Now that he’s shown his hand, I’ve got a ton of questions for him.

  Like, is this what you meant when you said, ‘most of that’? And did you come over for this reason? And did you really want media tips? Because, damn, I believed you. And the biggest question too—are you out?

  But as I rake my gaze over the man in my kitchen, I keep those questions locked up. This moment is so surreal I don’t want to break the spell by talking.

  Or by thinking about what a bad idea kissing another quarterback might be.

  Beck struck the match with his question, and now I’m burning with lust. I want to fan the flames. I step closer, press my hand against his firm pecs, and whisper a smoky answer, “Yes.”

  “Good. That’s good,” he says with a staggered breath.

  For a few hot, horny seconds, we stay poised inches apart, caught in the anticipation.

  How the hell did I get here?

  I had no plans to make out with him. All I wanted this afternoon was to help a dude who was floundering. But dammit, Beck’s sexy and smart and weirdly, sort of charming. The way he’s been looking at me is scrambling my brain.

  And turning me on.

  He licks his lips, the tip of his tongue flicking over the corner of his mouth.

  But his hands hang at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them. Is he unsure after all? Regretting his can I kiss you question?

  He silences my worries in a second as his mouth crashes down on mine.

  He isn’t slow. He doesn’t take his sweet time. Beck jams the gas pedal. The race car peels away onto the track at one hundred miles an hour.

  Sparks fly down my body. Electricity flares in my bones. He kisses me hard and harder still, his hands grabbing my face, his lips bruising mine.

  Beck is fire and fury, and that cranks my engine. This is how I like it.

  I don’t want sweet nothings. I want dirty everythings.

  He growls as he kisses me, which makes me hotter and harder. He sucks on my bottom lip. I bite the edge of his mouth. He thrusts his tongue past my lips and devours me.

  My head spins with lust as I taste him—he tastes desperate for me.

  And determined too.

  Letting go of my face, he pushes on my chest so I back up against the counter. The edge of it digs into my back. It hurts, and I don’t care.

  His hands travel everywhere on my body, artlessly gripping my pecs, then grabbing my jaw, and sliding down my arms. Cataloging me. Seconds ago, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Now, he doesn’t know how to stop touching me.

  At last, he returns his palms to my face, holding me hard as he kisses me relentlessly. I slide my hands around to his ass, curl them tight over his cheeks, and slam his hard-on against my dick.

  We make out like that, grinding and groaning, erections rubbing.

  Till he wrenches away from me, panting, catching his breath. He stares at me like he wants to fuck right here, right now.

  Well, yeah.

  Then reality taps me on the shoulder. I’m not opposed to sex with a stranger. There’s nothing wrong with a one-night stand. But Beck isn’t a stranger. We work in the same, small world.

  He’s not out, at least as far as I know. And that raises some questions. Is he just a straight guy wanting to mess around with a gay dude?

  That’s a hard pass for me.

  I set a hand firmly on his pecs. “Is this an experiment for you?”

  With a frustrated huff, he shakes his head, then nods. I jerk my gaze back, my hand becoming a stop sign on his chest. Do not pass GO. “Which one is it?”

  He sighs heavily. “Shit, sorry. It’s not an experiment,” he mutters as if it’s hard for him to say.

  That’s not entirely reassuring, his half answer. I don’t want to be some straight guy’s walk on the dude side. Been there, done that. A lot of things suck about getting dumped, but getting ditched by a guy who never really liked guys is one of the worst.

  I push him away by more than a few inches. “Are you sure you’re not just messing with me?”

  Adamantly, he shakes his head. “No. Definitely not. I’m not.”

  “So then are you . . .?” If he can’t say gay or queer or bi or pan, I don’t want to fool around anymore.

  His gaze drops to my hand on his chest, to the distance I created, as if looking for the answer there. He raises his face, his dark eyes flashing with vulnerability. “I’m . . . bi.”

  My lips quirk up. Now we’re in business. Any variety of queer works for me. And while I’ve never known him to be out, I also don’t know him. Nor do I keep a list of newly out players. Plus, I just met the guy, and I don’t want to turn this into an inquisition with any more questions—like are you out to your teammates, or does your family know. Now, when we’re both hot and bothered—and both into guys rather than experiments—isn’t the time for a deeper discussion on how far out of the closet or not he is.

  Now is the time for getting off.

  But just to have a little fun, I lift a hand to his jaw, run my thumb along his face. “You sure about that, Cafferty?”

  That seems to ease whatever nerves he felt in speaking his truth. He wiggles a brow, gives me a cocky smirk. “Positive. Want me to prove it to you?”

  I lift my chin, seeing his bet and raising it. “I really fucking do.”

  With speed I didn’t see coming, he unbuttons my shorts, yanks down the zipper, and fondles my cock.

  7

  My Quarterback Crush

  Beck

  * * *

  He’s silky to the touch and all steel underneath. My mouth waters. My chest tingles.

  I want to play with his dick all night. To stroke and tease. To lick and suck.

  But the clock is ticking, curfew is coming, and I don’t want to stop this make-out train.

  Don’t think he does either. A few seconds later, he undoes my shorts and shoves his hand into my boxer briefs to grasp my dick.

  I hiss in a breath. We’ve got our hands on each other, and it’s bone-meltingly good.

  I groan at the twin sensations—the high-voltage charge from him touching me, and the heady thrill of me touching him. The man I’ve crushed on for the last year. The man I’ve fantasized about too many times to count.

  Now it’s real, and I’m acutely aware that it’s go time. I don’t want to fuck this up. Don’t want to ruin this sexy moment with the wrong move.

  But I’m pretty sure I’m making the right ones. Jason’s moaning and his cock is dripping. I try to toss all my worries aside. We’ve got seven minutes, tops, before I turn into a pumpkin. Dirty Cinderella, indeed.

  Gripping him tight, I slide my fist along his hot length, spreading my thumb over his crown, lubing him up as best I can.

  “Yes,” he grunts. “I like it rough.”

  And I like it crystal clear. A little direction goes a long way. I let go for a second, spit in my palm, then return to his dick and give a nice, tight jerk.

  Jason shudders, pumping into my fist and showing off his multitasking skills, too, as he strokes my dick, using my pre-come to ease the way.

  Lust shoots down my spine in fast, pulsing waves of pure pleasure. I grit my teeth from the sweet agony of his hand shuttling up and down my length. My dick is leaking, but even as he spreads the liquid arousal on my shaft, that hardly feels like enough glide.

  This tandem hand job would be a little easier with help. I glance around. Maybe there’s lotion nearby? Trouble is, I don’t want to stop to go hunt down lube. And I don’t want to sound high-maintenance either.

  I’m not ready to ask for a blow job. Maybe my own arousal is enough to get the job done. I focus on how good it feels, jerking him as he jerks me.

  I lift my hand to coat my palm again for him, and Jason grabs my wrist, stopping me.

  “What?” I ask, nerves skittering down my spine, hoping I didn’t mess up.

  But in two seconds, he’s down on his knees, hauling my dick into his mouth, and holy fuck, yes.

  My hands rope through his hair as he sucks me to the root, cupping my balls and playing with them. His mouth, dear God, his mouth.

  And this view—it’s almost too much, the way his lips stretch and his eyes twinkle.

  Before I know it, I’m moaning and groaning and fucking his face. But Jason surprises me once more, dropping me from his lips with a long, lingering suck, leaving a trail of saliva behind on my dick. Then he pops up, grips me again. “Just helping matters along,” he says, all sexy and flirty and reading my needs completely.

  That. Is. Hot.

  And I am this close to losing it.

  As he jerks me, I reach for his dick, play with him loosely. It’s hard to fully concentrate on his pleasure when I’m this close to the edge with his hand. I squeeze my eyes shut and give in to the lust charging down my body. His hand flies faster on my dick, then faster still.

  My balls tighten, my vision blurs, and I unload in his hand, shuddering as I release. Holy fuck. That felt . . . out of this world, and it was just a hand job.

  When I open my eyes, my orgasm is dripping over his knuckles. With a smirk, Jason lets go of my cock and grabs his dick, giving a long, lingering stroke with the hand that jerked me.

  My eyes pop. I shudder out a breath. No fucking way. He’s coating his dick with my orgasm, and I could nearly come again from the sight. He gestures to his dick with his free hand, all casual and sexy. “Finish me off, Cafferty,” he says.

  I grip him, the evidence of my climax paving the way. In seconds, he’s grunting, pumping his hips, and fucking my fist hard and fast.

  I remember his direction. He likes it rough. I tighten my grip, then tug on his balls with my other hand.

  His lips part. He shudders out a breath, tenses, then comes in my hand.

  My entire body is alive—lit up.

  I am electrified. All my senses are working in overdrive as I memorize this deliciously sexy moment. The sight of our orgasms. The sounds of our pleasure. The smell of our sweat.

  It’s everything I’ve wanted.

  And I want it again. But I glance at the time. “I should clean up.”

  “Ditto.”

  We both make quick work of straightening up. The ticking clock rules out those awkward after-sex moments, like cuddling and talking—shit I don’t know how to deal with.

  But I know this much—as tough as the last few months have been for me, tonight was a welcome break from the hard stuff.

  This feels like it was necessary for my sanity. For my mental health. Somehow, this hookup eased the pain of the rougher days.

  My mind is lighter, and I want more of this good feeling.

  After I order a Lyft, which will be here in two minutes, I draw a soldiering breath. “Can I ask you one more question?”

  Jason laughs, shaking his head. “You and your questions.”

  I’m glad I can make him laugh. That’s a good start. “Yeah, I have a lot of questions, including this one. Was tonight a date?”

  Jason’s smile is so warm and genuine, and it doesn’t seem like bullshit when he says, “I think so. Did it feel that way to you?”

  So much that I want another. “It did. And our flight back to Los Angeles is at eight tomorrow, so there’s time after the game. A couple of hours.”

  His smile grows. “You asking me on a post-game date, Cafferty? After I destroy the Mercenaries, that is.”

  Holy shit. I am. And it feels so right. “Yeah. But it’ll be the other way around. We’ll annihilate you.”

  He scoffs. “Don’t bet on it.”

  That gives me a wicked idea. “I’ll bet you a blow job. When I win, you finish what you started when you were sucking me off.”

  He cracks up. “We’re betting for blow jobs?”

  “We are.”

  Jason sticks out a hand. “Fair enough. Winner gets a blow job.” He glances around. “Back here at my place. Tomorrow. Five-ish. We should have time for a blow job and a bite to eat.”

  That sounds like a perfect date. “It’s on.”

  My phone beeps, telling me that my Lyft is here. No time for anything more. “See you tomorrow.”

  I’m tempted to plant a kiss on his lips. But I don’t want to presume he’d like that, so I leave without kissing him goodbye.

  I don’t really know how to play this game. But I’ll have to learn because it seems I have a second date with my quarterback crush.

  And, I suppose, for the first time, I want to figure it out.

  In the morning, my stomach is twisted into knots before I even leave the hotel, and it loops into even tighter ones in the locker room as kickoff nears.

  Soon, I’ll take to the field in my first professional game as a starter. This is big.

  My stomach jumps again. I’m not made of iron, but I’ve had a lifetime of practice dealing with my pre-game anxiety. I’ve learned how to handle my nerves. I have my rituals, and they help. Mostly.

  But this game is different for so many reasons. It would be easy to dwell on those reasons, but . . . nope.

  Can’t go there.

  Need to stay in the moment.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the present, not the past.

  When game time rolls around, I leave the locker room and trot to the field after kickoff.

  Then, I narrow my focus until it’s entirely on the field and shut off everything else.

  8

  Unfinished Business

  Jason

  * * *

  This is my favorite kind of game—one that ends in a win for the home team. As my Hawks jog off the field, victorious, we smack palms with the line of Mercenaries.

  My game face is on, so when I near Beck, I don’t crack a smile as I smack his palm or show an ounce of excitement over what’s to come tonight. Fine, maybe I do steal a glance at those lips.

  In a couple hours, they’ll be wrapped around my dick.

  Yes, this is a seriously good day.

  And it’ll be an excellent evening. Maybe, if all goes well, I’ll ask him a question. How about a third date?

  We can probably pull off another one during the season. I’ll check our schedules and figure it out. But I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. First, there are things to buy. Like food and stuff.

  After I leave the facility, I get in my car and swing by Whole Foods. I don’t know his likes, but he’s an athlete and a foodie, so I make some educated guesses at the deli counter. A chicken salad, a quinoa dish, and since you can never go wrong with cheese, I snag some Gouda and crackers and olives.

  I might not cook, but I can make a charcuterie board almost as well as I can play football.

  At home, I change into better casual date attire and consider my reflection in the mirror. Trim shorts and a tight navy-blue polo. It’s all good.

  Then I head downstairs with Bandit at my heels. He performs his counter jump again in the kitchen, skidding a few inches but then steadying himself. “And it’s a nine point two from the American judge,” I say. “But rules are rules.”

  I scoop him up and put him on the floor, moving the stool away so he can’t reach the counter again. Then I set up the food. “Damn, I impress myself,” I say to my new roommate, who’s circling my feet.

  I head to the living room with my buddy, grab the clicker, and point it at the TV. I’m tempted to watch another episode of Unfinished Business, but maybe Beck wants to watch with me.

  It’s past five, so I click to my texts, about to fire off a note to Beck, asking if he wants to see an episode tonight, then I stop and laugh.

  I never got his number.

  He did the whole I have a photographic memory thing. And last night, I didn’t ask for it when he left because . . . we made plans. We set a time and a place.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Is he . . .?

  Did he play me?

  He should have arrived already.

  I sit up straighter and peer out the window. Maybe I’ll spot him heading down the block or bounding up the steps.

  Or maybe he’s just late. That happens. That’s way more likely than him standing me up. After all, the guy did ask me out.

  I flop down on the couch, all casual and chill with my cat, certain Beck will be here any minute.

  9

  Fool Me Once

  Jason

  * * *

  It’s eight o’clock, and I’m the schmuck standing in my kitchen, stabbing a fork into the chicken salad with one hand, scrolling through Insta with the other. Beck has no social so I’ve resorted to checking for pics of the other Mercenaries to make sure that, yup, the team plane has left the tarmac.

  The fucker ghosted me. He came over, hit on me, got me off, asked himself over again, and then actually ghosted me.

  I set down the fork with a loud clang then click over to my messages. I text Nate to see if he wants to play some late-night mini golf. He says yes, so I leave and meet my friend, grateful to get far away from my home.

  “Whoa. You look pissed,” Nate says after a quick appraisal at the golf check-in counter.

  I shake my head, still annoyed. “Ghosted.”

  He winces. “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say as I grab some balls and clubs.

  He pats my shoulder. “Been there. It bites.”

  “It sure does.”

  As we hit the mini links, I do my best to forget about Beck. I refuse to nurse the wound.

  Just like I refuse to track down his number to ask what’s up. He obviously didn’t want me to contact him—that’s why he played the whole photographic memory bit.

  Fine by me.