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.

  I don’t want to talk to him. I have nothing to say to a guy who stood me up.

  But it turns out he has something he wants to say to me. The next morning, I’m at the gym, running on the treadmill when an LA number pops up in my texts.

  It has to be him. I guess he got my digits somehow.

  “Asshole,” I mutter. But curiosity gets the better of me. What does he want? Cursing myself, I click on the message.

  Hey, it’s Beck. I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night. Next time I see you, I’ll explain.

  I snort at the vague note. Give me a break. There won’t be a next time.

  But the world is small, and I don’t want to develop enemies, so I write back. We’re all good. Best of luck with the starting gig.

  Then I block his number.

  I don’t need an explanation. Maybe he’s embarrassed his team lost. Maybe all he wanted was to get his rocks off before a game. Maybe he’s so far in the closet he plans to hang there forever with his clothes. I’m not anywhere close to the closet, so it’s also possible he just can’t handle a guy like me who’s all the way out.

  Whatever. I don’t need his explanations. And I don’t want to know his reasons anymore. The one thing I know for sure is this—I definitely don’t need to deal with guys who ghost me.

  Whatever Beck’s issue is, it isn’t my issue. I won’t let it be.

  With no distractions, I play my heart out for the rest of the season. I don’t hear from Beck or see him. Lucky me. Our teams don’t play each other in the regular season.

  I leave everything on the field, but it’s not enough for a playoff berth. There’s always next year, though. And when the new season rolls around, no distractions will be my mantra then too.

  Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m getting good at wearing blinders.

  A year after the ghosting, following the Hawks’ first regular season game, I stick to my usual routine in the evening—I hang out with friends. Nate and I join some of our teammates at our favorite watering hole, grab a bite, and watch the sports news.

  As we’re debating our favorite karaoke tunes for when we hit the stage in a few, the anchor’s voice catches my attention.

  “And in trade news today, Beck Cafferty has been traded to the San Francisco Renegades,” she says.

  And boom. I’m not debating the Backstreet Boys or Ed Sheeran anymore.

  My heart’s racing, and I’m scrambling for just the right play to call when I run into the quarterback I kissed.

  Because I will, and I need to be more than ready now that my one-time hookup has become my cross-town rival.

  So much for luck and putting our history behind me. Seems like a life with Beck Cafferty in it is just about to kick off.

  Beck and Jason’s romance continues in THE BOYFRIEND COMEBACK!

  Part II

  The Boyfriend Comeback

  One Year Later

  1

  Better Luck Next Time

  Jason

  * * *

  I’m not taking any chances today.

  The second I hit the gym on the first Sunday morning of football season, I tune into my pump-me-up playlist, the same one I listen to before every game.

  I blast the swagger music in my earbuds throughout my workout with my buddy and teammate Nate.

  When we finish, we head to our regular coffee shop for his post-workout coffee. It’s part of our routine—gym, swagger-mix, Nate getting a cup of joe, and me getting something that doesn’t taste like mud.

  Except . . . check out the new menu.

  Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium has finally, after months of begging from yours truly, gotten into the breakfast smoothie business with its Good Luck Morning Mango Smoothie.

  I’ll have to try that smoothie tomorrow. Can’t risk changing any pre-game rituals today. Too much rides on turning things around.

  Wait. Hold the fuck on. I’m doing today all wrong.

  I’m giving one hundred ten percent to the old standby routine, but it’s a new season today. The team sure could use a Good Luck Morning.

  I smack Nate on the shoulder. “That smoothie is calling our names.”

  Nate’s as flexible with drinks as he is with a change of plays in the huddle. “Sold.”

  I order two smoothies and pay for them when our drinks are ready.

  That’s new too.

  Nate clutches his broad chest like he’s overwhelmed. “Whatever did I do to deserve this?”

  “You catch my passes, dude. Also, I’m feeling generous because I’m positive we will have a great game today,” I say, drumming up the enthusiasm the whole team needs.

  The enthusiasm I haven’t felt all summer.

  I don’t place too much stock in luck, but I believe in attitude. Like every guy on the Hawks, Nate’s been in a funk lately. I’ve got to change that with Nate, then the team.

  Outside the shop, I take a long slurp through the straw and give a satisfied sigh. “This is now our official good luck beverage. We’re going to get this every day of the season.”

  As we head up Fillmore Street, Nate takes a drink, shooting me a doubtful look. “I hate to be all logical and whatnot, but aren’t you putting the cart before the horse, Jaybird?”

  I shake my head, dismissing that notion. “We lost our preseason games. We had a shitty training camp,” I say, farewelling the dark days so we can move past them. “From here on out, everything needs to be new. This smoothie will reset the order of balance in the football universe, and we’re going to destroy the Seattle Wolves on the field today.”

  Nate is more pragmatic. “That’s a lot to ask of a drink.”

  “It’s not a drink. It’s a mindset,” I point out. “We need to have faith and confidence and kick-ass-itude.”

  Nate lifts his cup in a toast. “Now that I can get behind.”

  I wiggle my brows. “You can definitely get . . . behind,” I say, then punctuate the pun with a drumroll.

  My buddy groans, like he can’t believe I went there. But I need him all aboard the Good Vibes train today. As two team captains, we can set the rhythm for a game. “I’ll have to dock you a full point for that horrible pun,” Nate adds.

  I’ll happily take the hit in our ongoing tally of zingers and duds. At least he’s starting to smile. The last few weeks have been miserable at the Hawks facility.

  We shoot the shit until we reach the small-batch ice cream shop on the corner of my street, where we part ways. He heads to his place in the Marina, and five minutes later, I bound up the front steps to my home.

  I get ready for work, shaking everything up like it’s Opposite Day.

  I shave. I didn’t shave before the last few home games.

  I hunt down my red college T-shirt. Didn’t wear that to those bouts.

  Then, I fly downstairs and search my kitchen and living room for the cat formerly known as Bandit.

  Taco thinks he could be an all-star in a Cat Hide and Seek League, but before long, I spot his furry tuxedo face from behind the books on a shelf in the living room. I march over to give him a smooch on top of his head. That’s another new routine—I didn’t kiss this wily critter before the other home games.

  When my lips touch his precious feline fur, he rears back, then instantly licks his front paw to rub his head. Of course. Must scrub the evidence of human affection off his coat. “Excuse me, your royal cat-ness,” I say. He’s ditched all his kitten sweetness and has gone full cat.

  But hey, I landed the smooch, so it counts in the Opposite Day Tally.

  Then, I hop into my car and head for my dad’s place in Russian Hill.

  Because the one ritual I won’t mess with is picking up my dad on the way to the stadium. He’s been to every home game of mine since I was a kid.

  I make good time and manage to snag a prime parking spot on the hilly street right outside his home, then jog up the steps, right when he swings open the door. He hobbles out onto the landing on his crutches.

  “You beat me to it,” he grumbles, tucking a book and his tablet tighter under his arm. “I was going to show you what I could do and wait for you on the sidewalk.”

  I laugh. “You’ve got to wake up early to get the jump on me, Pops.” I wiggle my fingers at the book and tablet. Begrudgingly, he hands them to me. Then, I reach for his crutches, too, and offer my arm. Don’t want him to take any chances going down the steps. I feel bad enough that he broke his leg mountain biking in Costa Rica earlier this summer—on a trip I sent him on. Talk about a dream vacay turned into a nightmare.

  After I help him into the car, I pull into Sunday mid-morning traffic, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in an upbeat rhythm. “What’s cooking this morning?”

  But Dad doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he peers at me like he’s not buying what I’m selling. “You okay?” he finally asks.

  I keep my brave face on because I’ll need it when I arrive at the stadium, where Coach will be prowling around. “Yep. Had a good night’s sleep at the team hotel before I hit the gym this morning for a great workout,” I say, as cheery as can be, transformed by the mango smoothie, my veins flowing with pep.

  But it feels false.

  Especially when I slow at the light and give him my best it’s all good grin—a smile that would fool anyone but Dad or my brother.

  Dad doesn’t smile back. Yup. He can see through me. Always has. He squeezes my arm in a most dad-like way. “Jason, it’s okay to breathe. And it’s okay if you’re not sunshine and roses every second of the day before a game.”

  But is it okay if the team knows I’m massively fucking worried we’re going to suck it again this year? Is it cool if Coach knows he’s stressing us out? The fans certainly don’t need to know the pressure I feel from the clipped tone Coach Killfoyle has taken lately with the team or the speculation in the media about changes for the Hawks. “I’m not nervous, per se,” I point out, dodging his statement.

  “Didn’t say you were nervous,” he says calmly as the light changes. “I know that’s not your issue. But you’ve got a ton of manic energy, and I think I know why.”

  I grip the wheel tighter as I drive. “Why is that?”

  “I know you want to turn things around this season. But you’re taking that all on yourself when this is a team sport. And the great thing is football starts over every year. You don’t have to carry the bad seasons with you.”

  It’s good advice.

  Truly, it is.

  But it’s not so easy with the media breathing down our necks. A local sports talk host named Pigskin Jimbo said our D-line couldn’t stop turtles from crawling.

  On the flip side, our local rivals are kings. The Renegades won the Super Bowl last year on the shoulders of their retiring Hall of Fame quarterback, Cooper Armstrong. The Hawks didn’t come within spitting distance of the past postseason or the one before. Doesn’t matter that we went to the playoffs twice in my first five years on the team. Football is a “what have you done for me lately” sport.

  When we arrive a few hours before kickoff, I pull behind the stadium, park in the players’ lot, then walk Dad to his regular section by the fifty-yard line.

  Seeing him in the same seat he’s had for every game I’ve played here does settle the jittery feeling inside me. “Thanks, Dad. For coming today. And for the pep talk. I needed it.”

  “I know, kid.” He gives a warm smile that feels like a calm hand on the ship’s rudder. “Remember, every game is a fresh start.”

  I hold on to that thought when I hit the field later.

  It’s every nightmare I’ve had since training camp.

  Four quarters later, Killfoyle prowls through the locker room, ready to rip heads off. “Blowing a twenty-one to three lead? In all my years, this is one of the shittiest of shitty season openers.”

  No one can look at each other. The guys hang their heads, eyes on the floor, and it takes all my willpower to keep my gaze on the coach, but I have to because I’m the team leader.

  “I’ve seen turtles play football better. We don’t have time for that kind of sloppy bullshit you left on the field. Clotheslining? Gimme a break. And all those offsides penalties.” He stops, draws more fueling breath for his evisceration. “Do better. A lot fucking better. Do not play sloppy on my watch, ever.”

  We lost to the Seattle Wolves thirty-five to twenty-eight.

  Coach turns at the end of a bench of sweaty, banged-up players and stalks the other way. “Management isn’t going to be happy with a repeat of last year.”

  He stares daggers at the defense, landing on Elroy and Johnson, who both missed tackles. I cringe in sympathy.

  I get it, though. Coach’s job is on the chopping block too. If we don’t get our shit together, he could be out, just like any of us.

  “Do I make myself clear?” he barks at the fifty-three of us.

  “Yes, sir.” It’s more of a collective mutter than a rallying cry.

  Coach heads to the exit. “Hit the showers,” he orders without looking back. “And when you come to practice tomorrow, show all the way up.”

  After I’ve done my best to wash off the stink of defeat, I escape the dreary locker room with Nate as fast as possible.

  “There’s only one thing to do tonight,” I say as we head up the steps from the locker room level to the stands. A casual night with some of the guys might help us forget that game. “What if we—”

  “—never order your Good Luck Smoothies again?” Nate asks drily.

  And the cheerleader routine dies a swift death. “Sorry, man,” I say heavily.