Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
But I know this much—as tough as the last few months have been for me, tonight was a welcome break from the hard stuff.
This feels like it was necessary for my sanity. For my mental health. Somehow, this hookup eased the pain of the rougher days.
My mind is lighter, and I want more of this good feeling.
After I order a Lyft, which will be here in two minutes, I draw a soldiering breath. “Can I ask you one more question?”
Jason laughs, shaking his head. “You and your questions.”
I’m glad I can make him laugh. That’s a good start. “Yeah, I have a lot of questions, including this one. Was tonight a date?”
Jason’s smile is so warm and genuine, and it doesn’t seem like bullshit when he says, “I think so. Did it feel that way to you?”
So much that I want another. “It did. And our flight back to Los Angeles is at eight tomorrow, so there’s time after the game. A couple of hours.”
His smile grows. “You asking me on a post-game date, Cafferty? After I destroy the Mercenaries, that is.”
Holy shit. I am. And it feels so right. “Yeah. But it’ll be the other way around. We’ll annihilate you.”
He scoffs. “Don’t bet on it.”
That gives me a wicked idea. “I’ll bet you a blow job. When I win, you finish what you started when you were sucking me off.”
He cracks up. “We’re betting for blow jobs?”
“We are.”
Jason sticks out a hand. “Fair enough. Winner gets a blow job.” He glances around. “Back here at my place. Tomorrow. Five-ish. We should have time for a blow job and a bite to eat.”
That sounds like a perfect date. “It’s on.”
My phone beeps, telling me that my Lyft is here. No time for anything more. “See you tomorrow.”
I’m tempted to plant a kiss on his lips. But I don’t want to presume he’d like that, so I leave without kissing him goodbye.
I don’t really know how to play this game. But I’ll have to learn because it seems I have a second date with my quarterback crush.
And, I suppose, for the first time, I want to figure it out.
In the morning, my stomach is twisted into knots before I even leave the hotel, and it loops into even tighter ones in the locker room as kickoff nears.
Soon, I’ll take to the field in my first professional game as a starter. This is big.
My stomach jumps again. I’m not made of iron, but I’ve had a lifetime of practice dealing with my pre-game anxiety. I’ve learned how to handle my nerves. I have my rituals, and they help. Mostly.
But this game is different for so many reasons. It would be easy to dwell on those reasons, but . . . nope.
Can’t go there.
Need to stay in the moment.
Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the present, not the past.
When game time rolls around, I leave the locker room and trot to the field after kickoff.
Then, I narrow my focus until it’s entirely on the field and shut off everything else.
8
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Jason
This is my favorite kind of game—one that ends in a win for the home team. As my Hawks jog off the field, victorious, we smack palms with the line of Mercenaries.
My game face is on, so when I near Beck, I don’t crack a smile as I smack his palm or show an ounce of excitement over what’s to come tonight. Fine, maybe I do steal a glance at those lips.
In a couple hours, they’ll be wrapped around my dick.
Yes, this is a seriously good day.
And it’ll be an excellent evening. Maybe, if all goes well, I’ll ask him a question. How about a third date?
We can probably pull off another one during the season. I’ll check our schedules and figure it out. But I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. First, there are things to buy. Like food and stuff.
After I leave the facility, I get in my car and swing by Whole Foods. I don’t know his likes, but he’s an athlete and a foodie, so I make some educated guesses at the deli counter. A chicken salad, a quinoa dish, and since you can never go wrong with cheese, I snag some Gouda and crackers and olives.
I might not cook, but I can make a charcuterie board almost as well as I can play football.
At home, I change into better casual date attire and consider my reflection in the mirror. Trim shorts and a tight navy-blue polo. It’s all good.
Then I head downstairs with Bandit at my heels. He performs his counter jump again in the kitchen, skidding a few inches but then steadying himself. “And it’s a nine point two from the American judge,” I say. “But rules are rules.”
I scoop him up and put him on the floor, moving the stool away so he can’t reach the counter again. Then I set up the food. “Damn, I impress myself,” I say to my new roommate, who’s circling my feet.