Thursday, September 18, 2025

⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: Triple Threat by Davidson King



Summary:

Haven Hart Universe #6
Lee, Jones, and Ginger deal with dangerous situations and mounting stress daily working for the most powerful assassin organization in the world. All of those things seem like a walk in the park compared to the friction that sparks between them. When all three are assigned to the same job, ignoring the heat from the inferno of desire becomes impossible.

Lee is a master at deciphering codes, skilled in hacking complicated systems, and never misses a target, even from over fifty miles away. His feelings for Jones and Ginger, however, may be the first code he’s unable to crack.

Jones deals in absolutes, but the road to his past is paved with bodies and regrets. Getting Lee to acknowledge the pull they both feel toward Ginger may be the hardest mission he’s ever had to face.

Ginger struggles to cope with the overwhelming guilt that accompanies this new job. Falling for these hired killers will be a risk—one that could wind up with him losing in the end or gaining everything he’s ever wanted.

As the three work together to take down a human trafficking ring—and save a desperate soul—time is of the essence. Their lives are on the line as mysteries unfold and unexpected encounters throw them off course. Will Lee, Jones, and Ginger let doubts come between them, distracting them from their mission and blocking any hope of love? Or can they face the toughest challenge of their lives and become…a triple threat?



Original ebook Review July Book of the Month 2019:
I should start by saying M/M/M is not my go-to trope, I don't go looking for them HOWEVER, if one turns up in a series I'm reading or mysteriously finds its way onto my kindle I won't turn away from itπŸ˜‰.  Now because its not my normal trope of choice, I don't have a wide variety of experience when it comes to the accuracy to how its written, nor do I know anyone in a poly relationship to make any realistic comparison.  So because of my "lack of knowledge" I can only go by how each one is written and how it sucks me in.  Well, Triple Threat is A-FREAKIN'-MAZING!!!!

For those who think M/M/M, menage, or poly romances are just porn without plot than you are in for the shock of your life when you open up Davidson King's newest Haven Hart entry, Triple Threat.  Oh, sure there's heat, there's lust, there's sexy times that will set your kindle on fire but there is just so much more than the between-the-sheets(there's some fumbling without the sheets tooπŸ˜‰) moments.  As with the whole series, there is crime, drama, action, violence, drama, humor, mystery . . . well pretty much everything but sci-fi.  So sit down, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

Let's take a look at the threesome, triad, throuple, or whatever label you choose to use.  Lee and Jones have been around Haven Hart more than once and called in when their expertise is needed and lets face it, Haven Hart is in dire need of their services.  I don't think anyone was surprised to see them connected in more ways than on the job but Ginger on the other hand doesn't exactly fit in on paper.  Miss King made it reasonably clear in Snow Storm that the boys weren't exactly unaffected by the younger man so it wasn't a complete surprise to find him as the third side of their trio.  As I said, on paper he doesn't seem the type to connect with them but after only a page or two you know that he is exactly what Lee and Jones were missing to make them complete.  Whether or not, they come to the same conclusion is something you have to read for yourself but I warn you once you start Triple Threat you won't want to put it down.

Now I have personally made references in my previous reviews to the Star Wars saga and you're probably wondering "you said this has everything but sci-fi so how can you connect them?"  Obviously it isn't a literal connection but the passion and draw that I always feel whenever I hear Darth Vadar's entrance music or the hiss of the lightsaber or the whoosh as the Millenium Falcon finally goes into hyperdrive pretty much equals the natural high I get when reading Davidson King.  She has this ability to not only create this amazing story with characters who are just out of reach and yet at the same time you feel like you're going to run into them pumping gas and picking up eggs at the store but the city of Haven Hart is so visual I almost feel like I'm living there.  As I've said before, there is a difference between an author and a storyteller, they are both great in their own ways but a storyteller has that extra something special connection with words, well Davidson King is a storyteller and I can't wait to see what comes next.

One last note: Although each entry(except for Snow Storm) has a new pairing at its core, Haven Hart series is definitely a series that needs to be read in order.  There is just too much ongoing plot and information that is underlying everything where each book puts just a little more of the puzzle together.  So if you haven't started this series yet be sure to begin at the beginning with Snow Falling and if you are someone who likes to wait till a series is complete because you can't abide the wait in between releases, there is only one entry left to be written but be sure you put Haven Hart at the top of your TBR list.


Original Audiobook Listen November 2019:
I'll admit, I was curious to see how Joel Leslie & Philip Alces would narrate three main characters to keep them "real", keep them "separate" well I needn't have worried because there is never any doubts between Lee, Jones, or Ginger in Triple Threat.  Just as Davidson King uniquely defined each man, so did the narrators.  We see yet another layer of the horrors lurking in and around Haven Hart but we also see yet another layer of heart and determination to put an end to said horrors.  Again a great combination of storytelling and narration bringing the next chapter of Haven Hart Universe to life.

RATING:




Chapter One
Jones
“Iwill never understand how people think,” Black, my boss, said as he sat behind his large oak desk staring at the confirmation of my hit.

“Hartly, Delaware was a bad idea for Lucas Donato.” I shook my head at the memory of finding him sitting on a park bench in one of the least populated places in all the United States. Black leather coat, slicked back black hair, sunglasses, thousand dollar shoes. Fucking idiot.

“I get he likely thought by going there no one would expect it, but come on—”

“Look the part,” we both said at the same time. Black laughed, I grunted.

Black sat back; gray eyes bored into mine. Questions and comments danced in his gaze, and I really hoped this wasn’t going where it always seemed to go every time we were alone.

“How are you and Lee?” he asked, and I let out a frustrated sigh.

“Has there been complaints?” Black shook his head. “Then why is this your topic of choice every time we’re alone?”

He raised his brows and his relaxed demeanor turned dark, and very much the man in charge of the most lethal assassin organization in the world.

“I can ask what I choose to ask, Jones. You both were like fire and gasoline over a year ago. Then when you worked together on the Manos situation a couple of months back, things seemed better. But you’re both still requesting no pair-ups on hits. It raises flags.” He shrugged. “I gotta ask.”

“It’s better as is.” It was all he’d get out of me.

He was about to say something else when the phone buzzed. He held up a finger. His way of saying stay, I wasn’t dismissed.

I sat and waited, thinking about the man Black continually brought up. Lee. When I met him years ago I didn’t like him. Thought he was a geeky, stuck up brat. Mr. Know-It-All. He ended up becoming the only person I ever trusted. That trust turned to lust and lust, well, no good comes from that. He stood by me when the very organization I worked for thought I was a mole and wanted me dead. He got tortured for me and everything. And then after one hot night, he looked at me with his soft, sated eyes and said he loved me.

Every part of me wanted to say it back, but a man like Lee, no, he couldn’t love the man I was. No one could, but he fucking did and wasn’t that a thing. I suspected many who worked for Black felt this way though, unworthy of love, and Lee would hit me if I said that to him. Of course, all my hot and cold mood shifts gave him the wrong impression and led to accusations I was sleeping around with the newbie, Ginger. And yeah, Ginger was hot, funny, smart about odd things. But I hadn’t slept with him. I was just helping him out because he was new, and when someone doesn’t know your past, it’s a clean slate. It was easy for Ginger to just see me and not all I’d done. And even though Lee thought it to this day, that I had sex with Ginger, I hadn’t slept with anyone since him.

I did love Lee; I hated it, but I could admit it to myself. Sex was explosive, we worked in sync with each other. But the biggest issue I had was the weird disconnect. There were so many moments it felt like something was missing. Something connecting us perfectly. Many times, I thought I could see it in Lee’s eyes, like maybe he felt that there was a weak link somewhere in this chain we’d wrapped ourselves in. I would start to ask if he felt it, start to open up, but either I or he would shut it down and lock the door on our feelings because a relationship was not what I ever wanted. I chose not to explore it more. In turn, I lost Lee.

“I have to meet Quill for lunch.” He narrowed his eyes and I braced myself for his next words. “You and Lee work great together and I need to know how civil you can be. I want to start teaming you two up again.”

“Why?”

Black rolled his eyes. “Have you not been listening? You’re unstoppable together. I don’t have a team better than you two.”

“I work better alone.”

The booming laugh from Black wasn’t what I expected. “You sound like every ‘80s action star.”

“What the hell?”

Black stood, his long blond hair was loose over his shoulders. The softer side to the vicious man all thanks to his partner Quill.

“I give a shit about you, but I’ve got a business to run. If I need you two to work together, I have to be sure you’re not going to have some lover’s quarrel in the middle of a hit.”

I wanted to argue, but when everything went tits up with Lee and me, we were at each other’s throats for weeks. I knew why he needed to know.

“Do whatcha gotta. I’ll be a good boy.”

We stared each other down for a moment before he nodded and waved his hand in dismissal. I didn’t need to be told twice; I got out of there as fast as I could.

I didn’t have any other hits scheduled, so I got on the back of my Harley and took the backroads to my perfect little house in the middle of nowhere, on land I owned.

I bought it a few years ago. There were no neighbors, no loud music, no one bothering me. I made great money working for Black and had saved a lot from my past sins, too, but I didn’t need much. Never did. As I stepped foot onto my porch, I took a deep breath. I hated answering questions about Lee. I hated aching for the man. I hated how every inch of my little house reminded me of him.

It was the perfect place for us. It had a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom. We sat on the porch butt naked many nights drinking beer and laughing. I didn’t laugh with anyone but him.

What the fuck was missing from us then?



Saturday's Series Spotlight
Haven Hart
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

Joker's Sin

October 2022 Book of the Month

Westford
🎧Monday Mysterious Mayhem🎧



Davidson King
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.

If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.


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EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com



Triple Threat #6

Haven Hart Universe

Joker's Sin

Westford


Monday, September 15, 2025

Monday's Mysterious Mayhem: Ilya by Barbara Elsborg



Summary:

Two desperate men, one stolen necklace and a daring escape—what could possibly go wrong?

Ilya hadn’t imagined that attending his sister’s wedding would mean being imprisoned in the family home. For the last month, he’s been put through conversion therapy by a ruthless bastard, employed by his father, who’s determined to beat the gay out of him. Ilya plans to make a break for it while the wedding is in full swing. Fate is on his side when he catches a guest stealing his stepmother’s necklace. Ilya blackmails the thief: he’ll hand over the necklace for a ride out of there.

A tragic mistake in Julien’s past led to his life and future disintegrating. Now he can’t break free of the gangster he feels forced to work for. So when the cocky young Russian propositions him at the wedding, he has no choice. He needs that necklace back. His life and that of others depend on it… But Ilya’s presence upsets Julien’s plans at every turn. He can’t afford to make mistakes, but somehow he finds himself saddled with this flirty problem who’s pushing all his buttons. How can he make Ilya understand he’s not gay?

Except the more time they spend together, the more Julien questions a lot of the choices he’s made. Maybe they can keep each other safe. Either that or they'll die trying.

Warning : Homophobia, conversion therapy, violence, guns, injury, death of a sibling





1
England
Ilya swallowed his groan. His empty stomach was full of them. He was trying to ignore the way he appeared to be freezing from the toes up, along with ignoring the pain in his bladder telling him he needed to pee—and soon—and attempting to ignore the ache in his heart that had taken up long-term residence a month ago when he’d been dragged out of Russia.

“You’re broken,” Bryant snarled.

I’m not.

“Don’t you want to be fixed?”

I’m not fucking broken.

Bryant, Ilya’s muscular forty-five-year-old life coach, though the monster was anything but, paced in front of him. He’d been employed by Ilya’s father and step-mother to make Ilya see the light, to help him choose the right path in life, to fix him, which meant making Ilya accept he wasn’t gay.

In other words, Bryant’s sole aim in life was to make Ilya miserable.

“Answer me!” Bryant demanded.

No. Though Ilya had forgotten the question. Another shiver wracked him.

“Have you forgotten how to smile?” Bryant flicked his ear.

Ouch!

“I’d better see your lips curling up when you’re with Emilia.”

Fuck off, arsehole.

Four weeks ago, Ilya had been living happily in St Petersburg. Okay, he hadn’t been completely happy because being gay in Russia was an issue. Being openly gay was more than an issue and showing off about being gay was just asking for trouble. But he’d managed in St Petersburg and he’d had a good life.

Until the day everything went wrong.

He’d already agreed to come back to the UK for his sister’s wedding, which was to be held on the family estate in Cheshire, but Ilya’s departure date had been accelerated when he’d been snatched off the street in St Petersburg and flown here in a private jet. Why couldn’t his father have waited for him to return of his own accord? Why was he so desperate to make him straight for the wedding? What did it fucking matter that he was gay?

“Listen to what she says…”

Oh shit. Bryant was still talking.

“… and talk to her. Have a conversation. Treat her nicely. Enough of this idiotic blankness! Fucking smile at her, you scumbag.”

Ilya found it hard to believe he’d once been known for both his bright smile and talking too much. People were always telling him he looked happy, but then he had been happy. He’d loved his job, his home, his friends. He’d had plenty to be cheerful about.

Since he’d registered what Bryant’s treatment plan entailed, there had been no reason to smile. At this particular moment, Ilya was determined to show nothing on his face, because what was going through his mind would only lead to pain. I hope you die a slow and agonising death, you bastard. Soon. In fact, preferably right now. Unfortunately, his tormentor kept breathing, kept talking. Was there no justice in the world?

He was delusional to think there might be.

Ilya imagined Bryant’s hair falling out. Why not his teeth as well? The guy was vain, always running his fingers through his thick blond locks. His teeth were too white, too perfect. He’d regret the work he’d had done when he was old. He’d look ridiculous. Hopefully. Was there a disease that made balls shrivel? Cocks fall off? Then Ilya would smile.

Bryant caught hold of Ilya’s throat and squeezed hard enough to make breathing difficult. “Do you understand, you pathetic piece of shit?”

Ilya wasn’t the piece of shit in this room.

“Talk about how much you love England. Tell her where you want to go on holiday. Compliment her dress, her hair, her eyes. Tell her she looks like an angel.”

Jesus Christ! I know how to have a conversation with a woman and that advice is crap.

“If you’re not holding her hand every single time I look at you, you’ll be sorry.” Bryant released his hold.

Ilya sucked in a breath, fighting not to rub his throat. He should keep quiet but he couldn’t help himself. “What about when I’m in the bathroom? I’m not sure she’d—oomph!”

The fist planted low in his stomach drove the air from his lungs, made him lose control of his bladder and he wet himself. Oh fuck. Ilya dropped to his knees clutching his midsection as pain rolled through him. No point trying to stop peeing, so he didn’t. But now his sleep pants were soaked and he knelt in a puddle of urine.

“You disgusting fuck! Get up!” Bryant snapped.

Ilya pushed to his feet. His thin sleep pants clung to his legs. The warmth was fleeting. Now he was going to be even colder. Bryant laughed. Bastard. Ilya leaned back against the wall trying to breathe in a way that didn’t hurt. The monster’s usual MO was to slap his face when he was cheeky, but those strikes often gave him a bloody lip or a swollen mouth, whereas hitting him in the stomach wouldn’t. Ilya had to look unmarked for the wedding on Saturday, though if Bryant slipped up and lost his temper, the story would no doubt be that he’d walked into a door, or tripped on a slab. Bryant always had an answer for every visible bruise or cut.

His sister Lara had been taken in. His stepmother knew the truth and didn’t care. She was Bryant’s cheerleader.

Clumsy Ilya. You’re always tripping up. Don’t you dare have a black eye for the wedding photos.

Same words spoken by both mother and daughter. One cynical, one not. Ilya couldn’t tell Lara the truth. It would wreck her wedding.

He was still trying to pull himself together as Bryant moved forward again, invading his space, breathing coffee into his face.

“That’s what you shirt lifters do, isn’t it, fuck each other in bathrooms? Filthy perverts.”

Ilya pressed his bare toes into the floor, twisted his fingers behind his back and tensed his stomach in case another thump was coming.

“You’re going to hold her hand, talk to her and make it look as if you’re her boyfriend. It’s not difficult.”

Ilya wanted to ask why she’d want to hold hands with a filthy pervert, but this time he stayed silent. He maintained his blank expression, one that he hoped said I’m strong. You can’t get to me. Even if it wasn’t true. Because he wasn’t strong and Bryant got to him quite regularly.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you to do, you bloody degenerate? Answer me!” Bryant yelled the words into his face, then kicked his shin.

Fuck! Ilya cried out, then pressed his lips together. Not speaking had turned into his only means of defiance. For a guy who talked as much as he did, keeping quiet was difficult.

“You cock-sucking faggot.” Spit flew from Bryant’s mouth. “Is that how you want to be known? In Saudi, you’d be jailed or executed. Thrown off a roof in Iraq, then stoned if the fall didn’t kill you. In Chechnya, you’d be burned alive.”

Ilya didn’t even blink, but mentally, he railed, raged and roared at what his life had become. Going to help a fallen stranger had been his downfall. When he’d seen the woman lying on the pavement, he’d hurried to her side. As he bent down, an arm had wrapped about his throat from behind, followed by a sharp pain in his thigh. Although he kept struggling, his body didn’t feel right, as if he was heavily drunk, and his movements slowed. He could see the woman on her feet looking fine. Even though he’d tried hard to keep his eyes open, they closed. Snowflakes melted on his face, then he felt nothing.

Now he was here.

Trapped and afraid.

Ilya might be scared and angry and a whole load of other things, but he needed to stay calm, to think his way out of this, because if he snapped, physically or verbally, he’d be punished and he was tired of being hurt, tired of the constant pressure to be what he wasn’t.

Bryant continued berating him.

Apparently, nothing about Ilya was right, not how he walked, spoke, gestured or behaved. The way he ate was wrong. The way he looked at people was wrong. He was a failure, but…guess what? He could reinvent himself.

Difficult, when he didn’t see the need. Even so, the constant, aggressive criticism had weighed on him, flattened him, stolen his smile and sometimes his voice, but worst of all, Bryant’s actions had gone a long way to destroying Ilya’s hope.

Although he might not want to admit it, he had a breaking point and Bryant had, on occasion, come close to reaching it. Bryant had a whole repertoire of techniques in his evangelical mission to make Ilya straight. Persuasion, manipulation, mental coercion, physical abuse, kindness—not often, unkindness—more often… He probably had a list he was working through in consultation with Ilya’s stepmother, Svetlana. Ilya imagined the pair sitting cackling together, ticking them off. Try this. Try that.

Though not religion. At least there was no shoving God’s disgust down his throat, though he’d rather have endured that than the fuck ton of water he’d swallowed two days ago. Ilya had almost hoped he’d drown and that all this would be over. Almost.

But he didn’t drown. Bryant couldn’t afford to make that mistake. Ilya’s father would kill him.

His tormentor paced in front of him as he yelled abuse. “You’re a fucked-up loser, a good-for-nothing waste of oxygen.”

I’m not. I’m a good person. You’re not.

“You’re going to hold Emilia’s hand and behave like a complete gentleman. And if, before Saturday, I see or hear anything from you that I don’t like, you’ll go into the box until the wedding.”

Ilya couldn’t help shuddering as he glanced towards the plywood construction sitting in the middle of the room. The box had been Ilya’s punishment on several occasions, though never for longer than twenty-four hours. The wooden structure had been especially made for him. Sensory deprivation was another of Bryant’s tools. Ilya had to lie down in it curled up. He couldn’t stand upright. Food and water had been delivered through a slot and there was a bucket for him to relieve himself. His clothes had been taken and no blanket given. He used to lie with his mouth close to the slot and when he was sure he was alone, push it open for light and air and try to imagine himself anywhere other than where he really was.

“Don’t like the sound of that, do you?”

Would you? Ilya was cold and uncomfortable, his sleep pants sticking to his legs. He stank and needed to shower. Bryant was smirking. Ilya couldn’t believe his father had agreed to go along with this idiot’s methods. But his father was away from home a lot and Ilya told himself he hadn’t known the extent of Bryant was doing. But when his father did come home and Ilya tried to tell him, Svetlana always supported Bryant and claimed Ilya was exaggerating. Any attempt to make his father see what was happening only made Bryant more vicious.

Whatever way Ilya behaved with Emilia, he knew Bryant would criticise and punish him. So why should he conform when he’d be hurt anyway?

He’d been standing against the wall in this chilly, concrete basement room for over an hour. He was cold, thirsty and tired, and he just wanted Bryant to shut the fuck up, but there was nothing he could do to make this end, not promising to hold Emilia’s hand, not swearing to be kind to her, not even telling Bryant that he wanted to be straight, because he wouldn’t be believed. The irony didn’t escape him. He was trapped in purgatory.

“You’re sick, Ilya. You have an illness in here!” Bryant tapped Ilya’s head over and over with his finger, hard enough to hurt. Rabid fucking woodpecker! I want to bite your fucking finger off! “But the good news is you can be cured.”

Well, hallelujah! I can hear the angels singing. Or is that my happy sister, excited about her wedding?

Bryant thumped Ilya’s stomach again. His diaphragm spasmed violently and Ilya retched. He folded his arms across his belly. There was nothing to bring up. He’d not eaten since yesterday afternoon.

When the pain had receded, he straightened up and let the wall support him.

“I can read your pathetic little mind.”

“Ya ne veryu, chto tvoy chlen dlinneye dvukh santimetrov.”

Ilya was forbidden from speaking Russian, but he’d had enough. He’d just told Bryant he doubted his dick was any longer than two centimetres, though he’d said it with such gentleness that there was no way Bryant could imagine it an insult.

“No more Russian,” Bryant snarled.

Ilya didn’t stop. He called Bryant every bad thing he could think of, every disgusting slur in his vocabulary, and there were plenty, but he kept his voice low and his tone even. At least he was still fighting.

But was he? He was getting colder and colder, while Bryant was probably warm as toast from the frenzy he’d worked himself into. The wet patches under his arms were spreading so fast, the guy was probably going to end up dissolving into a puddle of rancid sweat mixed with that revolting aftershave he liberally applied.

“Don’t you want to be cured?”

How could he be cured when he wasn’t ill?

“Don’t you want to make your father happy, you selfish little prick?”

Why should that be his responsibility? Ilya wasn’t the one with the problem. His father was.

“Why are you so ungrateful?” Bryant raged. “You could have everything.”

For a price he wasn’t prepared to pay.

Bryant was red-faced with fury. Why can’t you drop dead! Heart attack or stroke. Either will do. Ilya didn’t even care whether it hurt the guy now. He just wanted Bryant gone.

“Open your mind. Look at the truth. It’s staring you in the face. Accept it. You are not on the right path.”

I don’t give a damn.He’d said worse than that over the past few weeks and paid for it. And because he apparently never learned, he’d repeated it and paid for it again. Keeping his mouth shut was the best thing to do. Except his Russian mouth had a mind of its own.

“Potselui mou zhopy.” Kiss my arse. Not that he wanted this guy to do that.

“Stop being such a little shit!”

Ilya had attempted to make Bryant think he was coming round gradually. He’d thought slowly showing acceptance that being straight was the way forward should have been the solution to his predicament, but he was always so tired, which led to him becoming careless, which in turn allowed his belligerence to escape, which always ended in pain.

Not this time. No more smartarse comments. He had to hold it together because the wedding offered a chance he couldn’t afford to miss. They’d ostensibly dragged him over for his sister’s wedding, so surely he’d be allowed to attend. He glanced at the box. He really didn’t want to get put in that. He’d endured enough today. Time to cooperate and make Bryant think he’d made progress.

“I’ll hold Emilia’s hand,” he blurted. “I’ll be nice. I promise.”

Bryant laughed. “You think I believe you?”

What do you fucking want? How could he ever satisfy this bastard? For the past week, Ilya hadn’t been allowed to sleep for longer than a couple of hours at a stretch. Every time he woke, it had been to Bryant yelling in his face about disgusting dreams and his sick mind. You’re the one who has the sick mind. Ilya had sensibly not said that. Even so, he’d been yanked out of bed, pushed into a cold shower, then shoved back into bed still wet, time after time.

“You’re a liar,” Bryant yelled. “Liar, liar, liar.”

Yes, you got me. I am.

Most showers Ilya took were cold. Lukewarm water was a reward for cooperation, those occasions when he’d allowed words to pour from his mouth that he didn’t believe but hoped would encourage Bryant to feel he was winning. Expressing his shame and guilt though not meaning a word of it was a ploy, but every time Ilya did it, he worried he might forget the truth, forget what he was, that the lies he told would become the truth because he’d said them. At sensible moments, he didn’t believe that, but he was scared Bryant was driving him to a nervous breakdown.

Maybe he’d fall so deep into quicksand he wouldn’t be able to pull himself out again. He didn’t want to believe that was possible. But…it was his worry and one that he fed. Those occasions of self-doubt seemed to be coming more often in the last week, frightening descents into a sort of madness where he heard persuasive voices in his head telling him it would be so easy to give up.

If only it was easy to escape.

Bryant planted his arms either side of Ilya’s head and leaned in to put his mouth against his ear. “Do you want your father to resort to medical intervention? Does chemical castration appeal? Because that isthe last resort. Your cock will never be hard again. You won’t even want to wank.”


Barbara Elsborg
Barbara Elsborg lives in Kent in the south of England. She always wanted to be a spy, but having confessed to everyone without them even resorting to torture, she decided it was not for her. Volcanology scorched her feet. A morbid fear of sharks put paid to marine biology. So instead, she spent several years successfully selling cyanide.

After dragging up two rotten, ungrateful children and frustrating her sexy, devoted, wonderful husband (who can now stop twisting her arm) she finally has time to conduct an affair with an electrifying plugged-in male, her laptop.

Her earlier books feature quirky heroines and bad boys, now she concentrates on the bad boys, and hopes her books are as much fun to read as they are to write.



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Sunday, September 14, 2025

🏈🎭Week at a Glance🎭🏈: 9/8/25 - 9/14/25




















🏈Sunday's Sport Stats🏈: Coaching the Nerd by Eli Easton & Tara Lain



Summary:

Nerds vs. Jocks #2
Super-bod meets super-brain

What happens when marshmallow-bodied supernerd Sean volunteers to be on the jocks’ flag-football team? It screws Bubba’s fraternity’s chances at the coveted flag football title, that’s what.

Bubba is drafted to be Sean’s personal trainer. He has to whip Sean into shape and make sure he doesn’t F up their team.

Sean may be a supernerd, but to Bubba he’s funny, and wise, and kinda cute. He’s also the one person on campus who doesn’t see Bubba as a big, stupid jock.

One BIG problem. Sean’s motivation for getting into shape is to lose his virginity -- and Bubba isn’t happy when guys start sniffing around.

But Bubba’s straight. Isn’t he?

Can a big, dumb jock from Nowhere, Wisconsin change his whole life for a genius who just wants to get laid?

COACHING THE NERD is a total makeover, opposites attract, My Fair Lady trope, bi awakening, campus romance – that grabs your flag.




Chapter 1
Sean
“Go back! Go back! Go back!”

Go back to what? my brain queried. Simpler times? Home? The starting line?

Or perhaps to the moment before I volunteered to be on the Alpha Lambda Alpha flag football team. Yes, let’s go back to that, please.

I watched guys scurry around the large, open field next to the University of Wisconsin, Madison, baseball diamond but could discern no rhyme or reason to their movements, and therefore, they were difficult to emulate. There was so much stopping and then there’d be what looked like a random melee. I’d read the flag football rules online, so I knew the focus was on the football, but surely there must be more rules to this game than the three-sentence description that was given to me at—

The group scattered like a flock of birds startled into flight, and then they were heading right at me.

Um.

I turned and attempted to run away.

“Ooof.” I staggered as a body collided with mine. I turned to see the flag football team captain, Tray Blackstone, scowling at me.

“How the fuck are you always in the way?” he demanded rudely, his lip curled up. He ran on past me, half-backward, looking in the distance.

Well, if he was running in that direction, perhaps I should as well?

Wait. Wait. I saw the ball now. A guy named Rex had it and was weaving as he ran.

Should I go after him? Was he on the opposing team? Well, that seemed like relevant information, didn’t it? I should have been apprised of who was on what team. Printed rosters, perhaps, could be distributed at the start of each game. Or colored shirts distinctive enough to visually distinguish Team X from Team O? They likely had that for league games, but since this was a practice session, everyone wore ordinary clothes, mostly layers of sweats and thermals on this rainy, muddy January day. Still, surely it wouldn’t require too much organization if players wore either a plain white or plain black T-shirt even for practice games. Surely it wasn’t only newbies like me who would benefit from such?

Oh dear. I was the only person left standing in this entire part of the field. Everyone else was down near the goal at the south end. I jogged in that direction, trying my best to locate the—

“Sean! It’s Sean, right? Are you just gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna play?”

I looked at the huge guy jogging toward me. I knew his name was Bubba. Everybody on campus knew that. He was distinctive among the student body for his bulk—had to be at least 6’5” and closer to 300 pounds than 200. His head, with its closely-shorn dark hair and beard, loomed above everyone else on campus. I’d heard his booming laugh coming from the ALA’s front lawn on nights when they had parties over there and I had my window open while studying. He’d never looked at me before, though, and he might have been scary jogging toward me except that his brown eyes were friendly.

He stopped a few feet from me and put his hands on his hips. “Sean, dude, you gonna play?”

“Yes. Well. I was just trying to figure out exactly what I should be doing. To play the game, I mean. It’s rather fast-paced, isn’t it? And no one explained the, er, teams.”

He got a befuddled look and rubbed his palm over his hair. “Um. Okay.” He glanced down the field. He was sweaty and glowing in that robust, athletic way. He looked as if he belonged here—a cell swimming happily around in its host environment. Feeling as out of place as I did, I was envious.

“So, look, Sean, all you gotta do is prevent the other team from getting to the goal with the ball. Only instead of tackling them to stop ’em, you grab the flag out of their belt. If someone grabs your flag, you have to stop and you lose the ball. And that’s it.”  His thick fingers flipped one of the blue plastic flags on the belt he wore around his waist. Everyone wore the belts with blue flags, even me, since I’d been handed one at the start.

I pushed up my glasses. “Yes, thank you. That sounds like essentially what I read online. But I’m unclear which of these players is on my team. What if I accidentally take a flag from the wrong person? I imagine they’d be quite put out.”

He blinked at me for half a beat, then laughed. It was a head-back full belly laugh that sounded almost musical “They’ll be quite put out! Ha ha! You’re funny, Sean!” He knocked my shoulder with one large fist. It would have sent me sideways if I hadn’t seen it coming and braced for it. “So funny!”

“Uh… thanks?”

“Which team are you on?”

I looked at him blankly. “That would be another point that should have been made clear to me before the game started. But I think—”

Bubba held up his hands in a wait gesture. “Never mind. You’ll be on my team, okay?”

I frowned. “Is Tray on your team? Because he told me—”

“Look, just forget who else is where. You’re on my team, got it? And that’s our goal.” He pointed down the field to the north end, which was the opposite of where everyone else was currently clustered. “If you get the ball, you head that way with it. If someone else has the ball and is running toward the opposite end, you run after them and grab the guy’s flag. And that’s all there is to it.”

“Yes, but how do I know if the person who has the ball is on my team?” I repeated, feeling like I was missing something obvious.

His brow furrowed. “Dude. If they’re running that way with the ball, they’re not on your team,” Bubba said, pointing again to the enemy end zone.

“Ah, yes, I see! That’s completely understandable.”

I felt like someone had just explained the theory of relativity to me for the first time. It made sense people running in that direction with the ball must be on the enemy team.

Unless, of course, that person was confused. But it was likely they were all experienced. Surely I was the only confused player on the field. Therefore, as Bubba said, I should be able to safely assume that people heading toward the south goal line were on the opposing team.

But what if they were standing still? If they weren’t going one way or the other, I wouldn’t be able to tell which team they were on.

Never mind. There was a workaround for that. I resolved to ignore such a person and only take the flag from a player when I could clearly tell the direction of their motion. That was sound logic.

Wait.

“So let’s—” Bubba began.

“Hang on. One last question,” I interrupted. “What if a player is heading toward the opposing goal line, but it’s just a feint? That happens, doesn’t it? Perhaps they’re running that way to dodge around another player and then they’ll run back toward our team’s goal line. Or what if they’re trying to psyche out the other team? In such a scenario, I could incorrectly assume they’re not on my team and take their flag erroneously.”

To my consternation, Bubba threw back his head and laughed again, loud and hard, like I’d just made the funniest joke. “You’re a card, Sean. Seriously, man!” Bubba hit me in the shoulder again. “So you’ve got it, right? We’re all clear?” His tone was a little patronizing.

I frowned. “Well, I’m not stupid.”

Bubba grinned. “I sure as hell hope not.” He looked me up and down. “Because if you were stupid on top of that, you sure would have been dealt a raw deal in life.”

“Hey!” I glared at him, knowing an insult when I heard one.

He just chuckled. “Come on! Let’s go get ’em!” He ran off toward the cluster of players near the south goal line.

I was a little miffed, honestly, but perhaps he was teasing me. His manner hadn’t seemed cruel. I shook it off and jogged behind him. The other players were momentarily stopped, most of them with hands on knees, waiting for something. Ah, yes, it looked like they were preparing to hike the ball. I’d seen that on TV.

Not sure what else to do, I ran toward the southern goal line. Perhaps it would be best to position myself near there and try to stop anyone who attempted to cross the line with the ball. Rather like a goalie? I wasn’t the only one with this idea, however, as there were a half-dozen ALA players already in the area. I found a hole toward the left and took up a position facing the play.

There was a whistle and a scramble. Tray ran backward, holding up the ball and scanning ahead.

There. He was running backward, toward the north end, yet he appeared to be intent on the southern goal. That was exactly the sort of scenario—

“Sean! Catch!” he yelled. He sent the ball sailing right toward me.

Oh. Oh shit.

I held up my arms. Perhaps I should have informed everyone beforehand that I’d never played ball before. I’d never caught a football in my life. Oh fuck.

The ball sailed over my outstretched arms and struck me, the pointy end slamming into my sternum. There was a bolt of pain and I couldn’t breathe. But somehow, I managed to fold my arms in and hang on to the ball. I was quite proud of myself for that, even as I gasped for air.

“Run!” someone was shouting. “Run, Sean!”

Oh. Yes.

I paused only a fraction of a second, half turning toward the goal line shortly behind me. But then, of course, I remembered. I started running, hugging the ball, toward the north end.

Dear God, it was far away. Did I really have to run all that way?

For a moment, everyone just looked at me. And I wondered if, perhaps, because I was the new guy, they were giving me a head start? That was sporting of them.

Where were the boundaries? My instinct was to curve left, to escape what would surely be an assault at any moment since I was holding the ball. But going out of bounds was an offense that earned a penalty, according to the rules I’d read online. But the lines, on this practice field, were not marked. How far left was too far?

“Sean, what the fuck are you doing?” shouted Tray.

And then everyone ran at me all at once. The disgust in Tray’s shout told me I was doing something wrong, but I was committed now and also really wanted to avoid the dozen people heading my way. This must be what a rabbit felt like when it’s released from a cage in front of a pack of hounds. My lungs were working again, thankfully, and I sucked in lungs full of air and ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast on the slippery wet grass.

A multitude of hands reached for me. I tried to dodge and stepped into a skid mark slick with mud. I flailed, losing the ball as my arms waved for balance, but it was no use.

As if in slow motion, I felt flags being yanked off my belt even as I sailed through the air. I tried to grab onto someone’s arm to stop my fall, but they pulled away and my effort was in vain. I landed, spectacularly, in a thick ooze of mud.

Have you ever seen that video of milk droplets forming a veritable crown as a drop falls into a pool of milk in slow motion? That was probably what it looked like as I face-planted right into the thick of it, and the mud splashed up all around my head.

It was disgusting—cold and slimy and gritty. I managed not to breathe it in, but I could taste the dirt and feel it in my mouth as I sat up, spluttering. My knee hurt badly—probably skinned—as did my wrist and palm where I’d tried to catch myself.

People were laughing and someone—Tray, I think—berated me using the word fuck liberally. But my glasses were covered with mud, so I couldn’t see. Shame and humiliation burned through me as I sat, the mud now soaking through my sweatpants to coat my butt. I removed my glasses to attempt to clean them, but the mud still stung in my eyes and my shirt was soaked. I wouldn’t cry. I would not cry.

Someone squatted down in front of me as I attempted to wipe slime out of my eyes with my sleeve. He took the glasses from my hand. Even though he was a little blurry, I could see it was Bubba. I blinked to clear my vision and watched as he cleaned my muddy lenses on his gray sweatshirt. His tongue poked out in concentration, and when they were clean, he looked at my face and carefully put the glasses back on, tucking each end behind my ears with utter focus. Then he met my gaze and smiled at me sheepishly. “Um… turns out you were on Tray’s team. Sorry. My bad.”

A silly bubble of warmth bloomed in my chest at his kindness. “Oh,” I said. “Yes, I thought that’s what Tray said at the start. I should have been more insistent.”

Bubba’s smile widened. “Yeah, it’s pretty much always a good idea not to listen to me.” He shrugged, but there was something in the self-deprecating remark that made me wonder. He held out his hand. “Lemme help you up.”

He pulled me to my feet. I winced when I put weight on the leg with the skinned knee and my hand hurt. With my lenses clean, I could see Tray standing there with his arms crossed, looking at me with what could only be termed disgust.

“It’s my fault.” Bubba told him. “I told Hedgehog—er, Sean—he was on my team and he should run that way.”

“Bubba, what the fuck!” Tray said loudly, but then he rolled his eyes and the tension eased, like maybe it wasn’t that big a deal.

“Yeah, well, Bubba strikes again,” Bubba said with another shrug. “Anyhow, Sean needs to go home and clean up. So fuck off, dudes.”

Bubba put his arm around my shoulder and helped me limp off the field. At the far end, I could swear he gave me a little pat on the rump as he shooed me off toward home like a child. “See ya, Sean,” he said, a little downheartedly.

“It’s not your fault,” I said. It absolutely was his fault, but he’d been trying to be helpful, which was more than I could say for anyone else on the team. But Bubba was already jogging away, back toward the game.

I managed to get upstairs at the Sigma Mu Tau house without encountering anyone or having to explain why I was covered in mud. I took a shower using soap to clean a scraped area on my knee and palm, applied antibiotic from my first aid kit, and put on some comfy PJs.

Then I sat on my bed. My roommate, Dobbs, was out. I should study, but I didn’t.

It had started to rain again and I stared out the window, unable to get certain words out of my head.

“Well, I sure as hell hope not. Because if you were stupid on top of that, you sure would have been dealt a raw deal in life.”

That being my body, which was woefully pale, weak, and pathetic, like the guy who gets sand kicked in his face in those old Jack LaLanne ads. That was the objective truth, so why should Bubba’s words hurt me? He hadn’t even been mean. He’d been nice to me, in fact.

Did that make it worse? Possibly.

Well, of course I was out of shape! Why did he think I volunteered to play ridiculous flag football in the first place? Yes, I wanted to help my fraternity meet Dean Robbert’s ultimatum. The dean told my frat, the Sigma Mu Taus, that we had to have two of our guys on the Alpha Lambda Alpha flag football team, and two of their guys on our Quiz Bowl team, to prove we could all work together. It was either that or face the disbarment of both our houses. Of course, I didn’t want that to happen. But mostly, I volunteered because it gave me a chance to get in shape. I mean, those ALAs were buff. They were cool and good-looking, and I figured some of that could rub off on me.

I was a senior. It was January. I only had a few months left of my undergrad years. And I was still a virgin. I’d spent my high school years taking advanced classes and having no social life. My social life now consisted of role-playing games, video games, and watching Jeopardy with my SMT housemates.

I knew where I was going in life. My parents were both geneticists. They worked for the same company—that was how they met. Genome sequencing. They were dedicated and worked long hours at their research and didn’t do much else. That would be my life too. But before that, until then, I wanted to… to….

To live a little. I wanted to step outside the box, do something un-Sean McKinney-like. I wanted to party, to ride in fast cars, to have wild-and-crazy casual sex.

Or any sex!

I wanted to get into better shape, so maybe, before I graduated, someone might want to have sex with me.

My palm stung. I pulled back the dressing to peek at it. I felt my stubborn streak kick in.

Screw you, Alpha Lambda Alpha, you A-hoes. If you think a little scrape is going to discourage me, you’ve got another thing coming. I will play flag football. And I’ll get in shape too!



Sunday Sport Stats




Eli Easton
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.

Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.

In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.




Tara Lain
Tara Lain believes in happy ever afters – and magic. Same thing. In fact, she says, she doesn’t believe, she knows. Tara shares this passion in her stories that star her unique, charismatic heroes and a few adventurous heroines. Quarterbacks and cops, werewolves and witches, blue collar or billionaires, Tara’s characters, readers say, love deeply, resolve seemingly insurmountable differences, and ultimately live their lives authentically. After many years living in southern California, Tara, her soulmate honey and her soulmate dog decided they wanted less cars and more trees, prompting a move to Ashland, Oregon where Tara’s creating new stories and loving living in a small town with big culture. Likely a Gryffindor but possessed of Parseltongue, Tara loves animals of all kinds, diversity, open minds, coconut crunch ice cream from Zoeys, and her readers.



Eli Easton
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Coaching the Nerd #2

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