“No, no, no,” he says, backpedaling. “I don’t. Not at all. I didn’t want you to think . . .”

  Think what, Beck? That you were stalking me? I understand context clues, and yours are coming through loud and clear—you’re not into me.

  But I’ve got to let go of my stupid resentment over being ditched. “I’m not going to pull my switchblade and tell you to get off my turf,” I say casually.

  “Shit,” he mutters, dragging his hand down his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  The two of us are getting off to a great start, putting that hookup in the past. But someone has to try to make this exchange easier.

  “Caff, go get yourself that facial. Hit the driving range. You’ll love this place, and don’t think twice about joining, okay?” I say with a smile. No matter what went down with us—or didn’t—I don’t want to make any guy uncomfortable just because he’s not as attracted to me as I am to him.

  At last, Beck gives a playful nod, chased by a smile. “Okay. I’ll think about the driving range, even though I suck at golf.”

  “Stay in the league long enough, and that’ll change. Golf is life,” I say.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” We’re finally having a nice enough moment, so it’s time to go. End on a high note. “And, I’ll see you around,” I say, turning to leave.

  “Have fun tonight,” Beck calls after me.

  It’s not till I exit the locker room that I remember I told him I was off for a date with a very special someone tonight.

  Too bad it’s not in the way he thinks.

  I smile as I leave the gym.

  Darn, I’ll just have to let him picture me as a man about town.

  Maybe I’m not always such a nice guy.

  6

  Another Day, Another Gin Joint

  Beck

  I’m climbing my thirteenth floor when I spot him.

  Seriously? He’s an early riser too?

  Jason strolls into the gym the next morning, swipes his card, and then scans the equipment. When he spots me, he rolls his eyes. He’s smiling too, acknowledging the irony of the universe’s sense of humor. He gives me a chin nod. I nod back as he claims a treadmill in the row in front of me.

  Great.

  Fucking great.

  I get to watch him. He’s probably logging his second round of exercise for the day after a morning workout in bed with his special guy.

  With Beethoven blasting in my ears, I shove thoughts of his date aside and stare out the window instead, cataloging this block of San Francisco. There’s a card store, the kind that carries stationery with quirky sayings like You deserve orgasms and cake. Next to it is Pups and Cups. Caffeine- and canine-lovers gather at the sidewalk tables with their mugs and contraptions for their pets. I’m amazed at the things people use to tote their small dogs—a purse, a grocery bag, a BabyBjörn, even the kangaroo pocket of a sweatshirt.

  Next to that is a candle shop. Maybe I should get one for Portia as a thank you. It’s probably not open this early, but I can come back after our practice today.

  Am I done yet? It’s been forever. But when I check the machine readout, I’ve only hit eighteen floors.

  Dammit.

  As the stringed instruments swell, my traitorous gaze returns to the man in front of me.

  My pulse kicks, not from the pace on this machine or the intensity of the classical music blasting in my ears.

  Jason’s on the treadmill now, walking slowly, adjusting the settings. And I can’t help but admire the shape of his back, the outline of his shoulders, the way his muscles stretch that teal-blue T-shirt, and how his waist tapers into his gray shorts.

  But even as the heat stirs in my chest, so does that unfinished feeling from yesterday. The desire to say something more, starting with—I’m not closeted.

  But do I want to say that to him? Or to others?

  I grit my teeth, annoyed. The nagging sense that I need to do something lives right next door to this inconvenient lust for my rival.

  I deal with the lust first by tearing my gaze from his body, then fiddling around on my phone. Clicking over to YouTube, I tune into a Bob Ross video and turn off Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. I finish the cardio watching the curly-haired artist paint tiny trees, his mellow voice wrong for a workout. But he gets me to the fiftieth floor on this StairMaster, helping me ignore my lust.

  When I finally leave the gym, I don’t say goodbye to Jason. I don’t even see him on the machines.

  As I head up the block, I catch the scent of roasting coffee, and the rich aroma lures me to the door of Doctor Insomnia’s. Once inside, I weave around comfy, rumpled couches and go straight for the counter, my eyes on the menu. When I drop my gaze, though, it lands on . . .

  . . . Are you fucking kidding me?

  Of course.

  Jason’s here, drumming his fingers on the counter, smiling like the happiest-go-luckiest dude. Well, sure. He probably got laid last night.

  He lifts his chin in greeting. “Of all the gin joints in the city,” he says when I reach him.

  “They serve gin here too? I had no idea San Francisco was such a gin-loving city,” I remark, then ask the barista for a coffee, black, and slide my phone across the card reader.

  “So, what do you think of my fine city so far?” Jason asks. Emphasis on my. Like I’m encroaching on his turf, after all.

  Maybe he’s okay with us sharing a gym, but his coffee shop is a step too far? Fuck if I know. I’m unfamiliar with the post-hand-job rules when bumping into my new crosstown rival.

  “Your city will do,” I say drily.

  “I’m from here. That’s why I say my city. I fucking love this place. I might be addicted to San Francisco.”

  Ah, okay. He’s the kind of guy who wants me to like his hometown. It’s pride, not possession.

  “It’s cool so far,” I say. “I’ve only been here for a few days.” He probably knows that. It’s Thursday, and I was traded on Sunday. “But I got a place already,” I add as the barista brews my coffee.

  “You move fast,” he says.

  I frown. Is there a double meaning there? Like I moved fast that one night?

  Shut it, Cafferty. Just because you can’t get past that encounter doesn’t mean he’s obsessed with it.

  “Yeah, well. I sort of needed to. I found a nice spot in Hayes Valley,” I say.

  “Sweet. There’s a great boba place there. Also, a fun pinball arcade I go to with my friends,” he says.

  Is he an ambassador for The City by the Bay? I’m not even sure why he’s making small talk . . . except, didn’t he mention this when he gave me media tips? This is his press persona—Mister Glad Hand, who gets along with everyone. I try to let go of my annoyance. His playing tour guide doesn’t have to frustrate me.

  “I’ll check them out,” I say.

  The barista hands Jason a cup full of thick blue goop. “Thanks, Ben,” Jason tells him.

  “Anytime.”

  Jason lifts the cup, tapping it with his finger as he turns to me. “I’m back on blueberries. The mango smoothie did me dirty in my first game,” he says.

  “Maybe you should order the mango smoothie, then,” I deadpan, giving him an evil grin.

  If we’re going to be two rivals who rib each other, I will lean all the way in.

  His bright blue eyes widen in disbelief. “Can’t believe you want me to lose,” he says, in faux shock.

  “Says the man who wants to destroy me on the field,” I counter.

  The barista clears his throat and holds out my cup as if he’s been waiting for more than a few seconds. Oh.

  “Your drink,” Ben says, then nods for me to get out of the way.

  With the coffee in hand, I do, stepping toward the door.

  Where Jason is heading.

  Fuck my luck.

  I hunt for an innocuous topic as we happen to exit together. “How’s Bandit?”

  Jason grins like a fool in love. “He grew up to be an asshole cat. I named him Taco. We had a date last night watching A Gentleman’s Deal.”

  My lips twitch, but I don’t let it turn into a grin. The special guy is his cat, not a dude. That’s fucking adorable. “Why’d you change his name?”

  “He seems like a Taco,” Jason says, but it’s too laid-back.

  I don’t buy it. There’s a reason for the new name, and I think I know what it is. “What makes a cat seem like a Taco?” I ask—because I want to get to the bottom of what happened to Bandit.

  Plus, this exchange is so much more enjoyable than the uncomfortable ones yesterday. And sure, I could take advantage of the relaxed atmosphere to tell him why I never showed up for our second date—but I don’t want to ruin this moment.

  Jason takes a long pull of his smoothie. “Now you doubt my cat-naming abilities?”

  “It’s not a now thing, McKay. I’ve always doubted your cat-naming abilities,” I point out.

  “Yes, you have, Caff,” he says.

  “So, you realized I was right about the cat needing a better name,” I add.

  He arches a brow. “I believe you suggested Frank. Not Taco.”

  “And I believe it’s safe to say Taco is better than Bandit.”

  “I can’t believe you’re a Bandit hater. All around the world, cats named Bandit are crying in their coffee.” He flicks his fingers toward my drink. “By the way, I knew you’d be an I take my coffee black type of guy. See you around.”

  He turns the other way, getting the last word in.

  But maybe I did too.

  He changed his pet’s name because of something I told him that night. Maybe he thinks of other moments from that evening, like how we kissed and touched.

  But as I head home in the opposite direction, I sweep those dangerous thoughts away.

  I can’t focus on one guy.

  I have a game to win this weekend and a city full of fans to woo.

  7

  Scratching an Itch

  Jason

  I have a few free hours in New York on Saturday afternoon before our curfew at the team hotel that night.

  There’s only one way to use that time—I plan to catch up with my brother first, then see some of our good friends for a behind-the-scenes TV set tour.

  I’m stoked about both, but especially seeing Nolan. I’ve missed him, big time, since he moved to New York a year ago, settling into a new pad and a new life with his girlfriend, hosting a food show on Webflix. Before then, he’d lived with me in San Francisco, working his ass off trying to build up his YouTube show. Helping him out with a place to live when he needed it felt like I could finally say thanks for all he’d done for me in high school.

  He’d been an awesome brother I felt comfortable coming out to at age fourteen, three years before I told anyone else. I’ve missed him more than usual in the last week, and I’m not entirely sure why.

  This afternoon, I’m meeting him at a converted laundromat that peddles do-it-yourself quinoa bowls made on the fly in vending machines.

  Only in New York.

  As I head down the block in Hell’s Kitchen toward The Automat, I peer above the line of New Yorkers in front of me since I’m tall enough to get a peek.

  I grab my phone to text Nolan when a hand lands on my shoulder. A Darth Vader-esque voice rumbles in my ear. “I see we meet again.”

  I startle, ready to tackle whoever is breathing down my neck.

  When . . . of course.

  Brothers are such turkeys.

  Nolan points at my expression, grinning like an evil six-year-old prankster. “Gotcha.”

  “You’re such a dick,” I say, but I’m laughing too. Then I haul him in for a hug he doesn’t deserve.

  Still, I don’t want to let go. “It’s good to see you, asshole,” I say when I finally separate.

  “Aww, I love you too, shithead,” he says, and my heart expands.

  He adjusts his askew glasses, then holds up a paper bag. “Already grabbed the food.”

  We head to nearby Hell’s Kitchen Park and grab a picnic table. Nolan unpacks the bag, plunking my bowl in front of me. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Quinoa, beets, kale, pumpkin seeds, and tofu. Boom.”

  “It’s like you read my food diary.”

  “I might possibly, maybe, miss cooking for you,” he says a little sheepishly.

  I can’t resist stretching an arm across to mess up his hair, then I open the bowl and take my first bite.

  As we eat, we chat more about his girlfriend, Emerson, and the places they’re checking out for upcoming episodes. It’s like swinging in a hammock, chatting with my brother. But even as we shoot the breeze, I feel that itch again, like there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him. Or maybe it’s a question I want him to ask me. Met any guys lately?

  I could tell Nolan about Beck. Not specifically, but generally.

  But what would I tell him? There’s this guy, and I’m trying to play it cool with him and failing miserably. I’m still stuck on that first gym encounter and whether I handled the if you need guidance on your queer journey thing the best way I could.

  Ugh. Probably not. I might have been too . . . poster boy.

  I’m dying to ask Nolan’s advice, but I don’t want to reveal a shred of Beck’s identity. That’s not my story to tell.

  So my brother and I talk more about his show and tomorrow’s football game, which he’ll come to.

  When we finish eating, Nolan fixes me with a more serious stare. “How’s Dad doing? Will he be off the crutches soon?”

  I sigh, still feeling like it’s my fault Dad broke his leg in the first place. “Supposedly, the doc says he can wear a walking boot in a couple weeks. But you know Dad. He’s working too hard. Trying to do it all. Not wanting anyone to help him.”

  “So, the way he’s been since Mom left?”

  “Gee, do you think the two events are connected?”

  “Just a little,” Nolan says sarcastically, then his smile disappears. “He still thinks he has to do it all.”

  After Mom took off when I was eight, moving to Florida with a new guy and becoming a summer-vacation-only parent, Dad worked damn hard to single-handedly provide for us. He started Mister Cookie, then grew it into a nationwide cookie franchise business. He wanted us to have everything we needed, from football equipment for me to pots and pans for Nolan. He’s basically Dad of the Year every day.

  “He’s sixty-two. I want him to consider retirement a lot more seriously. But I’ve had no success convincing him,” I say, wishing our dad weren’t so stubborn. “I just want him to be happy.”

  “That’s how you are with everyone,” he says, no judgement, just truth. Then he glances at the time on his phone on the table. “We’ll come up with something for Dad, but for now let’s head to the studio.”

  Thirty minutes later, our friend TJ and his actor boyfriend, Jude, are taking us on a tour of Unfinished Business, Jude’s TV show that films inside a block-long concrete slab of a building on Tenth Avenue.

  Once we’re past security, and inside the show’s studio, I gawk. Slack-jawed, I point excitedly to the brick exterior wall of Jude’s character’s building. “Dude, that’s where Jamie lives!”

  With a delighted smile, Jude gestures to another area of the set. “If you like that, let me show you the infamous stairwell.”

  Jude ushers us past a café set to the plain, white walls and concrete steps. “That’s where you and Zoe had your first kiss,” I say, sounding like a certified fanboy, and I don’t care.

  “Good memory,” TJ puts in.

  Then, Jude’s expression turns a little more serious. “But I hope what happened there this season didn’t taint your memory?”

  Embarrassment crawls through me. “I haven’t seen the new season,” I confess. “When did it premiere?”

  Nolan squeezes my shoulder, shaking his head like he can’t believe I missed it. “A month ago, Jaybird. Your favorite show premiered a month ago.”

  “Shit, sorry,” I mutter.

  TJ points to the door in a huff. “Leave. Now.”

  I laugh to cover up how much I feel like an ass for missing my friend’s show.

  The new episodes must be in my queue, but something keeps me from clicking.

  Oh, shit.

  The show reminds me of Beck. Did I really like the guy so much after one stinking date that I’ve been avoiding my favorite show because it makes me think of him?

  The evidence adds up.

  But I don’t want my friends to think I’m some jackass who ignores their work. “I’ll catch up on it, I promise. It’s not the show, Jude. I watched it a year ago with this guy, and then he never showed for our next date, and that kind of sucked,” I admit, feeling a little lighter as I get closer to the things I want to, but can’t, discuss.

  Jude smiles sympathetically. “That twat didn’t deserve you.”

  I appreciate the support, though that’s not the issue with Beck. He’s not undeserving. But I might have jumped to conclusions. Maybe I’m the twat.

  I’m dying to unpack the Beck run-ins with Nolan or TJ and Jude. But there’s no way I can talk about what happened without saying why it was so messed up—because Beck and I play the same sport.

  “Show me the rest of the set and I promise to catch up soon on the season,” I say to Jude with the same excitement I used with Nate when I ordered the mango smoothies.

  I shove Beck out of my mind one more time.

  The New York Rebels’ defense is predatory. I swear their linebackers have fangs.

  But we’re only down by seven with two minutes left in the half. As the crowd stomps their feet and demands my head on a platter, I get in the pocket, take the snap, and scan for the tight end. But Orlando is swarmed, and so is Nate. As I hunt for a free man, I scramble away from a bloodthirsty Rebel hellbent on sacking me, and then the heavens part.

  Nate escapes a cornerback trying to reroute him, and I have enough time and protection to fire the ball his way. The fast motherfucker catches it with outstretched arms, then spins away and takes off.