We’ll let you finish.”

  Jason smiles. “Actually, I’ve got practice. But tag me because I was going to take a pic for social myself, but I’d rather repost a fan pic.”

  She squeals.

  He’s made her day. Probably her whole week.

  I know the feeling, Cheyenne.

  The couple heads for a booth, but even when they’re gone, the vibe has shifted. The shop is packed now, with customers who came in while we weren’t looking.

  Our secret date is officially over.

  “I have practice too,” I say, then I drop my cup in the recycling bin, and he does the same.

  We make our way through the crowd and out to the street. I glance back, wishing the clock hadn’t run down. “Thanks for the boba,” I say and come to a stop, though that barely scratches the surface of what I want to say.

  “I should go, and you have practice too,” he says, then his eyes drift to my lips. He stares a little longer than he should.

  For a second, he sways closer, almost, almost, like he’d want to kiss me.

  My pulse is beating too fast, and I’m sweating.

  Is this what I want? An almost kiss? An almost touch?

  Yes, and no.

  My heart squeezes, but it hurts this time.

  I’m dying to see him again, but how the hell is a guy like me—riddled with anxiety—going to handle the magnitude of a secret affair with my rival quarterback?

  “Have a good practice,” I say, wishing I had the guts to speak my true mind.

  But I can’t. And I won’t.

  More customers pour out of the shop, and Jason’s expression shifts from soft and private to friendly and public. “I’m throwing a Halloween party on Thursday,” he tells me. “Want to come?”

  I should be happy about the invite, but I’m disappointed in myself. I came into this date with a goal, and I failed to move the ball.

  It’s time to punt and take what I can get.

  The reality is simple. Jason can’t be my boyfriend. We can only hang out in public as friendly rivals. And if we keep doing that, sooner or later, someone will catch on.

  But I refuse to be in a funk about a party. I might as well enjoy hanging out with friends in my new hometown.

  I smile, hoping it looks like I mean it when I say, “Sounds fun.”

  Then I go, missing him more than I ever wanted to.

  26

  Fuck Timing

  Jason

  * * *

  Timing is everything.

  In sports, in sex, and in dating.

  Out on the gridiron, you’ve got to know when to throw the ball, run it, and hand it off.

  On Sunday against the Vegas Pioneers, I fire the ball again and again to Nate, Orlando, and Devon. My badass Hawks connect in every quarter, enough to counteract the pick I throw at the start of the game, and we walk away at the end with another W.

  Timing matters on-air too.

  On Monday morning, Beck and I are back in the studio, tossing barbs left and right. We lock eyes across the soundboard, Beck almost smiling as he lands a particularly good zinger.

  “Pro-tip for ya—maybe don’t always look first where you’re going to throw,” he says.

  Like I don’t fucking know that. I made a rookie mistake last night with that interception, telegraphing the play in advance near the start of the game.

  But Beck did too, when he fumbled the ball before the half. “Thanks. While we’re at it, the council of quarterbacks sent a memo last week. Not sure you got it, but it said try not to fumble the ball.”

  The zing is on. The chemistry is real. And I am ready to finish what I started on Friday over boba.

  This is my new plan to lock in a time to see him—as soon as the show ends, I’ll say goodbye to Megan. Then, Beck and I will head down the hall. I’ll point to the stairwell. Once the door shuts, I’ll jerk him against me, kiss the hell out of him, then invite him to spend the night.

  But when the show should end, Megan’s still sporting a devilish smile rather than signing off. “Guess what, guys? We have two special guests for you today. Are you ready?”

  Not one bit, but I fake it with a sure.

  “I guess we better be,” Beck says, but the uncertainty in his tone tells me this is news to him too.

  “Hold on just a second,” Megan says, then the studio door pushes open from the other side, and whoa.

  Nadia strides in, looking sharp and stylish in a red blouse, black slacks, and her signature Louboutins. I sit up straighter. “Hey boss,” I say.

  Right behind her is Wilder Blaine, the owner of the Renegades, a sharp-dressed man with the cuffs of his crisp white shirt rolled up to reveal his ink, which is nice and all but nowhere near as sexy as Beck’s.

  “Hello, sir,” Beck says, and it’s adorable how Beck talks to him. I dip my head to hide a grin.

  The owners settle into extra chairs, the studio cramped now. Once they quickly put headphones on, Megan says, “Well, what brings you two here?”

  As if she didn’t engineer this.

  “Ladies first,” Wilder says.

  “Aww, you’re sweet, but I say age before . . . brains,” Nadia says.

  “Ouch. You wound me,” Wilder says like these two practiced this repartee.

  “Seriously though, this whole rivalry thing got us thinking about attendance. If the Hawks can beat the Renegades with attendance at our home game this weekend, I’ll donate one hundred thousand dollars to the city’s local animal shelters,” Nadia says.

  “And if the reigning Super Bowl champs have more fans next time we’re home—and we will—we’ll match the donation,” Wilder says, not to be outdone.

  “How about that?” Megan says, clearly impressed. “Listeners, be sure to share your thoughts on social media, and thank you, Nadia and Wilder, for coming in.”

  When she signs off, Nadia turns to me and asks if the four of us can grab a cup of coffee.

  So much for my stairwell fantasy.

  At Republic of Caffeine, I sit like there’s a ruler down the back of my shirt. Beck sits even taller while Nadia does the talking. “We have a lot of interest in the auction already. The clicks on your profiles and the pre-bids are quite high.”

  Wilder clears his throat. “We’d like you both to attend a pre-auction cocktail and mingle with sponsors and attendees. Would that be something you could do?”

  “Of course,” Beck says since that’s the only acceptable answer.

  “Yes,” I add. I don’t dare look at Beck. I don’t risk a glance.

  When we’re done, I head to the parking garage with two team owners and the guy I was going to ask to stay the night.

  Sure, I could get in my car and fire off a text inviting him over.

  But this morning feels like the boba shop all over again when there wasn’t an easy moment to ask him.

  Nothing is easy about my situation with Beck, and at some point, shouldn’t feelings and shit just be simple?

  It’s fourth down right now, and I don’t know what play to make, so I call my own timeout. I need to spend a few days figuring out where the hell I want this dangerous game with Beck to go.

  For now, I go home.

  On Wednesday afternoon, I swing my five-iron high, putting every ounce of my ample frustration into the stroke.

  I fucking miss the little white ball.

  I groan to my golf companions. Nate’s here on the links with me at my favorite course outside the city. Luke has joined us, and our friend Hazel’s in town too. The romance writer is ridiculously good at all games.

  “I hate golf,” I whine.

  Nate chuckles, enjoying my horrid game far too much. “And golf hates you, Jay.”

  “May it keep on hating you so hard,” Luke says, casting his gaze heavenward along with the prayer.

  Hazel frowns. “Maybe I should just play solo? I’m thinking I might do better without you as a partner, Jay.”

  I growl. “You’re stuck with me. You’re my only chance of winning.”

  Nate scoffs. “Hate to break it to you, Jay. But I doubt you can win even with Hazel on your team.”

  Hazel squeezes my arm, trying to buck me up. “C’mon, you can do it. You know how much I hate losing at golf.”

  “You hate losing at anything,” I point out.

  “We all do,” Nate says.

  I haul in a deep breath, doing my damnedest to focus on the game. Not on Beck. Not on seeing him tomorrow at my party. Not on the fact that I can’t stop thinking about him.

  Fuck. That. All.

  I lift the club, swing my hips, and hit the life out of that ball. “C’mon,” I mutter as it soars . . . right into the damn sand trap.

  “Why, Satan? Why today?”

  Nate and Luke laugh and wander ahead of us along the course, but Hazel hangs back. “You seem extra frustrated. And there’s usually one reason for that.”

  I sigh.

  She never misses my emotions, no matter how hard I try to hide them. “That obvious?”

  She smiles sympathetically. “To me. Do you want to talk?”

  I plunk the club onto the grass, resting my weight against the handle. “I don’t even know what there is to say about this guy. That’s the problem.”

  “Is it someone you’re missing? Someone you want to see? Or is he someone who doesn’t want the same things you do?”

  All her questions tug at my heart because the answers are too easy. “I miss him. I want to see him. And I’m pretty sure he wants the same things.”

  “And what do you want?”

  That’s easy too. “I want to see him. But it’s complicated.”

  She smiles again. “It always is,” she says, too wise. “But if I can help, let me know.”

  As we walk to the next hole, I weigh her last words. It’s not like me to turn down help when I need it, but do I need a sounding board to sort through the complicated sitch with Beck?

  Or do I need less talk and more action?

  The next night, I fill my home with food I ordered from a gourmet shop—seven-layer spider dip, pumpkin deviled eggs, veggie dog mummies, poisoned apples, bite-sized eyeballs made of marshmallows, and all the candy, gourmet chocolate, and Halloween cookies anyone could want.

  Also, liquor.

  Hazel, Luke, and Nate help me set up. By the time the party starts, pop music pipes through my sound system while black cat decorations and spiders line the walls. The mood is set, and the vibe is on.

  Luke dons his referee costume, apropos for tending bar. Hazel pulls her red hair into a ponytail, pops on a white skirt the size of a postage stamp, and twirls the tennis racquet in her hand.

  I head upstairs, lock the cat in my bedroom, and get into my costume. First, I dunk my head under the faucet, then slather gel in my hair so it’ll look wet all night. Next, I drape a pair of swim goggles around my neck, strip to nothing and pull on a swimsuit. I add shower shoes to complete the look, then head downstairs.

  Luke’s setting out glasses on the counter, and he scoffs when he sees my get-up. “Why are you not in a Speedo?”

  Nate smacks his shoulder. “What if there’s a hot guy here?”

  Luke points at himself. “Dude, there is.”

  I laugh, but they’re not why I picked board shorts over Speedos for my swimmer costume.

  Nate walks closer to me and lowers his voice. “Oliver wants to talk,” he says, sketching air quotes and making a talk sound spookier than Halloween. “I’m going to head off.”

  “Good luck, buddy,” I say and haul him in for a hug.

  Soon, the first guests arrive. I open the door for everyone, greeting Orlando and Lucy, dressed as goalposts, saying hi to Devon decked out as a dodgeball star. Xavier shows up in a fighter pilot costume, insisting pilots are athletes. I don’t bother arguing. It’s a valid point, and besides, I’m not the costume police.

  I’m just a guy hoping the guy I like enjoys my costume. I mean, the no-shirt look was strategic. I look good in just my abs.

  But Beck hasn’t made it yet. Each time I open the door, I peer down the street, looking for him.

  A couple of my friends on the Renegades arrive next. Hayden’s dressed as Ted Lasso, with Isaiah looking the part of his sidekick coach.

  And still, there’s no Beck.

  Beer in hand, I mingle but never take my eye off the door. Every time someone bounds up the front steps and rings the bell, my dumb heart jumps.

  But it’s never Beck, and that sucks.

  After an hour empty-handed, I’ve figured out the answer to Hazel’s golf question. I don’t need help from anyone. I do need to help myself.

  The timeout is over. It’s time for action.

  I steal away to the bathroom, shutting the door, then tap out a message on my phone.

  Are you coming? I can’t stand not seeing you here. I need to see you. I need to talk to you. And I need to touch you.

  27

  Nude Sewing

  Beck

  * * *

  My costume rocks.

  Jeans, a foam finger, and the number twelve painted on my bare chest for the twelfth man.

  I am a certified fan, and I’m prepped to have a damn good time at Jason’s party. I’ll get to know new people. I’ll talk to teammates. I’ll have a blast.

  Doesn’t matter if I speak to the host or not. Hell, who cares if I even see him? I’ve spent the last few days shutting down my emotions. That’s not cruel—it’s necessary to get through tonight as just one of the guests.

  Carter should be here any minute, so I settle into the beanbag and read till he knocks, a deafening sound. I set down my phone and head to the door, letting in my friend.

  And . . . whoa. “I just went blind,” I say, shielding my eyes from the intensity of the fuchsia.

  He’s wearing black shorts and, I think, an upside-down pink thong. “What the fuck is that?”

  The bearded receiver groans, plucking at the pink nylon strings on his shoulders, or maybe they’re straps. “I’m the Super Bowl stripper.”

  Oh, right! A dude in a bright pink mankini and black shorts streaked across the field a couple of years ago during the big game. “If Jason is having a costume contest, you win,” I say, then I want to kick myself. I make a mental note to call the host McKay next time.