We kiss for another minute on his porch.

  He’s wanted this kiss for so long. In the light, out on the street, for anyone to see. He is a social guy. He is a public figure. He relishes that.

  I’m not that way, but I can give him these moments.

  When he breaks the kiss, he jerks his gaze to his home. “We better take this inside.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re side to side, panting and fucking each other’s faces.

  I draw him deeper, squeezing his ass as I work his dick over with my lips and tongue. He’s giving me the same treatment, going to town on my cock, like he’s missed my dick fiercely.

  Know the feeling, Jason.

  I’ve missed him so much. I’ve missed everything about him. The guttural groans he makes as he sucks me. The tremble of his thighs as he gets closer to the edge.

  Most of all, this incredible intimacy. This trust. This bed full of sex and love and fire.

  When his cock pulses in my throat, he lets my dick fall from his lips. He comes first, with a loud and glorious grunt that makes my cells sizzle.

  My orgasm is so blazingly near. I can feel it building strength in my spine.

  Jason scrambles to his knees, pushes me down on my back, and slides between my legs to finish the job he started. I come hard as the bliss of being with him again washes over me.

  He pops off and lies next to me with a satisfied sigh. I exhale too.

  He runs a finger down my sky and mountains. “You still like my Alaskan King?”

  “I love it. Especially when I can finally make you come first.”

  Jason laughs, then drops a kiss to the ink on my arm. “Feel free to keep making up for that first time for all time.”

  That sounds good to me. “I will.”

  Later, after we’ve dressed and moved to his kitchen, debating whether to order or make dinner, Jason’s phone pings with a text.

  He grabs it from the counter, reads it, then grimaces. “It’s Xavier. He wants to stop by.”

  “You don’t want him to?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just want to be with you,” he says, but I can understand his hesitation since he’s told me what went down today.

  “Same, but maybe you should hear him out?” I suggest.

  “Ugh,” he groans, dropping his head like he just can’t deal.

  I wrap an arm around his waist. “I can go upstairs. Or I can be with you if you want.”

  He turns into my touch, looping his arms around my waist. “Now that I got you all locked up, I want you with me. You know that, right?”

  My heart glows. “I do.”

  He nuzzles my neck, then bites my ear. “Fuck, I’m getting horny again.”

  I slug his arm. “You’re always horny!”

  “That’s true.”

  “But you can’t be horny if he’s coming over, so let’s order food and watch a show.”

  “Watching a show with you makes me horny,” he says, shameless about his sex drive.

  “Then I’m making dinner, since you only behave while I’m cooking.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  While he replies to Xavier, I gather the ingredients to whip up a quick veggie and tofu stir-fry.

  Thirty minutes later, the meal’s ready, but before we can sit down to eat, the doorbell rings, so I set everything on simmer.

  Jason lets in his teammate. I meet them in the living room, giving a chin nod and a brief wave.

  “Hey, man,” Xavier says to me.

  “Hey.”

  “Let’s talk,” Jason says, but he’s on his guard even as he gestures to the couch.

  Xavier sits on one side, and Jason and I on the other.

  The guest wastes no time. “Listen, I wanted to explain myself. I might have come across like a homophobic jackass,” he says to Jason.

  Jason doesn’t acknowledge the comment, but there’s a bit of if the shoe fits in his shrug.

  “I come from a different world than you. I’ve been in the league for fourteen years, and times are different now, but when I started, man . . .” Xavier blows out a weighty breath, but Jason waits for him to go on.

  “The world was not this world. Guys didn’t come out. I had a friend on my first team who was in the closet the whole time,” Xavier says, shaking his head in visible regret. “We went to bars together, and he went home with dudes. I kept his secret, but he was terrified of the backlash if anyone found out. He was sure the team would cut him, the fans would slash his tires, harass his mother. Anything.”

  “That sucks,” Jason says.

  “He retired eight years ago, and he only just came out earlier this year.” Xavier looks from Jason to me. “But guys like you are making changes. And guys like me—straight dudes who sometimes don’t have a fucking clue but want to do the right thing,” he says, then stops, struggling to find the words. “You hear me?”

  Jason studies Xavier’s face. “I’m not sure I do, Xavier. But I want to.”

  I might know what Xavier’s problem is. It’s something I struggle with at times. I don’t always talk in a straight line either. “You’re saying you worry about us because you’ve seen the flip side. And you know, too, that people are going to be assholes, so you want to keep your ear to the ground for us,” I supply.

  Xavier thrusts his arms high. “Yes! Thank you for translating X-Man speak.” He turns back to Jason. “I’ve seen the way it was, and I know there are also guys like Coach, who are just pricks, plain and simple. I played for him back in Miami when he was an offensive coordinator, and I saw that ice in his eyes, you know?”

  “Know that well,” Jason says, warming up to Xavier. He’s leaning closer, and his voice is less distant.

  “And I pay attention to what people say on social media. Most are chill, but some are flaming turds. And at the end of the day, most fans just care about winning. But I want you to know where I’m coming from. I’ve seen some of the shittier days, and here we are in better days.” He takes a beat and locks eyes with Jason with ferocity in his dark gaze. “But I’m your teammate, and I’ll be here for you.”

  Jason smiles and offers a hand. “We’re all good, X-Man. Thanks for coming by.”

  Xavier leans forward to shake with him, then relaxes against the couch and stretches his arms across the back. I struggle not to smile at Jason’s expression as his teammate ignores the hint to leave, manspreads over the sofa, and sniffs the air. “Something smells good.”

  “I made dinner.” Damn, that feels good to say. Yes, I made dinner for my boyfriend at his house.

  Xavier hums. “Something smells real good.”

  Jason cracks up. “You can stay for dinner, X-Man.”

  The cornerback pops up. “Thanks for the invite, bro.”

  We head to the kitchen and eat, the old guard and the new.

  46

  The Chore List

  Jason

  * * *

  Once upon a time, back in October, I wanted to take Beck to Lulu’s Diner. On Tuesday, a few days after Xavier’s visit, I do. After we order, I slide in next to Beck and snap a picture of us, then I return to my side of the booth and type.

  I show him a draft of a post. Having breakfast with my favorite person. I add a heart emoji.

  That should get the point across. “Are you good with this?”

  “Very,” he says.

  I click post.

  Xavier was right. I don’t wake up the next morning to a feed full of rainbow flags and thumbs up.

  But there are plenty of those, and they make me smile as I check my social media while I work out on the StairMaster. My boyfriend is on the treadmill a row away, peeling off miles. As I climb another floor, I scroll through more comments, my heart squeezing as I read the ones from queer teens and queer athletes, thanking us for being out and proud. I spread smiley-face emojis all over those, as well as the ones from sports reporters congratulating us. I hide the comments from dickhead bloggers who say nasty shit, whether it’s about us sharing playbooks or sharing beds. Fuck them. I don’t need that in my life.

  But I do pay extra attention to the ones from passionate fans like Hawks14forever, who writes So cute, but this won’t affect how you play against the Renegades? Or from HawksOrBust, who says You two are adorbs, but you better not help each other win!

  I figured that would be a concern from some fans, though I don’t know how to reassure them without sounding like I’m dismissing them. As I read on, though, it turns out that most of the negative comments on my feed are from hardcore fans . . . of my boyfriend.

  I give the finger to such gems as You still suck, McKay, and Whatever, just play the game, and How does it feel to be second best to your boyfriend? Renegades Repeat is coming to town!

  When we finish our workout and leave the gym, I wiggle the phone at him. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you came to San Francisco and stole my fans,” I say.

  He snorts. “Darling, let me make this clear. I’ve always had more fans.”

  “You wish, you whippersnapper.”

  Beck smirks. “When you’re good, you’re good.”

  “So young, so cocky,” I say as we near Doctor Insomnia’s.

  He points to the shop. “Want a Good Luck Morning Mango Smoothie? I hear it helps you perform at the top.”

  I snarl at him. “I’ll take my magic blueberries, thank you very much.”

  We go inside, and he orders. As we wait, I click over to my email next to get the lay of the land there. There’s a note from Cheyenne and Mitch, who won me in the auction, and I show it to Beck.

  This is Cheyenne! You’re still my favorite, Jason! We can’t wait to take you out whenever it’s good for you. I know you’re busy with playoffs starting soon and your new boyfriend. Mitch and I are so thrilled you and Beck are together.

  “Aww. That’s cute,” Beck says. “They probably understand falling for your rival too, since they’re a house divided.”

  “Mitch loves you, and Cheyenne loves me.” That sparks an idea. “Any chance you’d want to get boba and play pinball with Cheyenne, Mitch, and me? You can say no and that’s cool. But they seemed really into both of us.”

  Beck takes a beat before he answers, and I’ve learned this is part of his new skills. He likes to run through scenarios in his head. “I’m good with that,” he says as the barista slides us our drinks.

  We thank him and grab our drinks. Then as we walk back to my place, I open the email from Reese: Try not to be shocked, but we have about 5,765 press requests.

  I groan, read it aloud, then look to my guy. “I don’t know that I want to talk to the press about us.”

  “So don’t. That’s my strategy.”

  I furrow my brow. “Really?”

  He takes a sip of his coffee. “If I’m good at anything—well, besides football and sucking you off—”

  “I taught you the latter, whippersnapper.”

  “And you taught me well. Anyway, I’m really good at saying no. Rosemary has helped me with that. But you can also just ignore it. I’m the king of ignoring stuff I don’t need to see or hear. That’s why I’m not on social media.”

  “Stop being so smart,” I grumble, then sip my smoothie.

  He bumps his shoulder to mine. “You know I’m right.”

  “I know you have enough time before you see your shrink to jack me off in the shower in, oh, say, about fifteen minutes.”

  He laughs as we turn onto Jackson Street. “And you know I’m right.”

  “You’ll probably even give me a combo blow job and handy J.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I may even add a little something extra. But just say it, Jason.”

  I stop, press my lips to his, and whisper against his mouth, “You’re right.”

  But I’m right too. He takes me apart in the shower, so I don’t mind that he knows best sometimes.

  The next week, in the pinball arcade in Hayes Valley, I attack the flippers on the Jurassic Park machine.

  The game room is packed for a Tuesday night. It’s never been this crowded.

  I’d bet a cool grand someone here tipped off a friend who told a friend who told a friend that Beck and I are here with the couple who won me at the auction.

  So sad that my boyfriend sucks at pinball. It’d be such a shame if there were pics on social media tomorrow of Cheyenne and me destroying him and Mitch.

  I stab the button on the right, sending the silver ball on a madcap race and padding our score. I sneak a glance at Beck, who’s double flipping.

  Such a noob.

  Oh well. I don’t have to share all my secrets with him.

  A few minutes later, Cheyenne and I decimate Beck and Mitch, and I double high-five the bubbly blonde.

  “Yes, we rock at pinball,” she declares, then taunts her husband with some kind of end-zone dance.

  “Fine. I will do the dishes tomorrow,” he grumbles.

  We take off for the nearby boba shop. Some people snap pics as we go. Out on Hayes Street, Beck reaches for my hand, and I thread my fingers through his.

  Cheyenne and Mitch are a few paces ahead of us, so I lean close and whisper, “You doing okay?”

  “I’m all good,” he says and squeezes back.

  Before we left his home tonight for this date, he did one of his worksheets. It was adorable to see him at the kitchen table, outlining possible scenarios for tonight. That strategy gave him the confidence to know he could handle the eyes on us.

  Now, we head into the boba shop, and I treat our guests to some tea and French fries. The four of us grab a table in the back, and Cheyenne and Mitch pepper Beck and me with questions about the playoffs, how we feel when we’re in the pocket, who our favorite receivers are to throw to.

  On my turn, I ask them how long they’ve been together, their favorite games we’ve played, and who else they like to follow on the team.

  Mostly, Cheyenne wants to tell us that they’ve upped the ante on the chore list they have at stake for the playoffs. If the Hawks win the Super Bowl, Mitch has to take out the trash every night for the next year. If the Renegades win, Cheyenne’s on kitty litter duty.

  That’s brilliant. I turn to my boyfriend. “You’re so going to be on litter detail for the next year,” I tell Beck.

  He laughs. “I can’t wait for you to handle the litter when the Renegades win.”

  Funny, we don’t even live together, but we’re already divvying up chores.

  In late January, the Hawks advance past the first two rounds of the playoffs and go all the way to the championship game for our conference. It’s my first time making it this far in the playoffs.

  And for the first three quarters against the Denver Mustangs, we’re in striking distance of the Super Bowl.

  But sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose.

  I go home that night without a win, which sucks big time. My heart aches as I crawl into bed, wishing everything on the field had gone differently.

  That’s football, though, and there’s always next year. I try not to dwell on the loss, especially since everything else in my life is pretty damn good.

  Like this—my boyfriend is going to the Super Bowl.

  Epilogue

  Comebacks

  Beck

  * * *

  The crowd was never this loud in Los Angeles when I played here. But then, I had never played a game like this.

  With less than one minute left in the Super Bowl, we’re down by four. We are fucked if I don’t engineer a helluva comeback in the next fifty-eight seconds.

  I can barely hear a thing in the huddle, and my voice is hoarse from calling plays.

  When we go into shotgun formation, I scan the field, read the coverage, and take the snap.

  But when I’ve got the ball, the Denver Mustangs are all over my receivers.

  There’s no way I can complete a pass.

  I hand off to the running back, who carries it just shy of a first down.

  We get right back into it, and I go for a play fake, drawing the Mustangs’ defenders to the running back as Carter races downfield.

  Yes, baby, yes! Go, go, go!

  I sling the ball his way, but a tight end barrels in his direction, hellbent on intercepting.

  My heart climbs into my throat as I watch and pray for two seconds that last forever as Carter launches himself into the air and grabs the ball . . . with the side of his motherfucking helmet.

  Holy shit.

  He’s got one hand on the precious cargo, cradling it against his head. He scrambles out of bounds and puts us twenty yards away from the biggest chance of my life.

  With the clock ticking, I’m behind the center once more, taking the snap, then hunting for an open man.

  Where the hell is a receiver when you need one?

  But I spot an opening, a line down the right side of the field if I can just weasel past that big-ass linebacker.

  Sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  Tucking the ball into my arm, I run like hell, dodging the defensive end, darting around a linebacker, and then the end zone is mere yards away.

  All I have to do is run like hell. And I fucking do, carrying the ball all the way.

  Holy shit.

  I’m electrified as my teammates swarm me, high-fiving and chest-bumping. They’re so ready to crack open the sparkling cider.

  But there are ten seconds left, and anything can happen. After Hayden secures the extra point, I pump a fist, then pace the sidelines, where all I can do is watch.

  When the Mustangs’ quarterback throws a Hail Mary pass, time freezes as the ball sails down, down, and down the field, looking like it’ll land in a receiver’s arm right in the end zone. But Isaiah cuts in and snatches the ball from the air for a goddamn game-ending interception.

  We did it. We fucking did it.

  My teammates crush me in the most epic hug of all time as we pull it off—a repeat.

  I guess trading for me wasn’t such a bad idea after all.