I indulge in him, giving him a luxurious blow job. His dick gets the whole damn treatment. I lick long stripes up and down his shaft. I kiss the head. I suck on his balls. I’m so turned on from getting him off that I’m rubbing against the mattress.

  Then, I’m even more worked up when he grabs my head, ropes his fingers through my hair, and grunts for ages. The noise is long and carnal like he’s so lost in the moment.

  Same for me. I’m obsessed with making him feel good.

  Taking Beck apart in bed is such a high. He’s so daring after dark with me. But he’s daring during the light too. His gutsiness, even when it hurts, makes me want him more.

  And I show him how much I want him with the way I touch and suck and kiss.

  “Jay,” he moans. “I fucking love what you do to me.”

  That makes me harder. Happier. I take him deep, lavishing all the attention in the world on his dick.

  His fingers grip my skull. He thrusts his hips, pushing his cock farther down my throat. Bring it on. I don’t care if my throat is sore tomorrow. I want his pleasure. I crave his release.

  “God, I can’t take it,” he mutters.

  Then, he’s helpless to the pleasure, panting, writhing, and fucking my face with reckless abandon until he comes in an animalistic cry that trips my wires.

  I swallow him down then, like I’m going for a record, I straddle his abs and fuck my fist till I’m coming all over his chest.

  It’s an epic orgasm, but a joyful one too. Sex with Beck is both pure pleasure and pure joy. There are no games. He lets down his guard and lets me in. And I have no secrets from him.

  I know the risks of falling harder for my rival. My head says to get the fuck out, but my heart pulls me in Beck’s direction.

  I wouldn’t want to give him up, even if I knew how.

  33

  My Secret Boyfriend

  Beck

  * * *

  If my brother were here, I’d ask him for advice. How do I handle a secret boyfriend?

  He’d probably tell me not to have one, so I amend the question.

  Am I doing enough to manage my anxiety?

  I ask myself that question over the next few days—as I practice on Friday, as I help Portia fix a loose drawer in the kitchen on Saturday morning, and as I go to the team hotel that night.

  Jason talked me off the panic ledge when I needed him to, but what if it happens again and he’s not around? I’ll have to step up for myself.

  After dinner at the team hotel, I do some research online in my room. There are meds, and alternatives like hypnosis, biofeedback, maybe even therapy.

  Good to know there are more options for me to consider.

  Then, there’s this welcome nugget—get a good night’s sleep. Sounds like a great idea, and I’m about to turn off my phone when Carter texts me with a link to Jason’s Instagram feed and a note saying Make him eat crow!

  I laugh—because Carter is soooo Carter—then hit play.

  Jason stands on the Hawks’ football field, grinning into the camera. “Hey, there, Hawks fans. Just want to say we kicked ass last weekend in attendance because you are the best. And I know we’re going to beat that other team in the city—I can’t even remember their names, I’m sure you can’t either—in the attendance game. And if we don’t, then any of their players can come out to our field and gloat on my Instagram feed.”

  I can easily handle gloating without therapy or hypnosis. I’ve proven it this whole season of podcasting with my rival.

  But as I turn off my phone, I hardly think of him as my rival anymore. He’s definitely my boyfriend, and that’s kind of terrifying and kind of awesome too.

  I try to focus on the awesome part for as long as I can.

  I never doubted our fans, but it’s still sweet to walk through the tunnel at the Hawks facility on Monday, head out to their field, and find Jason waiting there—stoic, chin up, ready to eat a whole plate of blackbirds.

  Reese is with him, waggling her cell phone, prepped to shoot the video. “Hey, Beck,” she says, then lifts the phone and hits record.

  I turn to the Hawks’ quarterback, savoring this moment. First, because our fans rock. Second, Jason loves it when I’m hard on him on-air, online, and between the sheets. Win-win-win.

  “Tell me, McKay, how does it feel to know that the Renegades have five thousand more fans than the Hawks? Five thousand,” I repeat.

  “It feels like it’s raining cats and dogs at the city’s shelters since my awesome, amazing, caring team is donating money to them,” Jason says with a big grin, and I laugh.

  “Aww. You’re so sweet. Trying to turn the convo around. But we matched the donation, and we also beat your team at attendance.” I blow on my fingernails.

  He scoffs. “This guy,” he says to the camera. “Can you believe him?”

  I just shrug. “I get it, Jay. Our numbers feel pretty unbelievable.”

  He laughs again. “You’re killing me, Beck.”

  He’s using my first name, and I don’t even care. It feels right for this moment.

  “Don’t die before we beat you in the Super Bowl,” I say.

  “Better switch that up, Beck. It’s more like the other way around.”

  Then, we lock eyes, and his are glimmering. Holy shit. I know that look. That’s how he stares at me in bed when he’s about to tackle me. A charge ignites inside me. We’re talking to each other like we do before we fuck.

  If we go another second like this, everyone will know we screw when the cameras are off.

  This is how I can be a good boyfriend to him today—by knowing when to pump the brakes for us.

  I zip up my emotions and smile at Reese’s camera like the rival I’m supposed to be. “Thanks again. Go, Renegades.”

  Reese stops shooting, and I blow out a relieved breath.

  Jason mouths a quiet thanks, just for me.

  “Anytime,” I murmur.

  A few minutes later, Reese escorts me out of the facility, full of energy as she keeps glancing at her phone. “They are going wild for this video! Jason’s fans love the banter between you two. It’s just so deliciously electric.”

  There’s a reason for that, but no one seems to be catching on, so I’ll take that as another win.

  The next week, we both win our games. I can start to smell a playoff berth. I return home well past midnight on Sunday, so I don’t go to his place. But on Monday, I text him in the Lyft on my way to the studio.

  My car is in the shop today getting an alignment, but I’ll pick it up this afternoon. I should be able to drive the fuck-me car when I come over tonight.

  He writes back quickly. Good, so then I can come all over you.

  I laugh. I walked right into that one.

  Also, why the fuck didn’t you tell me your car was getting serviced? I’d have picked you up.

  I write back as the Lyft pulls up to the building on Market Street. I would have wanted to maul you in the car.

  Fair point. But I will drive you home. No car make-outs, though. I won’t be able to resist if you start one.

  I reread the sexy exchange in the elevator as I head up to the twelfth floor, amazed we’re pulling this off. I didn’t ruin our thing at the bookstore, and no one has figured us out.

  While we’re on the air, near the end of the show, Megan gives that impish smile that says she has something up her sleeve. “Guys, listeners are loving you. How would you feel about taking some calls from your fans when we return after Thanksgiving?”

  In the last few months, I’ve learned a thing or two about what makes her tick, so I execute the roll with it play. “Would love to, Megan,” I say.

  I have a play for the coming holiday too. Something I’ve wanted since Jason and I went out for boba. I didn’t act then. But I will act as soon as we leave the studio and reach his car in the parking garage.

  I slide into the passenger seat, meet his gaze, and jump. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  Jason’s blue eyes twinkle like the sea. “I usually spend it with my dad and my brother. But I want to see you too.”

  “Do you want to get together later that day?” I ask, buoyed by that possibility.

  “Or,” he begins, taking his time. “I’m hosting it at my home. Do you want to come to my house and cook?”

  “You mean, I’ll cook and you’ll watch me?” I tease.

  “That’s what we do,” he says, and holy shit. It sounds like we’re a couple. Like we both want to be a couple.

  I crave that so badly, but I try to slow down my wild thoughts because something nags at me. If he’s inviting me to spend the whole day, does that mean we need to hide our feelings from his family? I love being at his home where I can relax with him. I don’t want to revert to how I felt the night at the bookstore. “What about your family, though, and you and me?”

  A shy grin tugs at his lips. Jason’s never shy. Fuck, that’s cute. “Would you be okay with them knowing about us? I don’t want to hide with them.”

  My heart leaps. “I don’t either,” I say, revved up, spurred on by the plans we’re making. “Want to kiss you so badly.”

  Jason peers out the back window, weighing the risks. “Parking lot’s empty,” he says.

  I grab his face and brush my lips against his. When I break the kiss, he whispers, “Wow.”

  “I feel that way every time we kiss.”

  “Me too.”

  He backs up the car and heads for the exit, passing a sleek green Jaguar. The car is a beauty. I crane my neck to admire it and catch sight of the woman at the wheel.

  Chestnut brown hair, sharp cheekbones, looks like money.

  That’s . . . Nadia.

  My heart ricochets painfully, boomeranging around in my chest like an out-of-control pinball machine.

  I lean back in the seat, take a deep breath, and picture my sky tattoo.

  Then, I look over at Jason. He’s focused only on driving. He didn’t see her.

  Maybe she didn’t see us.

  Yeah, that makes sense. These days, we both have all the luck.

  34

  The Truth About Mashed Potatoes

  Jason

  * * *

  I stop by my dad’s after practice the next day, and we take Snickerdoodle for a walk around Russian Hill.

  As he tells me about a new cookie his chief baker wants to roll out—imagine if a chocolate chip cookie and a habanero pepper had a baby—I hunt for just the right moment to tell my dad about Beck.

  I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. I also don’t want him to tell me what a bad idea it is to get involved with my rival. I already know, and I hope he doesn’t judge me for it.

  I buy some more time by asking him if he has a name for the new recipe. “Cookie Pepper? Papri-cookie? Sweet and Hot Cookie?” I suggest.

  He laughs to humor me. “We’re going to call it . . . wait for it . . . the Habanero Cookie.”

  “Simple. Direct,” I say as we reach the corner and Snickerdoodle decides to get acquainted with a fire hydrant. “When can I try it?” I ask, still stalling.

  “Probably next month. But maybe I can snag an early batch.”

  “I’d love that,” I say as the pooch sniffs a tree. I stop delaying. “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “That guy I’m seeing?” I begin, my stomach doing a loop-the-loop.

  “Yes? It is going okay?” He sounds so concerned, the way he’s always been for me.

  I glance up and down the street like I’m assessing the secondary’s coverage on the field. I lower my voice. “It’s Beck Cafferty,” I admit, a little embarrassed. Not about Beck. About my own poor judgment. About the fact that I didn’t stop it. That I embraced this rule-breaking.

  My dad’s eyes widen in surprise before he tactfully rearranges his features. “Oh. And it’s going well?” He’s so diplomatic.

  “Yes. I mean, it’s a secret, of course. Right now. But yeah, he’s . . .” I sigh happily. I can’t hide my feelings. “He’s great.” My stomach swoops for a whole new reason. “I really like him.”

  My dad smiles. “I can tell.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, grinning too.

  He rolls his eyes, then stage whispers, “It’s a little obvious.”

  “Are you going to tell me this is foolish? That our fans will hate us? That Nadia will be pissed?”

  “Do you want me to tell you that?” he asks earnestly.

  I shake my head. “No. I tell myself that every day.” Though, lately, not as much. Lately, I keep thinking we can make it work somehow.

  He gives me a sad but sympathetic smile. “Then I won’t.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

  We resume walking the pup, but I’m not done. “I want you to meet him when you come over for Thanksgiving like you usually do. He’ll be there. He’s a great cook.”

  “Want me to bring anything?”

  That’s all. It’s that easy. He understands. “Just those cookies if you can snag an early batch.”

  “To impress your guy?”

  “Maybe,” I say as he reads between the lines.

  He drapes an arm around me. “I’m always here for you. You know that.”

  “I know,” I whisper, emotions crawling up my throat. “Do you think you’re this cool to make up for Mom?”

  He laughs, a little confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Like, did you feel as if you had to give us double the love to make up for her leaving?”

  He stops, and the dog stops too, sitting perfectly at his feet. “No. This is how I feel for you.”

  And I’m this close to crying. “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you so much. And I can’t wait to meet your beau.”

  I can’t wait either. The prospect of spending the holiday with my family and my guy makes me feel like anything is possible.

  Next Wednesday afternoon, the world slows down. Traffic thins. Phones ping less. Social media takes a day off.

  Around three, a guy rings the bell to deliver groceries. I wish Beck didn’t have to wait in the kitchen, out of sight, but maybe someday soon, he won’t have to hide.

  I thank the delivery guy, tip him extra on the app, then shut the door and call out: “Coast is clear, sexy beast. Get your ass out here and lift this turkey.”

  Smiling, Beck joins me in the foyer, grabbing bags of groceries and hauling them to the kitchen.

  We unpack them together, me stopping to sneak kisses on his cheek, his earlobe, his jaw. We move around the kitchen, but I’m no good at keeping my hands off him. “You’re going to make it tough for me to prep,” he warns as I circle my arms around his waist and bite his neck. Who could blame me? He’s wearing that outdoorsy aftershave.

  “I can go upstairs,” I offer playfully.

  He grabs the waistband of my jeans and tugs me against him. “No, just behave for a few hours.”

  I kiss his nose, then shrug. “I make no promises.”

  We get to work, prepping the turkey, making the stuffing, and quartering the potatoes.

  A few hours later, I’m slap-happy from all the cooking and horny from all the not sexing, so I slather a dollop of cranberry sauce on his cheek. I lick it off, but a drop slides into his hair.

  “Bummer,” I murmur. “Guess we need to shower.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re under the stream, his wet, warm naked body pressed against mine. “I’ve got an idea for tonight,” I say.

  “Tell me.”

  “How about I show you?”

  “Knew this would be a great idea,” I moan as he presses his hands on my thighs and spreads me wider.

  Fucking love seeing Beck’s face between my legs. My guy has become an expert at giving me head. He can work me over in the most fantastic long, slow tease ever.

  But he works me over in other ways too. Right now, he’s driving me wild with his tongue.

  Inside me.

  I grab the sheets and claw at them. “Fuck, baby. You have to stop or . . .”

  He eases out, flicks his tongue against me, then lifts his head to ask ever so innocently, “Or you’ll come all over my face like the last time I did this to you?”

  “I like rim jobs,” I say defensively. “Giving and receiving.”

  He licks me one more time, making me shudder. “Not true, Jay. You love them. Giving and receiving,” he says, and I smile as I heat up more from the way he knows me so well.

  Beck rises, grabs the lube and gets me ready. When I’m amped up, I throw him down on his back, so I can climb over him and slick up his hard shaft.

  The second I touch him, he’s cursing. “Fuck yes,” he groans. “Get on me.”

  “You love it when I ride your dick.”

  “I fucking do,” he says.

  We ditched condoms a few weeks ago; we’re both negative and exclusive. I sink onto his gorgeous shaft with no barriers, reveling in him stretching my body. “Gonna fuck your cock like I own it,” I tell him.

  “You do,” he says, curling his hands tight around my hips.

  I ride him like a cowboy, treating his dick like it was made for my pleasure.

  “Jesus, you’re so big. So fucking strong,” he mutters as he stares at me. He’s not talking about my cock. He means all of me, and I feel the same way about him. I can push his body to the limits in bed just like I push mine to the limits on the field. We know how far we can go, how hard we can ride, how hot we can fuck.

  And we know when to switch.

  A few minutes into a fantastic, sweaty trip up and down his shaft, I’m damn ready to bury my cock inside him.

  “There’s this other idea I have,” I say in a rasp.

  “Do it. Fuck me now,” he begs.

  Soon, he’s on all fours, and I’m working him open with my fingers. When he’s thrusting his ass against my hand, I’m sure he’s ready, and I notch the head of my cock against him and slide home.

  Beck reaches back his arm, grabs at my hip, and mutters, “Give it to me.”