Except, I can’t resist.

  I rip it open before I turn on the car.

  40

  You

  Beck

  * * *

  Dear Jason,

  * * *

  I’m writing this letter because sometimes I do a bad job explaining where my head is at. I start conversations the wrong way. Or at the wrong time. And this conversation is important, so I want to say it right and say it from the heart.

  I’m not going to the auction. That’s because I started seeing a therapist. I’ve only had four sessions so far, and I’m not a new man. But I have an open mind, and I want to learn and practice new skills. I’ll probably see her for a while. I’m okay with that. I’m ready for the work.

  Already, I’ve learned a lot in a few weeks. Including this—sometimes I have to say no to events that make me uncomfortable. I pulled out of the auction earlier today. I called Ian and Jillian and donated to the Children’s Hospital instead. They understood. I’m so glad I told them.

  I dreaded going on stage in front of hundreds of fans where I’d tell them what I wanted in a boyfriend or a girlfriend.

  What I want is really simple. You.

  But even if we didn’t play football, even if we were together for the world to see, I still wouldn’t want to go on stage and tell everyone all the reasons why you’re the one.

  But I can tell you why I fell in love with you.

  I fell in love with you because you try so damn hard at everything. You thought you didn’t work hard enough to understand my reasons for not showing up for our second date, but you did try, Jason, and then you tried again.

  Thank you.

  I fell in love with you because you’re not afraid to change. You named your cat Taco after I told you Bandit was boring. (But I think you changed his name to impress me. Spoiler alert—it worked.)

  I fell in love with you because you listen. You listened when I told you about my brother, you listened when I told you about my inexperience, and you listened, too, every time I told you what I wanted to try in bed.

  Sidenote—sex with you is the hottest thing ever. Like, equator hot. Lava hot. Surface-of-the-sun hot.

  I fell in love with you because you understand my passion for football.

  I fell in love with you because you look out for me in ways I suppose I truly need.

  I fell in love with you because your taste in TV shows is exquisite. I fell in love with you because you enjoy it so much when I make shishito peppers, eggs, potatoes, and Thanksgiving dinner for you. I fell in love with you because you got me that damned coffee.

  Most of all, I fell in love with you because you’re you.

  I can’t believe I never said this when we were together, but better late than never?

  I love you.

  * * *

  PS: I’m really happy you made it to the playoffs. That was why I sat down to write this letter, but then it turned out I had a lot more to say.

  * * *

  Beck

  41

  Screw the Rules

  Jason

  * * *

  Pure joy powers me as I rush into the building, race to the elevator, and count down the seconds until the doors open on the twelfth floor.

  The show starts in one minute. If I can just slide in before Megan goes on-air, I can steal a second with Beck.

  Heart beating wildly, words building up steam inside me, I run down the hall, checking the studio light. It’s green, so I yank open the door, ready to blurt out I love you too.

  But the second I bound into the studio, Megan waves her arms, points frantically to a chair, and mouths, “Headphones.”

  Slamming on the brakes of my love confession, I park my ass in the chair like a good boy. I tug on my headphones and then hazard a glance at Beck across from me.

  I’m not sure what I expected to see—either a deer in the headlights or a statue. But he’s neither. He seems calm but eager. He searches my eyes like he’s looking for my answer to his letter.

  Screw being a good boy. I’m tired of rules and pleasing others. Time to take a chance at being happy. I’m putting him and me first.

  Before Megan can even do the intro, I hold up a finger. “Excuse me, Megan. I’m not ready to go on-air yet. I need a minute.”

  She’s startled and hems and haws, “Oh. Well. Hmm.”

  “I’d appreciate that too,” Beck says, quiet but strong.

  Damn, that’s sexy, the way he jumped in too, and asked for what we need.

  “Okay,” she says, resolute. She’s a savvy woman, and she can read the room. She pushes back from her chair.

  But before she can stand, I rip off my headphones and jump to my feet. “I’m going to step into the green room.”

  Beck’s up in no time, following me, and Megan stays in the studio.

  In the green room, I shut the door. It’s him and me. No recording equipment. I won’t push him beyond what he can handle, but I can’t sit across from him through the whole damn show without telling him the truth of my greedy heart.

  “I love you, and I want to be with you for real, no matter how hard it is,” I say, throat raw with emotion.

  I’m terrified he won’t jump with me into this great unknown, but I’m hoping with all I’ve got that he’s willing to take the same scary chance.

  Beck’s answer is immediate. “I want that too, Jason.”

  Then, I take another risk. I step closer and slide my thumb along his jaw. “Not gonna kiss you now because I won’t be able to stop. But trust me—we’re going to figure this out. We’re going to make this work.”

  “I know we will,” he says, then he surprises me by leaning in and pressing a confident kiss to my lips, murmuring, “Missed you.”

  “Missed you so much,” I whisper, and my heart calms down. It’s found him again.

  “But we need to go in there,” he says gently, being the responsible one.

  “It’ll be the longest thirty minutes of my life,” I whine.

  “You’ll survive. We’re worth it,” he says with a smile.

  “We fucking are.”

  I reach for his hand, squeeze it, then let go when I open the door. Then we walk back in and take our places.

  “And welcome back to a special edition of Monday Morning Quarterback,” Megan begins, and we’re on the air.

  I’m jazzed as I talk up the playoffs, and Beck does the same. I do most of the chatting, but he’s always been fine with that. If I’m play-by-play, he’s color. When we’re done with the breakdown, Megan opens up the phone lines for listeners. “Our first listener is Grandma Sarina from Sausalito. Talk to us, Sarina.”

  The gravelly-voiced lady asks about the importance of a home-field advantage, and Beck tackles that since his team has secured it. “It’s always good to play in front of your fans. They give us so much, and we want to win for them.”

  Well-played.

  “One more thing,” Sarina says. “Jason, you’ve been so serious the last few weeks on-air. It’s so heartwarming to hear how excited you are today for the playoffs.”

  Maybe this is a chance to sow the seeds of whatever fan support we can get. I seize it. “Thanks, Sarina. I’m pretty stoked for the playoffs, of course. The reason I was so serious is that I went through a breakup recently, and I was hurt for a while.”

  Megan’s eyes turn even more curious as she listens intently. Beck just grins, his smile saying he trusts me. He knows I won’t push his limits.

  “Oh no,” Sarina says, sympathetic.

  “It’s all good now, though,” I say, looking right at my guy. “We made up.”

  Beck lowers his face, hiding that smile I adore.

  “Oh, yay! I love happy endings,” Sarina chirps.

  Megan’s about to weigh in, but Beck is faster. “Me too,” he says, meeting my eyes. “I’m happy for you and this lucky guy.”

  My cheeks pinken. “Thanks. He’s kind of great, and for a while there, I thought it would never work out.”

  “Sometimes you just have to work hard at football and love,” Beck says.

  No kidding.

  Megan cuts in. “And that’s one way to light up the phones, Jason. We’ve got about twenty callers waiting now if you two want to take this into overtime?”

  “I will if Beck does,” I say.

  “I’m game,” he says.

  For the next several minutes, we field calls from listeners who want to talk about the playoffs or give me love advice.

  “I’m just glad you didn’t let the breakup affect your gameplay,” a fanboy says. “This is your best season ever, Fourteen.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And seriously, maybe this guy is your lucky charm,” he adds.

  I grin. “I’d like to think so.”

  The next caller is a woman who sounds like a bruiser. “I can’t believe anyone dared to hurt you. I’d beat him up myself if I could.”

  Beck laughs. “I don’t think there’s any need for that. It sounds like Jason’s guy figured out he doesn’t want to lose him.”

  “Smart man,” the woman says, all tough and protective.

  Finally, Megan wraps the show, then turns off the equipment. With glee in her eyes, she beckons for us to join her in the green room.

  Once we’re there, she straightens her shoulders. “Call me crazy, but I’m getting a serious vibe that you”—she stops to look pointedly at Beck—“are Jason’s mystery guy.”

  He shrugs wickedly, his form of a yes.

  She flings her hand to her mouth, then drops it. “Listen, I know this won’t be easy, but fans have been going nuts for your rivalry. If we can take it to the next level on the show with your romance, I’m here for it. I’m behind you.”

  I’m wise enough to know we’ll have haters, but I’m psyched to have a supporter already. “I’m pretty sure we’ll take you up on that,” I say.

  Then Beck adds, “But we kind of need to go right now.”

  Way to rev my engine, baby.

  “Of course. Also, thank you for all you did this season.” Megan leaves the room, and we take off too, making a beeline for the stairwell. Once the door closes, I yank him against me. “Kiss me,” I tell him.

  He drops his lips to mine and kisses me deeply and passionately.

  And like he loves me, no matter the risk.

  I wrap my arms around him and haul him close. I don’t care if anyone walks into the stairwell.

  That’s how he kisses me too—like we’re free to make the choice to be together, even if it’s hard. Even if we get booed. Even if we get traded.

  When we break the kiss, I’m amped up and lovestruck. “I want to be with you even if everyone hates me.”

  “I don’t hate you. I love you,” he says.

  I cup his cheek and kiss him once more. Then it’s time to deal with this choice we’ve made.

  42

  Throw Down

  Jason

  * * *

  Sometimes the owners call a meeting with their players. Rarely do the players call a meeting with the owners.

  But two rival quarterbacks falling in love is rare.

  After I called Nadia and told her it was urgent we meet, she said she and Wilder would make time for us immediately.

  We walk into his office. I sit on the couch, and Beck sits next to me, shoulders tall.

  Wilder and Nadia have claimed the blue chairs, and she clears her throat. “Hey, guys. Thanks for reaching out. I’m guessing this isn’t about Ding and Dine?” Her tone is kind but professional as she feels us out.

  “Or the auction?” Wilder asks.

  “It’s not about either of those,” Beck says, then turns to me—my cue to take over.

  On the drive over, we talked about how to do this. We agreed I’d take the lead only because I’ve been in the league for five years. I’ve had more experience with management.

  “We’re together,” I say, then add, “Romantically.” Just so we’re crystal clear.

  Nadia blinks.

  Wilder frowns.

  That’s not an auspicious start, but I power on. “We’ve been together pretty much the whole season,” I add.

  Wilder jerks up a hand as a stop sign. “Whoa. What? The whole season?”

  Here’s how you knock a smooth-talking man off-kilter: confess to a secret romance.

  “Yes. Since the night after we won in Texas,” Beck adds.

  Oh, hell. That’s hot. Just dropping his win into the convo.

  Beck keeps going. Screw the script. “And almost the entire season in which I took the team to a thirteen-three record, with two games left to go, and a playoff berth. We’ve also maintained last year’s record-breaking attendance when your Hall of Fame, Super-Bowl-winning quarterback, played his last season, drawing packed houses. We haven’t lost a beat.” Then he rattles off his passer rating, one of the best in the league, his completions, also one of the best, and his touchdowns, near the top too.

  The hair on my arms stands on end. Is this my boyfriend? Throwing down his impeccable stats before the team owner?

  Yes. Yes, it is. And I am going to reward him in bed tonight.

  “And the Hawks are going to the postseason too,” I point out, but who cares what I have to say? Beck already dropped the mic. And his record is a smidge better than mine, so that’s all I have to add.

  “And we’re thrilled,” Nadia says to me, her eyes narrowing. Not in anger—more in contemplation. “I honestly wasn’t sure we’d make it this year . . . for various reasons.” She’s not going to dive into team woes in front of Wilder, though I’m sure he can read between the lines. “But you’ve played great, Jason.”

  Wilder turns to the guy by my side. “So have you, Beck. But I’m just surprised. I didn’t see this coming, and I’m pretty perceptive.”

  Nadia rolls her eyes, stifling a scoff. “Oh, please.”

  “What?” he asks.

  “You didn’t have an inkling? Their chemistry is incredible,” she says.

  I peek at Beck. He’s mostly stoic, but a smile slips through.

  “I thought it was just . . . banter and trash talk. Like you and I have. We’re not a thing.”

  “No kidding. I’m married!” she says, brandishing her baseball-sized diamond ring.

  “But that’s my point, Nadia. People might say we have chemistry because of our rivalry, but we’re not together.”

  “And our quarterbacks are together. Focus on that, Wilder. Not on your astonishing lack of radar. We have guys to take care of.”

  Scolded, he returns his gaze to us. “What do you need from us?” The question is earnest and absolutely wonderful.

  But I still have to ask a painful question. This has been my biggest fear of all. “Are you going to let me go?” I ask Nadia.

  Beck turns to Wilder. “I kind of have the same question,” he says quietly.

  Wilder barks out a laugh. “No. Not for this. I don’t let players go because of who they date.”

  Nadia smiles, shaking her head. “I don’t either.”

  “I let players go for other reasons. Like poor character. If we were talking DUI, rape, smacking your partner, hitting your kid, or selling drugs, among other abhorrent and illegal behavior, then yes, I would let you go without a second thought and happily watch you go to prison,” he says, cold as ice, as he should be. “But you can fall in love with whoever you want,” he says to Beck, warmth returning. I even detect a little wistfulness, as if he’s wishing for love he doesn’t have. “And I’d let you go if you stopped performing on the field. But that, evidently, isn’t a problem.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. “Let’s talk about what sort of resources you need from us to support you when the fans find out. As for your teammates, all I can say is good luck.”

  We’ll need it.

  43

  Heavy Lifting

  Beck

  * * *

  After Jason takes off for practice, I leave, grab lunch at a nearby sandwich shop, and review my “homework” from Rosemary. I write down some notes outlining my thoughts and then the things I plan to say to my teammates.

  Then I return to the facility and head to the weight rooms at the end of the east corridor, texting Carter to meet me there, adding, I have something to tell you.

  His reply is swift. That sounds ominous!

  When I reach the smallest and least busy of the weight rooms, I peer in the window first, assessing the situation.

  Carter’s doing bench presses, and he’s the only one there. Good. Friends first.

  I’m going to tackle this task one by one. I open the door and head to the weight bench, girding myself for another coming out. I got through the others; I’ll get through this.

  “And . . . one thousand reps,” Carter says facetiously, then sets the dumbbell on the bar and sits up on the bench. “I am a beast.”

  “Amazing that you can bench and text,” I say drily. Then I go serious as I stand next to him.

  He studies my face. “What’s going on? You good after sitting out the auction? Oh! Sasha bid on me like you said. That was brilliant.”

  “I’m glad things are going well with your woman. And thanks for understanding why I didn’t go.” I inhale and take the first baby step of my confession. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to be pissed at me for this, but I want you to be the first one to know.”

  He frowns. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m involved with Jason,” I say, then I add, “McKay.” Like I could mean any other Jason. “We’ve been seeing each other on and off most of the season.”

  Carter doesn’t move. I’ve shocked him into statue-hood on the weight bench. Then, after an eternity, he chokes out, “For real?”

  Shit. This is bad. But I’ve practiced, and I’m determined to push through this uncomfortable moment.