🏈Saturday's Series Spotlight🏈: Charleston Condors by Beth Bolden Part 1

The Star #1

Summary:

Tight end Landry Banks knows the score when he signs with the Charleston Condors in a rebuilding year.

New owner. New coach. New players. New rules.

But one rule hasn’t changed: Don’t hook up with your best friend’s little brother.

Rookie quarterback Riley Flynn knows what it takes to make it in the NFL. He’s in Charleston to prove himself—to the world and to his teammates, but mostly to his older brother, who’s never believed he could be a star.

The last thing he expects is for his brother’s best friend Landry to welcome him with open arms and an offer to become roommates.

Riley’s always believed Landry was straight—but the way Landry keeps checking him out leaves him suddenly unsure. And Landry’s hot looks certainly don’t help squash the crush he’s always had on his brother’s best friend.

Revisiting his teenage crush isn't part of the plan. But as he and Landry fall into a rhythm of thrilling plays on the field and sizzling tension off it, there's no denying their connection.

Riley isn’t willing to trade becoming the next big NFL superstar for love. But with a man like Landry Banks waiting to catch anything he throws at him, maybe he can have both.

The Game #2
Summary:

Micah Rose is ready for a clean slate. He might’ve messed up his rookie year with the Miami Piranhas, but being traded to the Condors is the best way to put all that behind him.

The Condors are rebuilding, too. New owner. New coach. New players. New rules.

But one rule hasn’t changed: don’t marry your ex-best friend in Vegas.

Beckett West isn't looking forward to seeing Micah again. Back in college, they shared not only a ride-or-die friendship, but a ton of sexual tension they never acted on.

That was before Micah pushed him away.

Still, Beck’s never forgotten their last drunken night together. Not only did they finally confess their feelings, they both promised if the day ever came when they played on the same team again, they wouldn't waste the chance to be together.

But Beck didn’t expect that day to ever be this day.

He certainly didn’t expect to wake up in bed with Micah’s ring on his finger.

Or that he’d never want to take it off.

But it turns out the only man for him is the one man he could never forget. The one man he’s always wanted to make his.

The Star #1

Chapter 1

“So you figure out where you’re signing yet, bro?” Aidan asked as he and Landry sat down in their seats.

For reasons Landry Banks had never quite figured out, Aidan Flynn was his best friend. They’d been best friends since they’d met in college twelve years ago. He was just as much family as his own two brothers were. They’d made it onto the starting roster at Michigan, then onto the NFL Combine, and finally, they’d been both drafted into the NFL.

Aidan had been selected by the Toronto Thunder early in the first round, and he was still their very popular, very successful starting quarterback. Which, in Landry’s opinion, hadn’t helped his friend’s arrogance and occasionally annoying swagger in any way whatsoever. In Toronto, he was practically revered as a god. But still, even now, despite all his obnoxiousness, Landry loved him. There was so much good—so much loyalty and kindness—buried under Aidan’s brash exterior. Landry wished more people could see it.

But not today. Because Aidan knew very well Landry hadn’t decided yet if he was going to stay with the Bills or take one of the other offers he’d received—and yet Aidan had poked him about it anyway.

“No, which you know,” Landry said, elbowing his friend in the side. “God, you kinda suck.”

Aidan just grinned. “Hey, what’s that saying? You gotta make hay while the sun shines? You eliminate any of the teams that’ve offered for you yet?”

“I think…” Landry hesitated. This decision was all he’d thought about over the last few weeks. Over and over, round and round, all the pros and the cons. He was pretty sure Elliot, his agent, hated him because they’d had three conference calls and so many texts Landry couldn’t even dream of counting them all. That didn’t count all the ones he’d sent to Logan and Levi, his two brothers, who also played in the NFL. “I think I want to leave Buffalo, at least.”

“Really?” Aidan looked surprised.

“Yeah.” Landry was grateful to the team that had drafted him eight years ago, but he was ready to move on. Maybe move somewhere where it wasn’t negative eleventy-billion below and didn’t snow buckets every winter.

“Well, see, you made some progress,” Aidan teased. “So you gonna take the Falcons contract or the Condors?”

“The Falcons low-balled me, so probably not them, but…”

“The Condors are a garbage fire?”

Landry made a face. “That was last year. Supposedly it’s gonna be different this year. Totally different. I talked to Logan. You know he plays for Asa Dawson, who they even brought in to consult on the Condors’ rebuild. And I talked to the new owner. I think…it should be better. Honestly, I’m tempted to take the Condors’ deal. Their offer wasn’t as good as Buffalo, but…”

As usual, Aidan knew what he wasn’t saying. “But they’re closer to Miami.” Where Logan plays.

As much as Aidan pretended not to understand how close the Banks family was, there was a reason they were both here to watch Aidan’s little brother, Riley, in his debut today.

“Yep,” Landry said. “Charleston’s closer to Miami.” He was tired of being so far from his brothers. Charleston wasn’t necessarily close to Miami, but it sure was a hell of a lot closer than Buffalo had been.

Aidan waved out at the field, changing the subject. “You think the kid’s gonna play today?”

Landry rolled his eyes. I love my best friend. I really love my best friend. “First off, you shouldn’t call him the kid, you know that drives Riley nuts. And he’s what…twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

Aidan shrugged like he didn’t know. He knew.

“And,” Landry continued, “we’re here because he’s the starting quarterback. So yeah, he’s gonna play. I don’t know why I came all the way out here to Pittsburgh if he isn’t.”

“You came because I asked you to,” Aidan reminded him. “For moral support. And to help me convince Riley to give it up.”

Landry winced. “Maybe don’t phrase it that way, okay?”

The Pittsburgh XFL team had just taken the field—for many years, so many organizations had tried to get a second professional football league started, but none of them had lasted very long. This was just the newest iteration, and Landry hoped they succeeded where everyone else had failed because it was a real chance for players who hadn’t made NFL rosters to shine.

Riley Flynn could’ve been on a roster as a backup, but he’d chosen, stubbornly, to join the XFL because he wanted to play. Aidan had said it best when he’d called up Landry to invite him to Pittsburgh. “Nobody’s gonna take a shot on someone to start if he stands on the sideline the whole season, holdin’ a fucking clipboard, so that’s his big plan.”

That was true, though it wasn’t like NFL backups weren’t well paid. But Riley clearly didn’t give a shit about the money. He wanted to play. He wanted to grab everyone’s attention, and then he wanted an NFL team to sign him as a starter.

Landry gave him a lot of credit; he could’ve done exactly what Aidan wanted him to do and given up.

But he hadn’t.

“I just wish…damn it, I wish he was like five inches taller and like forty pounds heavier.” It was rare to detect any regret in Aidan’s voice, but Landry heard it now.

“Probably not as much as he does.” Landry didn’t know Riley all that well. He’d been “the kid” for as long as he’d known Aidan. Since he was so much younger than both of them, Landry barely noticed him when they’d met in college and gone home with his friend for the holidays. Then Landry and Aidan had been drafted to the NFL, and eventually, Riley had gone to college too, and there’d been no reason to connect with Aidan’s little brother.

But he did know Riley was undersized for a quarterback.

He’d had great stats in college, but everyone said it was the system, not the player, which had killed his draft stock. Then he’d sat on a practice squad for a year before finally deciding to take the job in the XFL.

Landry knew Aidan wasn’t very happy about it.

“I told him to come live with me in Toronto. There’s lots he could do for me there.”

Yeeaaaah.

Landry could imagine the last thing Riley ever wanted to do was go be a personal assistant to his superstar, hot-shot quarterback brother.

That would sting under normal circumstances, but when Riley wanted to be the star quarterback so badly himself?

Yeeaaaah.

“It’s a good thing you told me to meet you here,” Landry said, taking a long drink of his beer.

“Yeah, why?” Aidan was focused on the field in front of them. He was ninety-nine percent sure his friend was staring at his brother, out on the field, warming up.

Sure, he didn’tseem very big. But he didn’t seem that small either anymore. From what Landry could see, he was filling out his uniform these days.

“Because you are absolute shit at this,” Landry said.

“What?”

“You should be supporting him, not telling him to give up or come be your assistant.”

“He’s gonna get his ass kicked, get injured way too many times, and not be able to walk by the time he’s thirty-five. I am looking out for him. I know the job. It sucks a lot of the time.”

“And a lot of the time, it doesn’t.” Every time Landry had met Riley, he’d seemed to have a pretty damn good head on his shoulders. Of course, the last time they’d met had been…well, more than a few years ago. But surely that hadn’t changed. “He’s smart, he knows what he wants, and he knows the cost.”

“Do we ever really know the cost?” Aidan’s voice was wry.

Landry glanced over at him. That was a surprisingly introspective thing for Aidan to say.

“You okay?”

Aidan took a long drink of his beer. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just, you know…another year, another season.”

No doubt Aidan thought he’d brushed it off enough to fool Landry, but almost nobody had known him as long as Landry had.

Maybe one of his teammates or one of the acquaintances always clustering around Aidan would be fooled. But not Landry.

The game started.

It had been…well, years again…since Landry had watched Riley Flynn play.

From the first time he took the field, it was clear why he was taking this risk in the XFL.

He was incredibly dynamic, making plays happen out of thin air, pulling out great throws, and even making one or two first downs with his legs. He wasn’t fast, necessarily, but he was quick and exceptional at evading defenders trying to bring him down.

The Pittsburgh Defenders went all the way down the field, and Riley threw a beautiful little out pass to the tight end for a touchdown.

When he and Aidan finally sat back down after cheering and screaming their faces off, Aidan looked over at him.

“Don’t you say it, bro,” Aidan said. “Don’t you fucking say it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Landry argued, but he was thinking it.

“I just want what’s best for him,” Aidan said. “And this isn’t it. Football isn’t it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause football’s treated you real bad,” Landry said, a healthy dose of sarcasm in his voice. “Why can’t Riley want a piece of that?”

“The kid doesn’t know what he wants,” Aidan said, and his tone sounded so dismissive. Like Riley actually was a kid.

But as the game continued, and Riley threw two more touchdowns—and one interception, which Landry winced at, and Aidan broke down in way too much detail for at least ten minutes—Landry couldn’t help but think that at least, at the very least, he deserved a shot.

But every time he tried to even gently check Aidan’s doom and gloom routine, he frowned more, so finally Landry gave up. Just enjoyed watching what he believed might be a star on the rise.

“Come on,” Aidan said, rising as the game clock ticked down to zero. “I have a feeling we’ll be welcome on the field. Let’s go find the kid.”

Landry rolled his eyes but naturally still trotted after him. That was twelve years of friendship for you. “I know this is going to come as a real shock but not everyone in the universe thinks you’re God’s gift to football.”

“What? I’m not?” Aidan mocked as they headed down the bleacher stairs towards the edge of the stadium. Unlike NFL stadiums, or even the larger collegiate stadiums, there was access to the field from the seating area. Guarded, of course, by security, but fans were gathered around them, clamoring for autographs and attention from the players.

It was annoying that, just as Aidan had predicted, the crowds parted for them.

Yes, Aidan was super recognizable. He was Aidan freaking Flynn. But it wasn’t like Landry didn’t get his own share of looks as they stopped in front of the security guard.

“Aidan Flynn,” Aidan said, flashing the guard one of those trademarked smiles. “Wondered if we could head down and say hi to my baby bro.”

Landry watched as awe washed over the man’s face.

He would be surprised if he hadn’t been seeing different versions of this for way too fucking long.

The problem was way too many people did, in fact, believe that Aidan was God’s gift to football.

Including Aidan himself.

“Oh yeah, sure, man,” the guard stuttered, standing aside and unlocking the gate, letting them down onto the field.

Landry was a little worried that Aidan’s first words to his brother were going to be either some version of the word kid, or a painfully accurate analysis of that interception he’d thrown in the second quarter, but thankfully, instead of either of those, Aidan must’ve dug down and found the good guy Landry knew was underneath all his bullshit. As Riley approached them, pulling off his helmet, Aidan pulled him into a big, tight hug.

Landry just had a split second between Riley’s helmet coming off and his head disappearing into Aidan’s shoulder to really see him again for the first time in years.

He was tan, and his hair was blonder than Landry expected—so much blonder than Landry could remember it being all those years ago, so much blonder than Aidan’s own hair, at least when he resisted the urge to put in highlights. Riley’s baby blue eyes were startlingly light, especially with all that eye black streaked underneath them. And then there was his face.

God, when had the kid gotten so fucking hot?

Landry was straight, but his two brothers were not, which he liked to tell people made him more enlightened. What it really meant was that he noticed attractive men more than he might normally.

And he was totally fucking noticing how insanely attractive Riley Flynn was.

It shouldn’t have been a shock.

After all, Aidan’s ego was not only a result of his prowess on a football field. Lots of people—probably too many people—thought he was good-looking. But the last time Landry could remember seeing Riley had been on draft night, seven years back, and he’d been what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Still growing into his frame and his face, and holy shit, both of those had happened in spades.

Aidan was all angsty about his viability as a quarterback, but while Riley didn’t have the inches in height, he was built, maybe not as tall as his brother but with shoulders just as wide. And his arms? Big and thick and corded with muscle that told Landry he definitely knew his way around a weight room.

Shit. I’m totally checking out Aidan’s little brother.

But Landry shook off the thought. He was straight. He was straight as the day was long, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t he knowif he wasn’t? Both Logan and Levi were queer, so it wasn’t like he hadn’t considered it a handful of times. But he’d never once had his head turned by a guy like this.

He told himself it was because he just hadn’t seen Riley in so long, and he hadn’t expected him to look like this now.

That was all. It was just the surprise of seeing Riley again after so long.

Riley and Aidan broke apart.

Landry’s palms were sweating a little as he approached.

God, his eyes were even lighter blue up close, with little hints of green, like the most pristine water in the Caribbean. Did people even have eyes like that?

It’s just the eye black making them look lighter and…uh…well, something.

Fucking something, that was what it was.

“Hey, Landry,” Riley said directly, apparently having none of Landry’s problems meeting his eyes. “Been a long time.” He started to hold out his hand, and Landry, who was probably the most recognizable of his brothers, who all played in the NFL, and was therefore used to greeting people even under incredibly awkward circumstances, found himself hesitating.

He should really hug him, too, shouldn’t he?

This was the kid. His best friend’s little brother.

But he was also Riley, who was now twenty-four or twenty-five, and he’d just made Landry question—for a moment that had lasted far longer than he wanted to examine closely—his sexuality.

“Uh, hey,” Landry said. They shook, and Landry pulled him into a weird pseudo-hug.

For a second, he got the impression of a firm, calloused hand and then a much firmer, compact body.

Okay, maybe Riley wasn’t big, but every single inch of him was packed with strength, rippling with muscle.

Not a thought Landry needed in his brain right now.

Really, not ever, but definitelynot with Aidan standing there, currently in the running for the Overprotective Brother of the Year award.

“Looked real good today,” Aidan said.

Riley shot his brother a glare like he’d offered criticism instead of praise. “Thanks. Don’t you dare add a but to that sentence.”

Aidan threw up his hands. “I didn’t!”

“I could see it in your eyes. You have the shittiest poker face in the world. Doesn’t he, Landry?” Casually, Riley slid his gaze right over to where Landry stood, awkward and sweating, trying to pretend that everything was okay.

Totally normal.

No big deal.

The thing was, Aidan’s normal poker face was actually pretty good. But when it came to his brother? Riley wasn’t wrong; it was total shit.

“I…uh…” God, Landry was not normally this tongue-tied. Aidan knew it because he glanced over at him.

“Tell him all the good stuff I said,” Aidan insisted.

Riley pulled his jersey out of his pants, and for a split second, Landry got a flash of chiseled abs, and his mind went white hot supernova. Jesus, it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen hot guys before. He had. He definitely had, and had been informed, at length, about their hotness by his two brothers. He should be totally fucking immune to hotness. Then there were how many sets of abs he’d seen in locker rooms over the years. Way too many to count.

But these abs belonged to Riley Flynn, and apparently, that made all the difference.

“He said lots of good stuff.” Lots of shitty stuff, too, but Landry wasn’t going to tell Riley about that, not when he’d really played well.

Well enough that some NFL team, weak at the quarterback position, might take a chance on his enormous upside if he kept this up.

But keeping it up, that was the trick.

Every quarterback could have one stellar game. It was stringing together one great game after another. It was never letting the criticism get to you. It was forgetting every misstep you’d made the second after you made it and making that throw again, even though the last one you’d made had been intercepted.

“Don’t go into any detail or anything,” Riley teased, shooting Landry a fierce smile that probably decimated anyone in its vicinity on a regular basis.

“That first touchdown, it was really sweet.” On a regular day, Landry could’ve gone into detail about why it was so masterful, how he’d drawn off the safety with a glorious pump fake, and then tossed the ball with exactly the right velocity, even though it was a throw across his body. Or how he’d shrugged off two defenders like they were nothing right before he’d done all that.

It was a combination of skills that would have NFL scouts salivating over him.

But the salivating was short-circuiting his brain.

Guess you’re not the only one, Banks.

“You just liked it because I threw it to Ross, who’s a tight end,” Riley joked.

That was also true.

“You can’t even say anymore that tight ends are underrated,” Aidan said, elbowing him in the side. “Especially not tight ends like you.”

“Hey, in another life, twenty or thirty years ago, they wouldn’t have let me near the ball.”

Landry, hyperaware of Riley in a way he didn’t really want to be and definitely did not feel comfortable with, noticed as Riley’s eyes swept up and down his form. “Six foot five, built like a tank? Yeah, seriously,” he said.

Had Riley just checked him out? Or…

Landry still remembered a few years back when Aidan had called him freaking out because Riley was determined to come out of the closet as bisexual. “Can’t he just keep it to himself? He’s gonna make himself a target, and it’s not like he’s got an easy road ahead of him anyway…” Aidan had said frantically.

To someone else, it might have seemed like maybe Aidan was homophobic, but Landry knew he wasn’t. It had just been a slightly different version of Aidan Flynn, Overprotective Brother of the Century, and Landry had told him to stop worrying. Had reassured him in every way he could. Coming out hadn’t destroyed Sam Crawford’s chances or stopped him from winning not just one Super Bowl but a second, just a few months back. Hadn’t stopped Colin O’Connor or Spencer Evans. Or any of the many queer players on the Piranhas.

Hadn’t stopped either of his two brothers from being at the very top of the game or from being appreciated for their skill and their dedication.

When Riley had come out a few months later, Aidan had been the first one to post on social media in support.

Then, he’d been so proud of both of them. Riley for taking that step, and Aidan for swallowing his concerns and supporting him every step of the way. But now, Landry wished that was something he didn’t know about Aidan’s little brother.

Because yes, absolutely, Riley could’ve been checking him out.

Normally that would just be a thing that happened. But now, it was lighting him up in a way he didn’t understand.

“Hey,” Riley said. “Couple of the guys are going out after the game. You guys want to come with? Grab some dinner and a few drinks?”

Landry nearly rolled his eyes because when was Aidan not up to party?

Basically never.

“Yeah, sure, of course, we’d love to, right, Banks?”

Landry nodded. “Sure. Got nothing else goin’ on.”

Maybe he could even keep Aidan from detailing, a few drinks in, everything Riley had done wrong in the game.

Keeping that satisfied look in Riley’s eyes—the kind of look that said he’d done exactly what he’d set out to do today—shouldn’t have mattered to Landry. But it did. Especially when Aidan, no matter how well he meant, had come here to try to tell him he should pack it in.

But Landry had seen enough. He didn’t agree—not that Aidan would ever listen to him about it.

Riley Flynn had something, and he deserved his shot.

 

Riley wanted to kill his brother.

Not for showing up unexpectedly—Aidan hadn’t told him he was coming to his debut in Pittsburgh, but it hadn’t been difficult to anticipate he might—but for bringing Landry Banks with him.

Of course, Aidan had no idea about the horrible youthful crush he’d had on Landry. Riley would’ve rather died than tell him because Aidan never would’ve stopped teasing him about it. Or, even worse, been nice about it, reminding him every chance he got that Landry was straight, so his whole crush was pointless.

It was still fucking pointless, even if it wasn’t really a crush anymore.

It was…well, Riley thought, glancing over at where Landry stood near the edge of the dance floor, his handsome face thrown into shadow by the flashing lights, just plain appreciation for an incredibly hot guy.

Riley knew he’d grown into his own face, his own body. But he wasn’t like Landry, who was built like Thor and could even be Thor on his very best fucking day because he had shoulder-length blond hair and those penetrating honey-brown eyes to prove it.

He was gorgeous and didn’t even realize it. Or he did, and he just didn’t care.

AKA he had no idea what he’d always done—and apparently still did—to Riley’s insides.

Then there was the way he noticed Riley was standing alone and immediately walked over, no hesitation in his step whatsoever.

He’d always been nice that way. Even back in college, when he’d come home with Aidan once or twice, he’d always made sure to talk to Riley. Even though Riley had been a skinny, awkward thirteen-year-old kid.

Maybe inside, he was still that skinny, awkward kid with the most unfortunate crush in existence.

“Hey,” Landry said, dipping his head low so Riley could hear him over the pulsating thump of the bass. “You shouldn’t be over here frowning. Did Aidan say something to you?”

Great. The last thing he needed was two overprotective brothers.

Because he definitely did not think of Landry Banks as a brother.

“What would Aidan say?” Though he had a pretty good idea of what that might be. No doubt he’d get one of his brother’s infamous emails tomorrow, breaking down the few things he’d done right—and the many things he’d done wrong.

If he wanted to make it in the NFL even a fraction less than he did, he might tell Aidan to go fuck himself and delete the emails unread, but annoyingly, Aidan was actually really good at analyzing play. So he’d swallow his pride and read whatever he sent anyway.

Landry just shook his head, though. “You know your brother,” he said wryly.

Oh, he did.

“Actually,” Landry continued, “I thought you played really well today. Don’t listen to him, whatever he does say.”

“So you’re not going to tell me to quit, too?” Riley asked, grinning. He told himself the flare of interest he kept seeing in Landry’s golden brown gaze was wish fulfillment, but even if that was all it was, what would it hurt to flirt a little?

With two queer brothers, Landry was probably comfortable with most anything.

Besides, with the way he looked, he was probably beating people of every gender off with a stick.

“No, not even close,” Landry said steadily. “You’re good, and you know it. Or else you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Riley batted his eyes at him. He knew they were his best feature, and he wasn’t above using what he had to get what he wanted—that was definitely a Flynn trademark.

“Aw, you think I’m good,” he teased, nudging Landry’s bicep with his shoulder. “I’m touched.”

Landry smiled, and it transformed his face from merely handsome to breathtaking. “You aren’t what I expected,” he said. “I don’t even remember the last time we…”

“You’ve been listening to Aidan too much,” Riley said sagely. “And it was draft night, the night you and Aidan went in the first round.” He remembered that night so well because he’d been filled with undeniable joy for his brother—and also a fiery determination that someday that would be him.

Six years later, he hadn’t been drafted in the first round, like Aidan—or Landry—but he was still going to make his mark. He’d be the quarterback nobody expected, the one they’d written off, who proved them all wrong. The quarterback who proved all their theories and assessments were full of shit.

“God, has it really been that long?” Landry muttered, and then he tilted his bottle against his lips, and Riley absolutely did not feel his pulse stutter at the sight.

“Yeah,” Riley said.

Landry gazed down at him, and Riley just plain gave up on denial. His pulse was definitely racing. Maybe because it felt like Landry—Landry Banks—was finally looking at him like he’d dreamed about for so goddamn long.

Like he was really seeing him.

“I’m trying to figure out if you always looked like this. ‘Cause if you did, I’m sure my brothers would’ve both been driving me crazy trying to get your attention.”

Riley knew Landry had two younger brothers. How much younger? He wasn’t even sure.

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “Just the two of them?”

He knew Landry was straight; why was he playing with fire like this?

Because when Landry was looking at him with that kind of wonder in his eyes, it was difficult to believe it.

Landry didn’t say a word, though. Didn’t even try to deny it. Just stood there and stared at Riley.

Here was the thing: Riley knew he’d kicked ass today. He’d come to Pittsburgh to the XFL, hoping he might change some minds, and he’d started that process in a huge way. He’d need to follow through, but the truth was, he was flying high.

Feeling a little reckless, even.

So he leaned in a bit further, gazing up at Landry.

There’d been a hookup in college who’d told him once his eyes were devastating. He pulled on their full power now, barely refraining from fluttering his eyelashes. He could feel the heat of Landry right through his jeans as he shifted even closer and their thighs brushed together. God, this was like a combo of pretty much every gay porn he’d ever seen andall his teenage fantasies rolled into one crazy hot moment he didn’t know how to resist.

“I swear,” Landry said, his voice low and rough, “you didn’t…you weren’t…”

Riley felt him tremble.

Landry freaking Banks. Trembling.

“Probably not,” Riley admitted. Though the truth was, he hadn’t looked anything like this a few years back, the last time they’d seen each other.

He’d still had the same eyes, of course, and blond hair, but he’d been so scrawny. Hadn’t grown into himself or his confidence yet.

For an incredibly breathless second, they just looked at each other. Riley knew this wasn’t going to end in a kiss, but damnit, if Landry didn’t look like he might be considering it.

If he’d heard even a hint—even a solitary fucking rumor—that Landry wasn’t straight as an arrow, he’d have taken the shot.

But at the same time, he couldn’t quite look away because Landry was clearly just as into whatever this was.

“There you two are.”

Aidan’s voice was a bucketful of cold water on every single one of Riley’s hopes.

Goddamnit, couldn’t his brother have seen what was happening and stayed the fuck away? Given Landry even a moment longer to consider what he might want? Because Riley believed—or hoped—that if he’d had long enough, Landry might have decided the answer was him.

“Yeah.” Landry’s voice was gravelly. Rough. Took the bottle of beer from Aidan with a grateful smile.

“And your drink, your highness,” Aidan said, setting Riley’s drink down on the table next to him with a flourish. “Maybe next year you could stop drinking like my grandmother.”

“What is it?” Landry asked, and instead of waiting for Riley to answer, without an ounce of shame—because his drink of choice was delicious, okay?—he reached across Riley’s body, practically pinning him against the half-wall that surrounded the dance floor, and Riley wasn’t a saint.

He enjoyed every second of feeling Landry pressed up against him.

Almost missed Landry licking his lips. After taking a sip of his drink.

God, he was going to remember this night forever.

He was going to jerk off to fantasies of this night forever.

“Is that…cream soda?” Landry looked puzzled.

“Captain Morgan and ginger ale, like the good grandma Riley is,” Aidan teased.

Landry frowned. “My grandma doesn’t drink rum. She drinks like…gin and tonics and Bailey’s in her coffee. Besides, it’s good. It’s like…vanilla.” Even though they’d moved apart and were now standing at a respectable distance since Aidan’s arrival, there was an undeniable spark now when Landry gazed down at Riley.

Like he wondered if he’d taste like vanilla, too.

“I’ll take it, ‘cause at least you aren’t calling me the kid,” Riley said, rolling his eyes.

Truthfully, if Aidan didn’t give him shit, he’d wonder what was wrong with him.

His teasing was, of course, completely ridiculous, borderline insulting, proved he couldn’t identify a single emotion even if his career was on the line, and also, somehow, the way he showed Riley just how much he loved him.

That was his brother for you: a whole shit ton of contradictions.

“So,” Aidan said, “you given any more thought to coming to Toronto?”

Riley was still deciding if he was going to finally tell his brother to fuck off when, to his surprise, Landry answered for him.

“No,” he said. “He hasn’t. And he won’t.”

Riley raised an eyebrow. “I won’t?”

Landry met his gaze straight on, and something in the bottom of Riley’s stomach burned. “You won’t. You’re doing this. And doin’ a damn good job of it, too.”

“If he’s not a kid, then he doesn’t need you to defend him,” Aidan grumbled under his breath.

Riley knew it was going to take more than one good game to change his brother’s mind. In fact, it would sting, but he wouldn’t mind if Aidan never changed his mind about following in his footsteps.

As long as one NFL team did.

Riley knew what the prize was, and he just had to keep himself focused on that.

“Okay, I gotta go make the rounds, talk to the guys,” Riley said. After all, part of being QB1 was being the leader. He downed the rest of his drink, set it on the table, then, because he couldn’t help himself, he turned to Landry.

This time he didn’t hesitate, didn’t hold back—just went for it. Pressed his whole body against Landry’s as he hugged him. “Good defense is always appreciated,” he said under his breath so Aidan wouldn’t hear.

For a moment, he let himself linger. Landry wasn’t exactly pushing him away, either. But then he broke off and left because, if he stayed, he was going to do something he’d almost definitely regret later.

Something he’d really enjoy, that was for damn sure, but he’d come this far without discovering just how flexible Landry Banks’ sexuality was. He’d live without it.

What he couldn’t live without was the success under the floodlights of an NFL stadium. The success he’d craved for so damn long and up 'til now had been denied.

But, Riley thought as he walked away, he had a feeling everything was about to change.

The Game #2

Prologue

The flashbulbs going off again and again were nearly blinding as Micah faced the cluster of photographers.

“Get closer, and let’s take one more picture of you two,” someone insisted.

Micah glanced over at Beck, who’d just been hugging his agent, celebrating that he’d been taken in the first round in the NFL draft.

Micah had been taken a few picks before, the Miami Piranhas hat sitting on his head making everything more real than it had been only an hour before, when his future had been totally up in the air.

It wasn’t anymore. Now it was set in stone. He was going to play football for the Piranhas and Miami would be his new home. He’d never have to worry about money ever again.

He’d just have to worry about everything else.

“Yeah, one more picture?” Beck said, turning back to him with a bright, infectious grin. He was wearing his own Charleston Condors hat tilted to the side, his curly brown hair peeking out from underneath it.

Tonight was supposed to be all about beginnings, but Micah was surprisingly stuck on the one thing that was ending: his partnership with Beck.

Beck slung his arm around Micah and tugged him close, with zero hesitation, the way Beck had never once hesitated to touch him.

It was like the prickles that had started out as a mere annoyance, then turned into daggers, insistently digging into him, reminding Micah of all the things he still refused to acknowledge, didn’t bother Beck at all.

Maybe they didn’t.

Maybe touching him wasn’t like when he touched Beck and it was heaven and hell combined into one bitterly sweet moment.

Beck’s arm, thick with muscle, tightened. “You alright?” he asked under his breath, after the photographer had gotten his shots, but Beck still didn’t let him go.

Micah shrugged, not sure if he was okay or not.

Maybe in time these burning feelings—all the yearnings he didn’t want to have—would pass. He wouldn’t see Beck every day anymore.

Beck wouldn’t be a stranger, because he wasn’t designed like that. He was quiet and easygoing, the foil to Micah’s high intensity. He was someone Micah could always go to, no matter what, and he could trust him to be exactly what he needed, even though he never said it. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not ever again.

“It’s gonna be weird,” Beck said. “Not seeing you all the time.”

Micah knew, and suddenly, he wasn’t prepared for it.

Nothing about the draft had felt real until the Piranhas had called his name and then half an hour later Roger Goodell had announced Beck’s.

“But don’t worry,” Beck continued, “you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Beck released him then, and for a second, all Micah wanted was to get lost in that prickly, uncomfortable, stomach-swooping feeling again.

He reached up and tugged Beck’s hat, trying to fix it, but finally giving it up as a lost cause. “We should go out after this.”

“Don’t you have to fly to Miami first thing in the morning?” Like Beck wasn’t headed to Charleston equally as early. Rookie camps wouldn’t be starting for a month or two but before that, teams always liked to bring in their new players to visit, to talk to the media, and to get the lay of the land.

“Yeah, but still.” Micah shrugged awkwardly. “We’re in New York. We can find a bar, get a few drinks, celebrate . . .well, celebrate. One last night.”

The funny thing was he’d anticipated feeling so differently in this moment. After all those years of hellish hard work, expectations, and unbelievable pressure, he should be elated. Joyous. Full of relief.

But all he felt was regret, and it tasted bitter at the back of his throat.

Beck tucked his head in close.

“Yeah, we can do that,” Beck said. He glanced behind him, where a whole table of his family was sitting. His family was huge and diverse. Micah’s table had only contained his mother and his uncle. Beck had probably needed two tables. “But I gotta deal with the fam first, okay?”

Beck was so much more than the sum of his parts. Hazel eyes. Dark brown hair, which he never cut properly, and too many days of scruff on his chin, still. He wasn’t even close to the most handsome guy on the planet. In fact, he was just like every other fit white guy, and yet he was the one Micah couldn’t help but look at twice.

He’d stopped asking himself why that was, and started asking when it would finally end.

Maybe this was the end.

Maybe that was what they were actually celebrating: the final death of the most unfortunate crush in existence.

A crush so persistent and insidious and inappropriate, it had snuck up on him slowly, when he wasn’t paying attention. He’d been half in his feelings before he’d even realized what was happening.

This was Beck. He was his goddamned best friend. And even though Beck had confessed a few years back that he was gay, he’d never given a single hint he was into Micah.

They’d been friends, only.

Up until now, Micah would’ve said that was a great thing, the best thing, but now, he felt torn apart by the possibility that there were no more possibilities. It was only six hundred miles between Charleston and Miami—he’d looked, the first second he could, which was an extra level of ridiculous, even for him—and yet it felt like a million.

“Yeah, sure, take care of whatever you need. Text me when you’re free.” He would go over and see his mother. Make sure she got back to her hotel alright. Avoid talking to his uncle if he could.

He hadn’t wanted Josiah to come tonight, but his mother had insisted, claiming that his uncle wanted to support Micah.

But he knew, better than anyone else, including his mother, what Josiah really wanted was for Micah to support him.

Hell was gonna freeze over before thatever happened.

“You’re staying at the Hilton, right?” Beck asked, putting a hand on his arm.

“Yeah,” Micah said with a sharp nod.

“Good,” Beck said. “Same as me.”

Was it just Micah and all this sudden inexplicable regret, or was Beck touching him more now than he’d ever done? Beck was normally a pretty touchy-feely guy. Always reassuring, always with a friendly smile, a nice pat on the back, anything to make Micah feel like he was part of something.

Not just part of the team they’d played on for Northwestern, but a team of the two of them. It was why they’d been nicknamed the Wall. They were so much bigger than the sum of their parts.

It was the Wall against the world.

But tonight, it felt like Beck was touching him whenever he could, like he had Micah’s same reluctance to let go.

Like he didn’t want to let him go.

“Well, I’ll see you soon, then,” Beck said and then turned away, heading back to where his family sat in the green room.

Micah posed for three more pictures and signed two Piranhas hats before he made it over to where Sheila, his mother, sat with Josiah.

She was holding herself stiffly upright, like she was nervous, which she didn’t have to be anymore. He’d taken care of it. Tomorrow she wouldn’t have bills. Tomorrow she wouldn’t have a house payment.

He’d be the one to handle that for her now, the same way she’d handled everything for him when he’d been growing up, not letting him worry or stress about where their rent was coming from, or if there’d be a meal on the table when he got home from practice. She’d refused to let him shoulder that burden, and now he would finally be able to repay her.

“Oh, good, there you are,” Josiah said. “Your momma’s tired. She needs to get back to the hotel. It’s been a long night.”

“No, no, no need. We can stay and celebrate a little longer.” Sheila tilted her chin up, in defiance of Josiah’s edict. Sometimes Micah thought she didn’t even like him, her own brother, and yet he not only continued to be invited to things, she often did the inviting herself.

Like tonight.

“Actually, I’ve got plans, so we can go whenever you want,” Micah said awkwardly.

“With who?” Sheila asked as she gathered her purse together, and Micah reached over to give her a hand to help her stand in her heels.

“Beck,” Micah said, refusing to hesitate when he spoke his friend’s name.

Sheila loved Beck.

But not surprisingly Josiah had never warmed up to him.

Probably because the first time they’d met, Beck had casually mentioned seeing a guy, romantically.

That was all it took for Josiah Rose.

It wasn’t like Micah agreed with him. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Especially when it came to someone who was not only a great friend, but a fucking amazing football player.

“Ah,” Josiah said knowingly. “That guy.”

“That guy got me to the NFL,” Micah argued, even though he’d told himself that he wouldn’t argue. That it wasn’t worth it.

Josiah didn’t say anything back.

He didn’t need to. Micah knew the score with him.

“Come on,” Sheila said soothingly, playing the peacemaker like she always did. “Let’s head back to the hotel.”

As they walked out the exit, Micah couldn’t help the rogue thought.

She should be standing up for Beck, too. She knows what a good guy he is. How much he’s helped me.

But she didn’t, because these were their parts.

Josiah would pick on Micah, fucking pick him apart, and then Micah would blow up and then Sheila would soothe.

It was all they knew how to do, apparently.

One thing Micah wouldn’t miss when he was in Miami was this dynamic.

This wasn’t a thought he allowed himself to have very often, but every once in awhile he wondered what his life would’ve been like if his father hadn’t died young, in a bad car accident on a wet road, leaving his mother to raise him on her own. Sheila had ended up leaning on her brother, because that was the family she had. And the only family Micah had inherited.

He would blame her a lot more for letting Josiah hang around, if he didn’t know how tough her life had been as a young widow with a three-year-old kid to raise.

He finally got his mother and Josiah settled into the hotel, told her that if she needed anything, she could call the front desk. When Josiah had asked him where he and Beck were going, he’d ignored him.

His mood already questionable enough, he didn’t need Josiah making it worse.

Or assuming Beck was somehow going to corrupt him by taking him to a gay bar—even if Micah secretly, deep down, probably in a place not even Beck suspected, wanted to know what that might be like.

When he finally left his mom’s room, he headed to his own, changing out of the sharp purple pinstripe suit he’d worn for the Draft ceremony and throwing on a T-shirt and jeans. Then he grabbed his phone, texting Beck that he’d be downstairs in the hotel bar.

He was nursing a few fingers of whiskey when Beck slid onto the barstool next to him.

“You should be way too happy to look this glum,” Beck said, elbowing him, as he motioned to the bartender to bring him a beer. “You’re literally angsting into that glass.”

“I am not,” Micah retorted. Except he had been.

He’d been sitting here thinking that this might be the last time in a long time he and Beck would meet up like this, even though they’d done it on the regular for the last four years.

And he’d been thinking, God, that fucking sucks.

“I told you,” Beck said confidently, “you’re not getting rid of me that easily. After all, what is it, only six hundred or so miles from Charleston to Miami?”

Micah stared at his friend. Surprised that Beck had looked too.

“What?” Beck laughed a little self-consciously.

“You looked too,” Micah said reflexively. Couldn’t help himself.

“Well, yeah, you think I don’t give a shit about you?” Beck asked, the question clearly rhetorical. He slung an arm around Micah, loose and happy and easy in a way Micah couldn’t help but envy.

That he’d always envied.

But then, Beck didn’t have any reason not to be loose and happy and easy.

He had a huge family who adored him, who’d never even blinked when he’d come out to them, who owned a huge rambling house on the outskirts of Chicago, in one of the more affluent suburbs, and their future wasn’t resting exclusively on Beck’s prospects in the NFL.

He could afford to fuck up. He could afford to do whatever the hell he wanted.

And yet, Micah had loved him anyway, when with anyone else, he’d have been bitter and resentful as hell.

“It’s just gonna be . . .weird,” Micah said. Awful. Terrible. I’m gonna be all alone, nobody to trust, to lean on, the way I do with you. And after you, I don’t know how to be alone anymore.

“Hey, you even have the best freaking corner in the world to teach you,” Beck said brightly. “You’re gonna learn so fucking much from Sebastian Howard.”

Or Sebastian Howard would take one look at him and see right through his act.

“Yeah. Well. Gonna be interesting.”

“Not as interesting as me existing in the same space as Tom fucking Taylor,” Beck retorted, sounding, for the first time all evening, not completely thrilled he’d been drafted in the first round.

“You make sure to hand his ass to him on the regular, okay? I know you can do it.” Like Beck, Micah wasn’t a fan of anyone who decided women were a convenient punching bag.

“Sure,” Beck said with a bittersweet smile. He knocked back the rest of his beer. “You have anywhere in particular you wanna go?”

Micah shook his head. New York was overwhelming, in a good way mostly, but also just plain staggering. And he’d lived in Chicago for four years.

“There’s this bar a friend recommended,” Beck said. He pulled out his phone and typed the name in.

“A friend?” Micah couldn’t help the question.

Beck did date. Not much. But frequently enough Micah occasionally heard about his partners.

Had to quell the insistent surge of jealousy that rolled through him every single time, even though Beck never seemed to be serious about any of them.

“Okay, you caught me. It was a guy I hooked up with a few months back.” Beck shot him a look. “Are you really okay? You seem . . .off.”

He was fucking freaking out, that was what he was doing.

Micah had known, of course, that this was all ending. His college life. The Wall. The super-close friendship with Beck. But none of it had seemed real, not until his name had been called and then Beck’s.

And now he couldn’t shake just how fucking real it felt.

“I’m just gonna . . .” Micah swallowed hard, then tipped the rest of the glass into his mouth, letting the burn of the alcohol give him more courage to admit the truth than he might’ve before. “Just gonna miss you, that’s all.”

Beck glowed. He shouldn’t look this goddamn happy they were being forcibly separated, Micah thought morosely, but then Beck teased, “Awwww, you love me, Rose. I knew it!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Micah retorted. “Come on, find that bar. I wanna get drunk.”

He wanted to remember every moment, every single time Beck looked at him, every glance he returned, and he didn’t want to remember any of them, at the exact same goddamn time.

It would be easier, maybe, with booze dulling the thoughts that wouldn’t quit.

“Alright, I got it,” Beck said.

Micah shoved a few twenties under a paper coaster, and they slid off their barstools. He couldn’t remember the last time his wallet had been this full. The last time he hadn’t had a budget for a night out. The idea was intoxicating.

They could go out and do anything.

Anything.

Outside the hotel, the valet attendant waved a cab down and they slid in, Beck giving the address.

Beck, who was annoyingly a few inches taller, stretched out his legs in the back seat, his thigh brushing Micah’s, and normally, he might’ve moved away.

But how many more times would they touch like this?

Before tonight, the number had felt infinite.

Now it felt like it had a beginning, and also a very concrete end.

He shifted, letting his leg rest a bit more purposefully against Beck’s as the cab pulled out into traffic.

Beck didn’t move, just looked over at him, a quiet, assessing look in his light eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

“How far is it?” Micah asked awkwardly into the silence that had fallen between them.

“Not sure, but it comes highly recommended, at least,” Beck said wryly.

The want that lived inside him, that rose and fell with unsurprising regularity, spiked and then didn’t relent, just with the feel of Beck’s muscular leg against his own.

Casually, Beck set his hand on his knee, the back of it brushing Micah’s. It could’ve been inadvertent, but then he didn’t move it.

It turned out the drive wasn’t far. But the whole ten minutes was chaotic, the cab moving in starts and stops, the horn blaring out more than once. When they finally came to a stop in front of a low brick building on a side street, Micah’s heartbeat hadn’t slowed one bit.

He told himself as they climbed out that crazy New York drivers were the reason why, but he knew deep down that it wasn’t true.

Was it possible that Beck . . .?

No way, Micah insisted to himself.

But it was undeniable Beck was standing closer to him, his hand a ghost touch on the small of Micah’s back as they approached the door.

Glancing up at one of the small dingy windows, Micah stopped in his tracks, Beck so close to him that he nearly plowed into him, the impact of his big, broad body tempered by his soft, gentle touch.

Beck saw immediately what he’d noticed.

A big rainbow flag spread across the window.

Every muscle in Beck’s body stiffened, like he was bracing for something.

For Micah to tell him no fucking way would he go in there?

For Micah to say something derogatory even though he never had before?

Maybe . . .Micah wondered . . .Beck was waiting for him to tell the truth.

That he’d always wanted to go to a gay bar, but he’d never found the courage to do it before.

“If you don’t . . .” Beck trailed off. Like he didn’t want to actually vocalize the thought—or the question.

But this was Beck.

Surely he had to know Micah wouldn’t.

Maybe he’s guessed about you, too.

It was weird because at any point before this, Micah would’ve shied away from the truth in Beck’s touch. Even as he strained toward it.

But not tonight.

“No,” Micah said, surprising even himself with the vehemence in his tone. “No, let’s go. I’ve always wanted . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It would’ve left him naked. Exposed.

Beck was suddenly next to him, a wealth of reassurance in the brush of his hand against Micah’s waist. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Beck was the one who pushed open the door, the heavy bass thundering through the club echoing the fierce thumping of Micah’s heartbeat.

They paid the cover, the bouncer checking their IDs, and then they ventured farther into the smoky darkness.

The bar was lit up with neon pink and purple lights around the edges, beckoning like a beacon, and Micah led them there, because liquid courage was going to be necessary.

“Whiskey,” he demanded the moment the young, cute bartender with the trendy haircut, blond hair streaked with blue, appeared in front of them. “Shots. And keep them coming.”

Beck raised his eyebrow, but he didn’t say a word as the guy poured two shots and left the bottle within easy reach.

Maybe he was used to seeing guys trying to pretend they belonged by ingesting tons and tons of booze.

Micah had never wanted to believe he was a cliche, but it seemed he was, anyway.

He picked up the first shot and tossed it back, the liquor burning his throat as he swallowed.

Beck licked the edge of his shot glass first, pink tongue darting out, and Micah knew he was staring.

Knew, maybe for the first time, that it didn’t matter if he was.

“That’s shitty,” Beck said, laughing a little as he swallowed his liquor.

“More,” Micah said, raising his voice to the bartender.

The blue-haired guy eyed them, but he poured the shots anyway.

They took two more rounds, and by then Beck was leaning against the bar, looking loose and happy.

“I’m worried about you,” he said, after they took the third round. “I wasn’t. But now . . .”

“Now what?” Micah retorted. He knew Beck never would’ve tried to talk to him like this, not if they were sober.

They both pretended like Micah had his shit together.

“You should be happier. You just got everything you wanted.”

Oh, if only that was true.

The funny thing was that Micah had believed—or rather, he’d wanted so goddamn hard to believe—that he’d done it. That having his name called during the first round of the NFL draft was the peak achievement he’d been looking for this whole time.

But hearing it had proven that wasn’t true.

He still felt empty.

Still felt like nobody really saw him.

Except, of course, the man who was looking at him now.

Beck had always seen him. Maybe even a little too clearly.

“Not everything,” Micah muttered.

“I know,” Beck said, and his hip nudged Micah’s. “We knew it couldn’t happen. Just like we wouldn’t win the Heisman.”

“We got there, though,” Micah said, like he was trying to remind both of them.

“And we got this, too.” Beck hesitated. “I told you, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, Rose.”

“You keep sayin’ that, and I don’t even know what it means,” Micah griped. Though he wanted to believe he did.

That it meant no matter where they were, what they were doing, what team they were playing for, they were ride-or-die for each other. That they’d always have each other’s backs.

But it would be different, not having Beck on the field next to him. Would be different not seeing his calm smile in the locker room before practice.

Beck motioned for the bartender to pour another round. Yep, they were in this now.

Maybe what they needed was half a dozen shots each to be really honest about this.

About this desire crawling under his skin that he’d never been able to banish entirely.

“You do know,” Beck said matter-of-factly, “you’re my best friend. That isn’t going to change.”

But what if I want it to change?

It was insane, to even think it.

Six hundred miles.

That was the first and last reason it was insane and then there were a ton of other reasons in between.

Micah nursed his next shot, sipping it. Feeling Beck’s eyes on him.

For once not flinching away from the warmth in his gaze.

The way it was tracing the edges of him.

Beck didn’t do it very often. In fact, Micah couldn’t remember the last time. He’d believed, because it had been easier and a hell of a lot more convenient, that it didn’t mean what he knew it did.

“You need to get your hair cut more often, and by someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing,” Micah said instead, reaching up and brushing one of Beck’s curls aside. He had great hair. Micah wanted to bury his hands in it as he leaned in and . . .

You’re not gonna think about that. You’re not gonna go there.

“Motivation to see me more often,” Beck said with a grin. “You can drag me to some barber who charges more than a cup of coffee.”

He turned away and picked up his shot and downed it in one swallow, throat working, and Micah stared, mesmerized even though he didn’t want to be.

A guy approached Beck’s side of the bar and the way Beck tilted his head down to hear him, a frisson of something raced up Micah’s spine.

It wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be.

But this was their night.

He couldn’t go as far as to say Beck was his, because he knew that wasn’t true, but tonight, just for the space of a night, he wanted to pretend they weren’t going their separate ways in the morning.

“Sorry,” Beck said, raising his voice a little. Like he wanted Micah to know he’d turned the guy down.

The guy, who was undeniably cute, shrugged, and went off to look for easier prey.

Beck shifted his weight back, and the look in his eyes was suddenly too clear, too blunt.

Micah wasn’t proud of it, but he panicked.

What are you doing?

He didn’t fucking know.

“You could’ve—”

Beck stared at him in disbelief. “You wanted me to go with him,” he interrupted before Micah could even finish his sentence.

“No. No.” He could say that much.

“Then what do you want?” Beck asked, like this wasn’t the most loaded question in fucking history.

Like Micah could actually vocalize what it was he did want.

“I want things to not change. I want everything to stay how it is, now. I want to be here, with you. I want you to not leave tomorrow. I want to stay, too. I want . . .” Micah’s voice cracked.

God, he must be drunk.

He was definitely getting there, but he couldn’t say he didn’t know what he was saying.

His filter, totally demolished by the alcohol and the desperation swelling inside him at the thought of flying to Miami while Beck flew to Charleston, told the truth for him.

Beck didn’t say anything for a long minute. “You never told me,” he said softly.

There was a part of Micah that wanted to cry. Another to yell at him that he couldn’t, wasn’t he smart enough to know that?

But he didn’t do either.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he said bitterly.

“It could’ve,” Beck insisted. “God, come ’ere, I thought maybe, but I wasn’t sure. You never said.” Then suddenly he was being pulled into Beck’s big, strong body, and Beck was hugging him for all he was worth.

It wasn’t the same as Beck telling him that he felt the same, but it was good enough.

For one endless moment, he hung onto Beck’s bigger frame, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against his own.

Feeling his love and his acceptance. Even if it was platonic, it was going to have to be enough.

It would be enough.

It was Beck who moved away first. Micah didn’t know if he could’ve.

“Come on,” Beck said, reaching out and touching his arm, like he didn’t really want to let go. “You wanna dance?”

“You don’t dance,” Micah teased. It turned out just by telling Beck, the burden of his secret felt lighter.

“Yeah, but I don’t know, the music’s pretty good. Even I probably can’t mess that up.”

“I’m not sure,” Micah drew out the last syllable. “Maybe I don’t want any of these guys to know I’m slumming it.”

Beck elbowed him in the side, but he was smiling. “Maybe,” he said, leaning in a fraction, his breath brushing Micah’s cheek, “I don’t care. Maybe I only care about you. And I think you care about me.”

Trust Beck to cut right to the quick, right to the truth, deep down where it burned inside Micah.

Micah didn’t answer. He just took his last shot and then, before he could overthink it, reached for Beck’s hand.

It was warm and big and callused and felt so goddamn right, Micah found himself squeezing it. Felt Beck squeeze right back as they wandered over to where a few dozen guys and girls were moving under the pulsating lights.

Beck couldn’t dance. He sort of flailed around without a single fucking shred of rhythm, and it was probably good Micah had had a few drinks by this point because he could only smile and then laugh out loud as Beck wiggled his hips and then his eyebrows suggestively.

On the other hand, Micah knew he could dance, but while he’d done it plenty of times over the years in front of Beck—at parties, in bars, after practice in the locker room, in the end zone a handful of times after he’d picked off an opposing player—it had never felt like this before.

Beck’s gaze never left Micah’s body as he twisted and turned it, grooving along to the intense beat of the music.

They had a few feet in between them, but as one song segued into the next, Micah found himself drifting closer, like they were magnets and it was impossible for them to stay apart any longer.

Maybe it wasn’t actually his last chance, but it felt like it. The last possible moment, frozen in time, before everything changed for good.

He reached out, and his hand, oh so casually, brushed Beck’s hip.

Micah felt rather than heard Beck’s sharp intake of breath.

His pulse was beating unevenly, echoing in his head, and then he took a step closer.

“Like this,” Micah said, raising his voice so Beck would hear him over the music. It was a completely transparent reason to touch him, to set his hands on Beck’s waist, and pull him in closer, showing him the rhythm, but Beck came easily. Tilting his head like he was wondering how far Micah was prepared to take this.

The problem was Micah didn’t know how far that was.

He only knew he wanted more, and Beck was willingly giving it to him.

“Yeah?” Beck’s voice cracked.

There was no denying it now. He felt lit up inside, more aroused touching Beck’s toned waist over his cotton T-shirt than he’d ever been with a woman, when she was completely naked.

He’d never gone even this far before because of the fear it would prove something he hadn’t wanted to know about himself, but there was no denying it now as Beck moved into the circle of his arms.

Then Beck turned and he was so close, that even in the dim light, Micah could pick out the hundred different colors in his eyes.

Could practically feel how soft his scruff might be against his hand. Against his cheek. Against his mouth.

You only feel this free cause you’re drunk.

That was true and yet it didn’t matter.

Beck took a deep breath and put a hand on Micah’s shoulder. Was he going to kiss him, finally?

Oh, God.

Panic surged through Micah that Beck would do it—and that he wouldn’t, at all.

How could he want both things, so desperately, so entirely?

But Beck came so far and didn’t move any closer.

Was he waiting for Micah?

Panic roared through him, and even though he’d had too much whiskey, it wasn’t enough.

“I’m thirsty,” he announced instead.

He wasn’t, not really.

They certainly didn’t need more booze, and yet Micah still grabbed Beck and led him back to the bar.

But right before they got there, the sight in front of him stopped Micah in his tracks.

A very young, very fit guy hopped up on the bar and then pulled his T-shirt off to a cacophony of cheers, caging the other, bigger, guy between his legs as he pulled him in for what looked to Micah’s eyes to be a completely filthy kiss.

You will not squirm. You will not think about what you want.

Or that what you want, more than anything, is . . .

“You okay?” It was Beck, leaning down, his lips practically brushing the shell of Micah’s ear.

Was he okay?

He was not okay.

But he couldn’t look away either. His eyes were practically glued to the pair in front of them, the heat of Beck at his back unmistakable.

They finally stopped kissing, and for a second, Micah thought he could breathe again.

But it was too soon.

Beck’s hand, impossibly hotter than the rest of him, settled at his waist. He tugged him back, and oh God, he was just as aroused as Micah was. He could feel it, Beck’s cock, pressed into him.

He’d thought he knew exactly what he craved, but he was wrong.

“Watch,” Beck said, voice rough and low, and that was his mouth at Micah’s ear again. “Just watch.”

Micah’s mouth went dry.

The younger guy on the bar had grabbed a saltshaker and was leaning back, sprinkling a stripe of it right down his abs.

Then the taller guy leaned in, and he was licking right up the salt, tongue lingering on the rippled golden skin.

Micah panted.

He didn’t know what that felt like, what that tasted like. But he couldn’t deny anymore that he needed it.

The guy took the shot of tequila with a dramatic flourish and then leaned in, plucking the lime from the other man’s mouth, turning around to cheers.

“Hot, wasn’t it?” Beck’s voice rumbled against his neck.

Micah felt it deep down.

He couldn’t do anything else but nod helplessly, arousal and all the booze they’d drunk burning right through any hesitation and any regret he’d ever felt.

Later, he wouldn’t be able to say why he’d spoken up.

It was like the voice wasn’t even his, like it came from someone else he’d buried in a bottomless pit, so far down he’d never really expected to see the light of day.

“We should do that,” he said.

Beck froze behind him, his fingers tightening on his waist.

“Seriously?” Beck sounded incredulous.

And okay, it was crazy. It was totally, impossibly nuts.

Yet, Micah turned and nodded emphatically. Suddenly, it was absolutely fucking imperative they do this right now.

Right now.

He pushed through the crowd, lifting himself onto the bar in a single, hopefully graceful, movement before he could change his mind.

Beck was right there, his olive-toned skin flushed with heat and something else entirely different. Micah had never seen him look like that before.

Like he could devour him.

Beck’s hand moved to his thigh, then higher, tugging up his T-shirt, and Micah let him, the catcalling of the guys surrounding them fading into the background as Micah practically knelt at the altar of his body.

The saltshaker was cold in his hand, and his fingers shook as he sprinkled the salt onto his skin, right above the waistband of his jeans.

Beck’s eyes didn’t darken, they fucking glowed, as Micah set the lime wedge between his teeth.

He leaned in and Micah hissed as Beck’s lips touched his skin.

They were soft and warm, and probably everyone in this entire bar could see the hard line of Micah’s cock in his jeans, could know much having Beck between his legs, Beck’s mouth on his skin, turned him on.

Beck didn’t linger though. He lifted his head and then took the shot, lifting himself up to take the lime wedge from Micah’s mouth.

For a split second, he could almost imagine if the sour fruit wasn’t between them, if it was just his lips and Beck’s, pressing together, sweetly—even innocently—at first.

But it wouldn’t stay sweet or innocent for long.

Hiding it forever meant that when he gave it freedom now, the desire tore at him with an insistence that scared the fuck out of him.

Beck’s eyes fluttered open, so close to his own.

His hand found Micah’s and squeezed, then helped him down from the bar.

“Well,” Beck said, after he’d discarded the lime wedge in his empty shot glass.

“Well, what?” Micah demanded to know, even though he was pretty sure what Beck was saying—or not saying.

“You think you know a guy,” Beck teased now. “But no, it was fun. It was—” Beck stopped right in the middle of his sentence.

He was staring right at Micah’s mouth.

Like he was thinking about it too.

Micah got it.

He couldn’t think about anything else either.

You can’t kiss. If you do, you’re never gonna be able to take it back. Not ever.

Then, even worse: you won’t even want to, not anymore.

“Let’s go dance,” Micah blurted out.

“Oh, singing a different tune now, are we?” Beck questioned.

“Yes,” Micah said, reaching around Beck and grabbing the shot the bartender had poured for him, downing it without the salt or the lime or any of the performative aspects. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could stop worrying about what tomorrow would bring.

The dance floor was more crowded than it had been before, though Micah hadn’t needed the excuse to get close—closer—to Beck.

Beck was still flailing around but it didn’t matter. Micah just grabbed his shoulders and went along for the ride.

Looking into his eyes, into the free and easy smile, Beck thought he saw a different Micah.

A Micah he wanted so badly to be real.

 

Beck was riding the very fine line between perfectly drunk and too drunk.

It wasn’t just the booze he’d drunk, but seeing Micah in this new light.

Seeing how he could be, if he laid down all those burdens he insisted on carrying around with him.

He’d always wondered if Micah was bi-curious, but the more he’d seen him tonight, the way he’d grabbed and embraced this part of him Beck had only vaguely suspected existed, it was becoming clear it wasn’t just bi-curiosity.

Micah had buried himself so far in the closet, it was like the closet didn’t even exist.

But it did, and he was banging on the door now.

Or, maybe a better way to phrase it was, he was banging on Beck.

Beck shouldn’t have liked it. He hadn’t even dreamed he’d felt this way about Micah before. Hadn’t let himself even think about it. But now that the idea and all the liquor he’d drunk had taken over his brain—more like taken over his dick—he couldn’t stop.

He’d always loved Micah.

Maybe he loved lovedMicah.

He certainly fucking loved the way Micah was moving his hips now, head thrown back, his handsome face thrown into light and shadow from the neon pulses scattered across the dance floor.

It felt like they’d been dancing forever, and he was hot, almost unbearably, so he pulled his T-shirt off, tucking the tail of it into the waistband of his jeans, and he couldn’t miss the way Micah’s eyes darkened at the sight.

The way he lifted his palms to press against Beck’s pecs.

Beck swore that they’d been naked around each other a hundred, a thousand, times before, and it had never felt like this, like a live wire was running right under his skin, and Micah wanted nothing more than to grab it with his bare hands.

Would he do it?

Would Beck let him?

It would be a memorable end to a memorable night, for sure. But something kept holding Beck back from making a move.

If Micah had been any other guy in this club, he’d have done it, no question.

But this was Micah. This was his best friend.

Beck couldn’t help but think this might be more than sex. More than any other hookup he’d ever enjoyed.

But it could also be just that. Just sex. Something Micah wanted that he’d denied himself for a very long time.

Even as Beck thought it, even as the thought skittered across his fragmented, drunk brain, he knew it couldn’t be that, could it?

“I need some air,” Micah announced suddenly, and Beck was helpless not to follow him wherever he led, so he trailed behind him as they crossed the crowded bar towards the exit.

The air was cool outside as they leaned against the brick of the building.

Sweat dried on Beck’s skin and he shivered.

“How late is it?” he asked when Micah didn’t say anything, just stared up at the dark New York sky.

“Late,” Micah said.

“Maybe we should be getting back,” Beck said, not entirely sure what he was saying. Should he invite Micah back to his room? Lean in now and kiss him? Make it clear that if Micah was interested in exploring this side of him, then Beck was one hundred and ten percent on board?

Six hundred miles, after all, was only six hundred miles.

Lots of NFL players played in cities their loved ones didn’t live in.

They had all the money to do anything they wanted. Including figure out what this brand-new thing was between them.

Beck, who hadn’t even known it existed before tonight, suddenly wanted that so badly it hurt. Even if it was just sex, he could give Micah that. Something he’d remember forever.

“You wanna go back to the hotel?” Micah raised an eyebrow.

They were both definitely drunk. But not so drunk they didn’t know what they were doing.

“Actually, yeah,” Beck said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He stepped out onto the sidewalk and hailed a cab moving by. It pulled up to the curb and they slid inside.

This time when they fell into the back seat in a tangle of legs, Micah didn’t move away. In fact, he scooted closer, until he was practically in Beck’s lap.

Come on, Beck nearly said, I know you want to. And trust me, I want you to. It’s where you belong.

But that was crazy, wasn’t it?

Maybe it didn’t feel nearly as crazy as it should, Micah’s shoulder pressed to his, his leg draped over Beck’s.

“I don’t want to go tomorrow,” Micah said, his head falling against Beck’s shoulder. “I don’t want this to . . .” He stammered over the words. “I don’t want this to end.”

Beck reached out and tucked Micah against him. He was only an inch shorter than him, and hardly much smaller in terms of his build, but it felt right to do this. The rightest thing you’ve ever felt. Second only to when you’re on the field together and the game slows and then stops and it’s just you two against the world, and you keep winning, and you’re never gonna lose.

“Imagine, someday we’re on the same team,” Beck said. Because it was what he’d been thinking about. How he’d want Micah behind him forever. Micah next to him forever. “Imagine we’re going to the same place tomorrow.”

“But we’re not.” Micah pouted.

“But what if we were? What if . . .what if we played for the same team again? Someday?”

If that fantasy came true, then this would happen again. And again. And again, in a thousand different variations. Beck could see it, as he laid his head back on the ripped taxi seat and imagined the future playing out so differently.

“We should promise that we will,” Micah said earnestly. “Play together again. Be together again.”

Beck knew what he should say. It’s not gonna happen. Not anytime soon. But it wasn’t what came out of his mouth. “We will,” he vowed. “And when that happens . . .”

“What?” Micah asked when he didn’t say immediately what they’d do.

“I don’t know, we’ll do this again.” Beck wanted to say more. But he also didn’t want to scare Micah away.

“This, and more,” Micah said sleepily. Sounding happier and more relaxed than Beck could ever remember. Enough that he did swear to himself that he’d make this happen again. As soon as possible. Even if they didn’t, in fact, end up on the same team, someday.

“More?”

“Yeah, a whole thing,” Micah said, waving abstractly in the air. “Like the whole fucking nine yards.”

“A . . .a relationship?” Beck murmured.

“Yeah,” Micah said firmly. “You and me.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Beck said, Micah’s honesty making him suddenly reckless. “We end up playing for the same team, I’ll fucking marry you. We can do that now, you know, not just two guys legally, but in the NFL. It’s happened before. It could happen again. Spencer Evans married that agent guy, didn’t he? Heath Harris is gonna marry his QB boyfriend. Colin O’Connor’s fucking married. We could get married.”

Micah didn’t say anything for a long time.

So long, Beck was terrified he’d pushed too hard. Too far. They hadn’t even kissed yet, and here he was drunkenly proposing.

But when he chanced a look down at Micah’s face, he was staring at him with something like wonder. “You’d promise that?”

“For you?” Beck felt himself drifting closer. “Yeah. I’d promise it.”

“Then I’d promise it too.” Micah stared at him expectantly, his chin tilted up, his mouth wet and irresistible and right there.

Kiss him, Beck’s brain screamed at him.

Or maybe it was his dick.

Or maybe they were both on the same page, right along with his heart, and he couldn’t deny them any longer, not when what he wanted, what he needed,was right there.

“Micah,” he murmured and leaned down, but before he could, everything came to a screaming, horrible stop.

Nope.

That wasn’t him. That wasn’t Micah.

That was the fucking cab.

Pulling up to the curb and stopping, throwing both of them nearly off the seat.

“Out,” the driver barked. “I don’t care if you fuck, but if you’re gonna, don’t do it in this cab.”

Before they . . .what?

It took a second for Beck to even realize what he was saying.

Oh.

Before they kissed.

Before they had sex.

Micah pulled out his wallet, yanking out bill after bill, finally throwing them at the driver with a cackle of delight, and they fell out of the cab in the same sort of mess that they’d fallen into it.

Before, Beck hadn’t been sure he should invite himself to Micah’s room instead of going back to his own.

But now he was sure.

It didn’t matter what happened tomorrow.

They both wanted the same goddamn thing.

Each other.

 

Micah was fucking floating.

This had to be a dream.

It felt like a dream, anyway.

Beck was hanging all over him, laughing as they stumbled towards the hotel entrance, drunk and happy, and they’d nearly kissed.

Beckhad nearly kissed him. Had told him he wanted everything Micah held so close and secret.

Then he glanced up at the hotel door, and everything inside him went cold and still and awful.

Josiah was standing by the door, near the valet stand and its nearby outdoor ashtray, smoking a cigarette, the glow from the end lighting up his face.

He was staring right at Micah.

Right at where he and Beck were intertwined together, like one person and not two.

He could probably see the way Beck was looking at him. The way Micah had been looking back.

The way that had, only a few seconds before, seemed wonderful and perfect and glorious. But now, exposed every single one of his closely held truths. Josiah knew now. The look on his face made it unmistakable.

“What is it?” Beck asked, because he’d certainly felt Micah stop. Felt him freeze.

“Nothing, nothing,” Micah mumbled, because he couldn’t say it. “Just. . .uh, tired.”

“All of a sudden?” Beck sounded disappointed and confused.

But Micah was seeing clearly for the first time in what felt like hours.

What are we doing? We can’t do this.

“Yeah,” Micah said with finality, watching as Josiah put out his cigarette and turned on his heel, walking into the hotel.

“You’re really gonna go to bed . . .alone?” Beck asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Normally that look of his would’ve made Micah laugh ten out of ten times. But he couldn’t. Right now, he just felt nauseated.

“Uh, yeah, probably. Feelin’ a little sick.” It wasn’t what he’d intended only a little while ago, what he’d been hoping and praying and dreaming might happen, but now, that was impossible. It was all fucking over.

It wasn’t that he gave a shit about Josiah and his stupid-ass opinions. He didn’t. He absolutely fucking did not. It didn’t matter what Josiah thought of him.

But even though he told himself it didn’t, he couldn’t help the feeling as he walked into the hotel lobby, Beck trailing behind, that he did.

Somehow, he did.

“Ah, okay.” Beck sounded hesitant. Like he never did. Like Micah had taken something from him. Like he’d stolen something.

As if Micah didn’t feel bad enough.

Now he felt like he was really, truly going to be sick. No faking about it.

“Sorry,” Micah said. He was too good of a liar now, because that even sounded real, like a casual regret was all he carried for turning Beck down.

“Right, it’s fine,” Beck said as they walked towards the elevator. He pressed the button and the doors opened with a cheery chime the opposite of his current mood. “Just . . .drink some water, okay? It’ll be an early morning and you don’t need to be hungover on your first day in Miami.”

God, even now Beck was being a friend. When all Micah had been was . . .what? A coward and a liar.

“Yeah,” Micah mumbled under his breath as the numbers ticked by on the screen.

His floor came both way too soon and not soon enough.

“Well, thanks for a great night?” Beck said, as Micah turned to look at him before he walked out.

But Micah couldn’t find the words.

They were stuck inside him.

So he didn’t say anything, just walked out as the doors shut in Beck’s face.

He went to his room, which was thankfully fucking empty, threw his clothes off, paced around a little, and finally collapsed into bed, but didn’t sleep.

Instead he lay on the bed and stared, gritty-eyed, at the ceiling as dawn crept closer and he slowly, horribly, sobered up.

The problem with sobering up wasn’t the actual sobering-up part but the fact that he hadn’t been drunk enough not to remember, in technicolor, every single thing he’d done and said with Beck.

He’d never be able to forget. Not now.

His flight was early, so he dragged himself out of bed, took a long cold shower to try to wake up, and dressed quickly. Packed up the rest of his stuff. He’d left for the draft the night before with the understanding that he’d be flying to the city of whatever team picked him early this morning.

He only checked his phone when he was in the elevator heading downstairs.

Josiah hadn’t sent anything.

But then, Micah hadn’t expected he would.

What would he even say?

I knew about you, boy, before you even did?

Beck, on the other hand, had sent one.

You okay?

Ha.

Beck should know better than to ask that. Should know him better than that.

The timestamp read only a few hours ago, which meant Beck hadn’t slept either.

Micah supposed that should make him feel better, but it didn’t. Not at all.

The valet hailed him a cab, and he collapsed into it, rubbing his eyes behind his sunglasses. He felt like hell, and not just because of his hangover.

He didn’t know what to say to Beck.

Especially because while Beck had every fucking reason to be angry with him, he wasn’t. Instead, he was concerned.

He didn’t want to call him on his bullshit. Instead, he wanted to make sure Micah was okay.

The sick feeling he was pretty goddamn sure was guilt followed him all through the drive to the airport and through security.

He found an empty row by his gate and closed his eyes, belatedly wishing he’d grabbed coffee before he’d found this chair and then never wanted to leave it. But it was too late for that, and even caffeine didn’t have the motivational power to force him upright.

“Oh good, you’re not dead.”

Micah squeezed his eyes shut behind his sunglasses, that yes, like a real asshole, he had not taken off inside. That was not Beck’s voice. He would not have tracked him down in the airport.

Great, now I’m hallucinating.

Except instead of going away, the voice continued. “You’re really gonna ignore me? Mature, Rose.”

A body dropped down in the seat next to his.

Micah peeked out one eye. Yep, it was definitely Beck and not a hallucination. After all, he hadn’t had that much tequila.

“No, I’m not dead.” But I kinda wish I was.

“Listen, we should talk,” Beck started, leaning in, looking way too good considering what they’d gotten up to last night—what they’d almost done.

“No,” Micah said before he could get any further.

“No?” Beck looked mystified.

Clearly, he was still laboring under the terrible misapprehension that Micah was a good guy. A good, brave guy, who tackled things he wasn’t sure he could handle.

But that wasn’t him.

It hadn’t ever been.

Maybe in another history, in another version of his life, things could’ve been different—but they weren’t.

“No,” Micah repeated.

“I know this shit isn’t easy,” Beck said, “but I don’t think pretending it didn’t happen is the right call. You told me—”

“I was drunk,” Micah said bluntly. Lied bluntly. When he’d told Beck his secret, he’d been almost entirely sober.

“You were not,” Beck said, a confused crease forming between his dark brown brows. “What is wrong with you? It’s me, you know I’m not gonna—”

“You’re imagining things,” Micah interrupted. “I don’t know what you want to talk about, because nothing happened.”

He stood, because even though the lure of coffee hadn’t been enough to leverage him upright, the idea of getting away from this conversation with his heart at least mostly intact was much more appealing.

Before he said something he would truly regret later.

“Nothing happened?” Beck gaped at him, and unfortunately, followed him as Micah attempted to stomp off. “A lot fucking happened. I was there. And I know you. I know you weren’t that drunk.”

God, why wouldn’t he just let it go?

Because he was Beck. That was why.

Micah stopped a few feet from the busy Starbucks line. Turned.

Don’t make me do this.

But Beck would, because he was Beck.

You’re not getting rid of me.

It’s only six hundred miles.

We end up playing for the same team, I’ll fucking marry you.

Like that would ever happen. It had been a pipe dream, but even as impossible as the dream had been, that didn’t mean deep down, it hadn’t been real.

Even as Micah kept trying to kill it dead.

“I was drunk, we were both drunk. That’s the only reason it happened.”

“No, no,” Beck insisted, shaking his head. “No, it happened because—”

Micah was no stranger to hating himself. And yet he’d never felt this much self-loathing before. “Because you’re in love with me? I was tryin’ to be nice, but I can’t. Not anymore. Not now that I’m sure.”

Beck’s face went white.

“You’re not—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Just stared at Micah like he’d never really seen him before.

Micah had always believed Beck had seen deep down, to the real Micah under all the posturing and all the bullshit, but now, it was like he was really seeing, and Micah was nearly sick all over this airport carpet.

“I have to go.” It was a lie. His flight wouldn’t be boarding for another twenty minutes.

“You’re lying,” Beck said bluntly.

“No, I’m not. I’m not the one lying to themselves.”

But I am, some part of him screamed.

He just didn’t know how else to make Beck go. How to make Beck stop.

He pushed, as easy as breathing. It was ironically one of the things he’d always loved about the guy. You could push him down. Tackle him. But he just kept getting up and still coming. He’d never quit.

Not unless Micah made him.

He turned and walked away, but not before he saw a glimpse of all-too-familiar bitterness on Beck’s face.

All the way down to the next bathroom, Micah walked, not turning around, not letting himself see if Beck had followed, even though he knew with a growing despair that he hadn’t.

He went in, shut himself into a stall, puked his guts out, and somehow, even after emptying his stomach, he didn’t feel any better.

When he came out of the bathroom, they were calling his flight to Miami, and Beck was gone.

image-placeholder

For a month, then two, there’d been silence. There were so many times Micah wanted to text. To call. To just get in his car and drive to Charleston. It was, after all, only six hundred miles away.

But he didn’t.

Micah didn’t like to think it was cowardice stopping him, but the more he pretended it was something other than raw fear, the more he tried to not even think about Beck.

If sometimes, late at night, he opened that last text conversation with Beck, fingers ghosting over the screen, wanting to tell him, No, I’m not okay. I’ve never been and I’m not okay now, not even fucking close, then that was between him and the dark ceiling.

But he never did tell him the truth and Beck took the hint, and never reached out either.

You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Beck had claimed more than once.

And yet, Micah thought, he had.

So easily.

Then, early one morning he woke up to a single text from the one person he kept trying to forget.

Thought you might want to know before I do it, it read. I’m coming out this afternoon. Just a video we’re posting to social media. Hopefully not a big deal.

Before Micah could even consider responding, a second text came through.

I hate that we’ve come to this.

Micah hated it too.

But he didn’t know what to say.

Congrats, I hope you’re not throwing your career away? I hope you get what you want out of this?

And even though it wasn’t right, Micah felt a surge of bitter resentment. I hope you’re not expecting me to do the same.

He typed out a reply. Then deleted it. Then another one. Deleted that one, too.

You’ll think of something to say; just give it time.

He gave it a day. Then two. Then a week.

Everything he tried to say to Beck reeked of his own fucking fear, and how could he say anything like that to Beck, who’d discarded his own entirely?

He couldn’t.

Beck wouldn’t respect him anymore, and somehow that seemed worse than Beck hating him.

Worse than them ghosting each other.

In the end, Micah realized, as he headed back to Miami for the beginning of training camp, they’d gotten rid of each other.

And it had been way too fucking easy.

Saturday Series Spotlight

Charleston Condors

Part 1

Miami Piranhas

Part 1  /  Part 2

The Rainbow Clause

Audiobook

Sunday Sport Stats

Los Angeles Riptide

Rivalry  /  Rough Contact

Beth Bolden

A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.

Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.

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