“I’ll try my hardest,” I say with a small smile.

  Jason flips Harlan the bird. “I get it, Harlan. It’s tough being second best to the Hawks.”

  With a roll of his eyes, Harlan takes off.

  Nearly everyone is gone. I hang back, gearing up to make my request. I can’t keep being Mr. Awkward with the press now that the starting job is mine to lose.

  Nate and I are the last to leave. After he says goodbye, it’s just me standing in the doorway with Jason.

  Now or never. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Jason’s expression goes serious, his gregariousness vanishing. “Sure.” He sounds like he has his guard up.

  I want to reassure him that my favor is nothing too personal. For him, at least. I’m the one who needs help. “You might have noticed I suck with the media. Any chance you could give me some pointers?”

  His face clears, and he’s back to playing the gregarious host. With a smile, he gestures to the living room. “Let’s do it, Cafferty.”

  When Jason shuts the door, the two of us are alone in his home. Something I’ve imagined more than a few times.

  But I can’t go there now. I’ll get flustered, and I desperately need his help with the media. Not with my crush.

  4

  I’m Getting The Distinct Impression You Have A Crush

  Jason

  Since it’s the night before a game, we switch from beer to LaCroix then settle onto the couch in my living room with our drinks. Beck takes one end of the U-shaped couch, and I grab the other.

  “Talk to me,” I say, relieved he wants to chat about something easy. For a second, I thought he was going to throw me an awkward curveball. It happens, anything from can you introduce me to your agent, which I’ve gotten from other players, to were you hitting on me earlier, something I’ve had to deal with a couple of times from homophobic assholes in college.

  Fortunately, I haven’t had that in the pros. Representation has grown, and now, major sports count plenty of out athletes among their players. But you never know when you’ll run into a bigot. I take nothing for granted.

  Beck drags a hand through his dark hair, then sets his drink on my coffee table. “So, I guess the question is—how the hell do you do it?”

  I laugh, appreciating how forthright he is now compared to earlier today. He’s not a dick; he just has stage fright. “It’s an art form,” I joke. Then, I exhale deeply, setting down my drink too—time for some real talk. “Listen, I’m presuming we’re not exactly in the same situation, but I had to make a choice a few years ago. Be open, be accessible, be available.”

  Beck nods intently, as if he’s taking mental notes or maybe snapping pics with that photographic memory. “Sure, I get you.” Then in a quieter voice, he adds, “On most of that.”

  Wait. Hold on. Is he telling me something without telling me something?

  But I don’t want to read into his most of that remark. I’m just glad he’s picked up on my overall meaning. “I’ve had some mentors over the years,” I continue, focusing on his question. “Guys I could look up to who had to face some of the same scrutiny. Like Grant Blackwood,” I say, naming the out catcher for the local baseball team. “From talking to him and others, I sort of figured out I needed a shtick with the press.”

  Beck’s brown eyes flash with understanding. “Got it. I need a shtick, you’re saying?”

  I reach for my can on the coffee table and raise it to punctuate my point. “Bingo.” I take a drink.

  Beck nods, absorbing my advice. “And your shtick is . . .”

  He’s not so much asking a question as waiting for me to finish for him, so he doesn’t have to be the one to identify my press persona.

  But I’m not going to let him off so easy. “You can say it.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. He’s not touching the answer with a ten-foot pole.

  “C’mon, Cafferty. Say it,” I goad him as I set down the drink, then stretch an arm across the back of the couch.

  More laughter, then he holds up his hands in surrender. “Can’t do it.”

  I sigh in over-the-top disappointment. “How can I help you come up with a shtick if you can’t say what mine is?”

  He dips his face, maybe worried he’ll offend me. But he finds the guts to mutter, “Bad dad jokes.”

  “Dude! There’s no other kind of dad joke.”

  He laughs. “I won’t argue with you there.”

  “But I also kind of go for the whole mayoral routine,” I say, a touch more serious as I share what’s behind the lame jokes. “Know what I mean? I glad-hand. Ask the reporters how they’re doing. It works, and it helps me stay on a good footing with them.” I rub my palms, getting down to business. “So what’s yours going to be?”

  He laughs, a little helplessly. “Hell if I know. Got any ideas?”

  I scrub my chin, giving him a once-over. Damn, he’s handsome. But that’s irrelevant. I shake off the thoughts of his good looks. I’m not interested in admiring straight men and their stubbled jaws, intense irises, and full lips.

  “You’re a smart guy, right?” I ask.

  “I like to think so,” he says, uncertain.

  “You think so, or you know so?”

  This time he owns it, saying with confidence, “I know.”

  “Lean into that then. Maybe your shtick is the thoughtful QB. Play around with some options. Because the reality is this—when you’re the quarterback, you can’t shy away from the media.”

  “True words,” he says.

  A chime rings from my smart home on the table. “Unfinished Business starts in ten minutes,” a cool, robotic voice announces.

  I sit up straight, hunting around the cushions for the remote. “Sweet! I’ve been waiting for the new season to binge,” I say.

  Beck’s quiet for a beat, looking down, but a smile seems to tug on his lips. “Me too.”

  It comes out soft but with a hint of hope in it.

  Maybe this is ridiculous, but it sure sounds like he wants to watch it. With me. When Beck turns my way, the look in his deep brown eyes borders on sexy, maybe even dirty.

  A little like the show. Unfinished Business is one of those romantic comedies that centers on several different couples—some gay, some straight. Watching a show like that together is kind of date-y, especially when the show gets kind of sexy, as it does.

  But I’m probably reading something into nothing. Lots of people like the show. And I have heaps of straight guy friends. Maybe Beck is just a straight dude who wants to hang. Nothing wrong with that.

  Don’t overthink this. Just be the mayor. “Want to watch it?” I ask in my best cool and casual voice.

  Before he can answer, Bandit skids into the room, leaps onto the back of the couch, and jumps onto Beck’s lap.

  The other quarterback scratches the kitten’s chin. “Hey there, little dude,” he says, then, without meeting my eyes, Beck says, “Let’s watch it, Jason.”

  Not McKay.

  Jason.

  The back of my neck prickles. I find the remote behind a stack of books on the coffee table, and out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Beck’s watching me, looking at me.

  I point the clicker at the flat-screen and turn on the streaming service, grateful to focus on the show. The soft light of dusk streams through the window. Curfew is a couple more hours away for him.

  As the opening credits roll, I put the clicker on the cushion and settle into the couch. Beck looks cozy with my new kitten curled on his shoulder. “I told you. He’s part parrot,” he says, in a hushed tone, like he doesn’t want to disturb the kitty.

  I don’t respond to his parrot comment. I don’t know what the hell to say.

  I focus on the show. One of the characters leashes up her dog for a walk then bumps into the cute guy, Jamie, in the apartment lobby. If this were a date, I might remark on how absolutely fucking adorable Jamie is, and he might agree, but I zip my mouth closed.

  When Jamie meets up with his work buddies later—two guys who just started dating each other—I keep quiet too and stare harder at the screen.

  But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Beck looking at me. Then he swallows and darts his eyes away.

  What the fuck is going on? My straight friends don’t steal glances at me when we watch TV. And I’m not going to check him out, no matter how soulful those brown eyes are.

  Nope. Won’t go there. I am too much of a sucker for great eyes to even risk a peek.

  I try to concentrate on Jamie and Zoe, Garrett and Carlos, but I’m too keenly aware of Beck on my couch, mere feet away. His can I ask for your help with the media request is suddenly loaded with new possibilities.

  Midway through the episode, Beck clears his throat and rises, the kitten in his arms.

  Oh, okay. I guess he’s done. That’s fine. If he’s taking off, that puts an end to my confusion. I kind of want him to go so I can stop wondering, but I don’t want him to leave either.

  Ugh.

  “Bathroom down the hall?” Beck asks.

  Oh. He’s not going at all, so I get to stay confused. Great.

  “Yup. Down the hall,” I repeat.

  He bends closer and hands me the cat, his fingers brushing mine.

  He did not just touch me intentionally. That was a cat handoff, that’s all.

  As he heads away to the bathroom, I drag a hand through my hair, trying to process the shift in the mood—the date-like feel of the night, the way he’s giving off flirty vibes.

  But then, I press the brakes.

  I don’t know Beck from Adam. Don’t know his agenda, so it’s best to assume it’s truly just this TV show he’s staying for.

  “I’m getting the distinct impression you have a crush on my dog.” The feminine voice from the TV show reconnects me to reality. Well, TV reality.

  Shit. I didn’t even pause the show when Beck left. The clicker’s in the middle of the couch, so I scoot over and grab it, point it at the screen, and back up thirty seconds.

  Beck returns to the living room, circling the couch. To get back to his seat, he has to go by me, and his dark eyes are on mine as he slinks past. “You stole my cat,” he says, his tone teasing, flirty, his eyes sparkling.

  What is going on?

  He sits down.

  Closer to me.

  He’s a whole cushion closer.

  I don’t know what to do.

  “Anything good happen while I was gone?” he asks.

  I swallow, trying to form words. “I rewound it,” I say, stating the obvious since the screen is paused.

  Then I hit play, and I do my damnedest to watch Unfinished Business. When Jamie and Zoe stop in the stairwell, I don’t move. I laser in on the screen. The kiss gets a little hot, a little heavy.

  No idea what Beck is doing, and I refuse to peek, even when Bandit leaves my lap to curl up in his.

  Lucky cat.

  When the episode ends, I bet he’ll say thanks and take off. But once the credits roll, he clears his throat, takes a breath, then blurts out, “Want to watch another?”

  His question is Mach speed, as if it’s fueled by hope.

  A spark slides down my spine. I’m supposed to be in control. But I don’t feel that way right now.

  And I like that feeling too much.

  “Sure.”

  5

  I Like To Gamble

  Beck

  I should leave. Really, I should. But I can’t seem to find the will to say a simple goodbye. Thanks for the advice, man. I appreciate it.

  I just don’t want to.

  Maybe this is what happens when you meet your crush, and he exceeds your expectations. Jason sure did this morning, saving me from those reporters, all uber-competent and kind-hearted at the same time. In one swift move, I went from crushing from afar to crushing in person—on a guy who clearly cares about others. Then my crush ballooned when he invited me over and freely shared pointers.

  I came here because I needed his help. But I stayed because he’s so easy to talk to.

  And easier to look at.

  And fun to hang with.

  I glance at the clock on his wall. Curfew’s in two hours. I need to get back to the hotel soon.

  But not yet.

  We finish two more episodes, the cat purring in my lap the whole time. When the last one ends, Jason gestures to Bandit. “It’s official. The cat prefers you.”

  I smile, petting the soft creature. “Like I said, I grew up with animals. I think they know I’m an animal person.”

  I’m not that social. I’m not good with crowds. I relied on my older brother for so much growing up. As a result? I have an easier time with animals. And animals seem to know it. Animals also make great fodder for conversation, and I need that sometimes. Like, right now. “But is Bandit the name you’re keeping?”

  Jason arches a brow. “You harshing on my cat’s name now?”

  Maybe a little. “It’s a good name, but . . .”

  He growls in mock annoyance. “But what, Cafferty?”

  “It could be better. I’m just saying.” I tease him a little and enjoy it far too much.

  He wiggles his fingers, the sign for me to give up the goods. “You already romanced him out from under me. Now you’re challenging my cat’s name?”

  “Yes, yes I am,” I say, and I don’t make a damn move to leave. This night feels too good. Even though one voice says, Go, before you do something dangerous, another voice whispers, Go on. Do something dangerous. “I’m saying there are better names.”

  “Such as?”

  I glance at the sleeping cat. “He kind of reminds me of a supper club singer, with his tux.”

  “Hmm.” Jason lets that sink in. “So, Leisure Suit Larry?”

  “I like that. Or Frank Sinatra,” I offer.

  He tilts his head, considering the name. “Frank isn’t bad,” Jason admits. Then he grabs his LaCroix can from the table, waggles it. “I’m going to grab another. Want one?”

  I want to spend more time with you.

  Instead, I say sure, then set down the cat on the couch and follow the host to the kitchen. He stops short in the doorway. “Shit.”

  The counters are a mess, full of plates and dishes, tubs of half-eaten food, and bowls of mostly finished salads. “I forgot I need to clean up,” he says as he enters the room.

  “Let me help you,” I say in a split second.

  “You don’t have to,” he says generously.

  But I’m not ready for this night to end. “I don’t mind,” I say, and it’s a borderline plea. “You helped me, so it’s the least I can do.”

  Jason takes a moment to weigh my offer, then with a friendly smile, he says, “If you insist.”

  He opens the dishwasher, and we fall into a rhythm. After rinsing the plates in the sink, I hand them to him, and he lines them up in the rack. We’re a couple feet away—close but not too close.

  I want to be closer.

  As I near the end of the stack of plates, time starts to tick faster. The night is going to end soon. I’ll need to leave. The pressure to learn if he’s attracted to me mounts. As I hand him the final plate, I let my fingers graze the tips of his.

  He flinches in surprise. But the slight hitch in his breath tells me the surprise isn’t a bad one.

  Do I keep going?

  When Jason closes the dishwasher, another minute has slipped by. I try to figure out how to move this evening into something else.

  Something daring.

  I can’t stop thinking about his mouth. Or his chest, and the way I might feel if I could touch him.

  Jason grabs a Tupperware container from the counter, puts it in the fridge. I reach for another one, slide past him to set it on a shelf. My arm nudges his.

  A flash of desire rushes through me from the contact. I close my eyes for a hot second, then open them.

  When he shuts the fridge, he’s looking past me—around me, anywhere but at me. Fuck. I’m making this worse with my unsophisticated touches. I’m making him uncomfortable now.

  I should let this night end. “I should . . .” But my head’s so hazy with desire I can’t finish the sentence the way I ought to.

  I try again. “I should wash my hands,” I say to buy some time before I can ask him one more thing.

  Jason just nods, then gestures to the sink. “Go for it,” he says.

  Those words reverberate. They wrap around me. They drive me on as I walk to his sink, wash my hands, then turn off the tap.

  I hunt around for a towel. Jason holds one out to me.

  His face is unreadable, and it’s clear I need to ask for what I want. He probably doesn’t know I’m bi. I have to be the one to take the chance.

  I reach for the towel he’s offering, wipe my hands on it, then set it down on the hook.

  I weigh my options. I could chalk this up to one weird night with some flirty tension. Or I could go for it.

  But really, I’ve known my choice since I walked in that door, telling myself I was only here to ask for media help. “Jason, remember when you asked if I liked to gamble?” I ask.

  “I do,” he says evenly, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his shorts. His whole demeanor says the ball is in my court.

  I toss the ball in the air, and I serve. “I’d like to roll the dice right now. And I have another question for you,” I say.

  This time, he doesn’t speak. He just nods, letting me make the next move.

  One more glance at the clock. I have twenty minutes. I don’t want to waste them. “Can I kiss you?”

  6

  Dirty Everythings

  Jason

  * * *

  When I first met Beck, I had no idea he was into dudes. I didn’t get a vibe whatsoever. Until he said he wanted to watch the romantic comedy too, but even then, I didn’t want to entertain those ideas. And once he started inching closer on the couch and checking me out, I still didn’t want to presume he was into me.