“I’m feeling a friendly wager coming on,” I say, and I fight like hell to rein in a smile. This is so much more enjoyable than the press scrum earlier.

  “You like to gamble?” Jason asks, taking a drink of his beer.

  “Well, not on my own games. Or any football games, for that matter.”

  Jason chuckles. “Obviously.”

  “But anything else . . .” I trail off then give an easygoing shrug for my answer. “I do.”

  “Good to know.” It’s kind of a throwaway comment, but I want to pounce on it, ask what he means, why he said it.

  Except, that’s not why I’m here.

  Lively music and laughter drift in from the yard, along with the mouth-watering smell of grilled chicken. A get-together unfolds beyond this room, but Jason hardly seems like he’s missing it. For a few delirious seconds, I let my mind wander to the idea of just him and me, here on a date.

  Then I stop that bullshit.

  As tempting as hanging here in the kitchen with him is, I may not have a better opportunity to ask my question.

  But a blur of black and white leaps onto the counter, skidding across the black island, then stopping short at a butcher block cutting board.

  Holy shit.

  The tuxedo kitten is here.

  I point. “That’s Bandit!”

  In case he doesn’t know.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty cool. He adopted me earlier. Evidently, he can also jump onto the stool and then onto the counter. But he isn’t supposed to be in the kitchen.” Jason scoops up the kitten. “Dude, who let you out?” he reprimands the critter, but he doesn’t sound the least bit mad.

  More like . . . smitten as he scratches the animal’s chin.

  “You took him home?” I ask, still a little shocked that he opened his home to a pet just like that. Jason moves fast.

  “How could I resist him?” The question is almost a statement. And I suppose it fits his roll-with-it personality. Jason’s the guy who adopts a kitten on a whim, hosts a team barbecue and invites the rival players, and owns a fridge fit for a chef even though he doesn’t cook. I could see him teaching himself to cook someday just because he feels like it.

  Also, he charms cats, judging by how Bandit rubs his head against Jason’s chest. “You’re supposed to be in the guest room,” Jason chides him.

  “I know,” a pretty voice calls out from the hall. A brunette pokes her head into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Jaybird! I was looking for the little girls’ room, and I opened the wrong door.”

  “No biggie, Lucy. I’ll take Bandit upstairs,” he says.

  “The off-limits area,” she says playfully.

  “You know me so well,” he says.

  “Yes, yes. No one goes upstairs at your parties,” she says.

  “Rules are rules,” he replies.

  As Lucy leaves, Jason turns to me, blue eyes twinkling. “Think you could teach Bandit to sit quietly in his room while guests are over?”

  I smile. “That might be out of my realm of expertise,” I say, though I wish I could. It might be easier to ask for a favor if we could make a fair trade.

  But, for now, I’ve missed the opportunity to ask. Instead, I say, “I’ll go outside.”

  “Grab some grub. Orlando makes the best barbecue,” he says. “Since—as I may have mentioned—I don’t cook.”

  Kitten in his arms, he heads down the hall, turns up the staircase, and disappears.

  I go outside, joining some of the guys I already know. Travis is here. He’s one of our receivers and a favorite target of mine. Our kicker’s here too. So is Nate, the top receiver for the Hawks and one of a handful of openly gay players in the NFL. Lucy, the woman who let Bandit escape, turns out to be Orlando’s girlfriend. A bunch of Renegades—the city’s other NFL team—are here as well, and I say hi to Cooper, the quarterback, and Harlan, the just-retired wide receiver. The crew welcomes me, introducing me to people I don’t know as we chat and down beers and soda.

  For the next few hours, we eat and talk, diving into barbecued chicken and gourmet burgers, chowing down on kale salad, potato salad, and corn on the cob.

  The afternoon is laid-back, with Jason floating among the guests, making sure everyone has a drink, a bite to eat, some dessert.

  Eventually, the sun sinks in the sky, and the guests filter out. Harlan claps me on the shoulder. “Do your best to kick ass tomorrow, rookie. The Hawks are our biggest rivals, and I’d love nothing more than to see them lose every single game.” He winks at Jason as he says it. Because the message is really for him, Renegade to Hawk.

  “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.”