by Saxon James
He leaves, and I quickly input Carlene’s bet, then charge the funds to her account. There’s no fucking way Kirans is going to get hurt, and placing bets where I already know the outcome really rubs me the wrong way. That’s five thousand whole dollars completely gone to waste, though I suppose Gary gets a portion of it back through the business, so it’s not a complete loss. Just mostly.
I pick up my phone again, struggling against the pull. Since texting with Taryn the other night, he’s all I can think about. I swear he’s in my room every time I try to fall asleep, and I keep thinking about the fact that he wants to see me again. Each time I do, my excuses start to seem like just that… excuses. But he has a career. A career people would kill for. Am I making too much of this?
But all it takes is one person making the connection, then one bad play that loses a game, then one person starting to put the wrong pieces together… Can I really be selfish enough to risk that? If Taryn’s happy to, why am I still fighting this?
Chapter Eleven
I stare at the lumpy, congealed mess in the bottom of the pan that was supposed to be dinner. I’m not going to get angry over it. I’m not.
My breathing is coming heavy through my nose as I grab the handle of the pan and dump the whole thing in the trash.
Cooking has never been my strong suit, but Jesus fucking Christ, it shouldn’t be so hard to cook some fucking rice. I drag my fingernails back over my hair, willing myself to keep breathing. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing, barely the kind of thing people lose their shit over, but I’m dangerously close. My hand is itching to punch something.
Which of course has nothing to do with the fact Elliot still hasn’t messaged me.
So I back up out of the kitchen and into the living area where I refuse to picture seeing Liam sitting on the couch. Instead, I walk over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and press my forehead to the glass, eyes blurring and taking the view of Philly out of focus.
Our game this week was incredible. The team has really come together in the kind of way we never would have predicted during the preseason. Even though it’s still too early to tell, people are already talking about the playoffs like it’s a sure thing, which really should excite me more than it does.
Deciding dinner isn’t going to cook itself, I call for takeout. Again. I alternate places and answer the door in my shitty disguise to try to keep from being recognized, though I’m sure the kid who brought my pizza the other night saw straight through it. The NFL supplies our food during the season to make sure we’re sticking to a strict diet, but it’s not my fault I can’t cook worth a damn.
While I wait, I pull out my phone and thumb through to Elliot’s number, thinking about our texts. It’s been a few days and he hasn’t contacted me, so it would be pushy to message him again first, right? And pushy isn’t me. Except apparently it is because our messages are open, and I’m already typing.
Me: If someone wanted to ask Elliot out on a date, how would that someone go about it? Hypothetically.
There’s something about reaching out to him that slowly releases my stress. I have no reason to think he’ll reply except the niggling feeling that this is the right step.
A Friend: Hypothetically, they wouldn’t be a closeted football player.
Me: Hypothetically, ouch.
A Friend: Even more hypothetically, Elliot has picked up the phone a few times lately.
Me: Oh yeah? And when he did pick up the phone, what did he want to say?
A Friend: Nothing. Anything.
Me: Well, they’re my two favorite topics.
A Friend: Okay, real talk for a minute. It feels sort of shitty to go along with this, knowing the kinds of problems it could cause for you.
I don’t text him back, instead I pick up my phone and call. Thankfully he doesn’t play games, just answers on the first ring.
“When I said real talk, I wasn’t being literal,” he says.
“I know.” I run my thumbnail along the seam of my pants. “Okay, first answer that comes to your head, without thinking of all the other stuff, do you want to see me again?”
“Yes.”
A smile breaks across my face. “Then let’s make it happen.”
“It’s not that easy, Taryn.”
“Sure it is.” And I’m not taking his excuses this time. “We make a plan, set a date, then meet. Simple.”
“The true logistics of a date. How silly of me for not remembering,” he says dryly.
“So is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes if you can figure out a way for it to happen without you getting into shit.”
“Hmm…” He’s got me there. How the hell am I supposed to take him out without being recognized? My doorbell rings, announcing dinner is here. “Hold on a minute.”
Elliot promises to wait, and I leave my phone upstairs so he doesn’t hear my dinner shame. I grab my food as quickly as I can, sending a silent thanks to the internet gods for online payment, and jog back upstairs.
I melt into my couch in relief when I realize he hasn’t hung up on me. “I’m back.”
“Thank god. I thought you’d died and fossilized.”
“Please, I was gone for thirty seconds, max.”
“Okay, it was at least sixty, and you’re out of breath. You really should work out or something.”
He’s lucky he’s on the phone because otherwise I’d flip him off. But… actually, that gives me an idea. “What are you doing right now?”
“If you ask me what I’m wearing, I’m hanging up now.”
I laugh. “Nah, that’s for another phone call. I just want to… talk.” And I do, which is the really strange part. As much as I’d love to see Elliot’s cock again, I’m happy to wait and hope that’s where this leads.
“I was about to heat up last night’s left overs.”
“Good, go do that.”
“What?”
“Just do it, and let me know when you’re back.”
There’s a slight pause. “Okay?”
Elliot must put the phone down because there’s noise coming from the background, and while he’s busy, I put my phone on speaker and rush to get shit ready. I dump my Indian food on a plate, grab some tea light candles I have set aside for power outages, and turn my TV on to a music channel before turning it down until it’s barely audible.
As soon as Elliot lets me know he’s back, I video call him.
“Our post hook-up relationship has progressed from texting to video calling all in the space of half an hour. We’re on fire.”
I’m not really sure about the word relationship, but I let it slide. “Must be because we’re so… hot.”
He groans, hanging his head back, and when he looks up again, he takes a moment to study the candles and listen to the music… “Is this a date?”
“Yes?” I swallow past the lump in my throat.
He smirks. “You sound unsure.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be sure of anything with you.”
“Good.” There’s a pause. “As soon as people start getting predictable, they start getting boring.”
“I dunno. Sometimes predictable is good.”
“Never witnessed it before.”
I hum, maybe that’s why he isn’t interested in something more? Does he think repeatedly seeing the same guy is bound to get boring? That sounds like a challenge to me.
“Alright, we’re going for a speed round.”
“What?” He eyes me like he’s unsure and loving it.
“A speed round get-to-know-you. We volley questions back and forth and don’t take any time to answer. Ready?”
Elliot laughs. “Sounds fun. Go.”
“Last name?”
“What? That’s an easy one. Schultz.”
Elliot Schultz. Not too bad. “Okay, now your turn.”
“Favorite color?” he asks.
“Red. Yours?”
/> “Green. Aside from people you’ve dated, does anyone know you’re gay?”
“My family.”
His eyebrows jump. “That’s unexpected.”
Thinking of Mom makes me smile. “Yeah, they’ve known since high school. My mom and my sister, and now her husband. That’s sadly it. What’s your family like?”
“Don’t have one—”
“What?”
“Next question.”
“Hang on,” I interrupt. “How don’t you have a family?”
“Long story, and that’s not the type of game we’re playing. Do you like to read?”
I deliberate for a second, wondering if I should push. But while he said game I get the feeling he meant this isn’t that type of relationship. “Only the team’s weekly stats.” I force a smirk, chest feeling heavy in a way I can’t explain. “Ever played a sport?”
“High school baseball. I was mediocre at best. Ever played a sport you were bad at?”
“Table tennis.” I pretend to shudder. “I can catch a football pass from a field length away, but put a paddle in my hand, and I’m the most uncoordinated person you’ll ever meet.”
“I guess that takes spanking off the table.”
His response is so unexpected I inhale a chunk of chicken and have to wash it down with water before I choke. “You’re into spanking?”
His beautiful lips turn up in the corners. “Not as a kink, but a light tap here or there never hurt anyone.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Why? Think you’re getting a round two?”
And thank god his tone is playful. “Like you’d be able to resist.”
“I’ve done well so far.”
“Yes, but look. Your resistance is crumbling. That’s why we’re talking and you’re flirting.”
“Please, you started it.”
“I started it?” I shake my head. “Do I need to remind you of the spanking comment?”
“No need. The image of you spanking me is burned into my imagination.”
I drop my fork onto the plate with a clatter. Leaning back, my head drops over the headrest and I groan. “You’re killing me here.”
“That’s because you’re so easy to rile up. You should work on that.”
I crack an eye and peer over at him. “What? You don’t like it when I’m all flustered?”
“Only when I’ve got your cock out.”
This time he gets a real laugh out of me before I settle my full attention on him again. “There you go thinking about my cock again.”
“You caught me.” He rolls his pretty eyes. “But then you could say that at basically any time and you’d catch me.”
“So what’s holding us back? You’re busy with work, and I’m not planning on coming out any time soon. We could be good for each other. Casual. You can’t tell me you’ve never had a friends-with-benefit situation before.”
“I’ve never had a friends-with-benefits situation before,” he deadpans. I can’t tell if he’s shitting me or not, but whatever. This could really work for us. My knees start bouncing, a pointless exercise to try to steady my nerves.
“Still seems kind of risky to me,” he says, but I can tell by his tone he’s coming around.
“Again, my choice. You want in? Then say yes, and let me sort out the rest.”
“Taryn…”
“Say it, Elliot.”
He sighs as he covers his face with his hands, but I catch sight of his smile before he hides it away. “Yes.”
Chapter Twelve
The odd thing about being friends with Taryn is that there’s two of him in my brain. There’s the Taryn who messages me whenever he seems to be free, who’s interesting and toes the line of being overtly flirty, and there’s Taryn the football player. The latter is someone I’ve been studying for years. I know his stats, I know his form, and I know the odds on him taking the first touchdown during this weekend’s game. To me, football Taryn was never a real person, he was a bunch of numbers on my spreadsheet. And now friend Taryn is quickly becoming a bunch of words on my cell phone.
Expecting anything else wouldn’t be fair to him, but there’s been plenty of nights in bed where I’ve jerked off to the thought of him with me. I still can’t believe I told him yes. The first time we were together went completely unnoticed, so surely a second time wouldn’t be any different?
Still, the guilt rattling around inside me has held me back from setting an actual date to see him again, even though he’s made it clear I just need to say where and when, and he’ll be there. It puts the proverbial ball in my court, which is bullshit because he’s the sports guy.
I’ve been checking in with my clients all day by phone, so when my cell buzzes, I expect it’s another person placing their bets for the weekend, but when I see the T on my screen, my day instantly brightens.
T: Landed safe and sound. You can stop worrying about me now.
My smile comes before I quickly tamp it down. Because no, Elliot, the text wasn’t that cute.
Me: Worry? If a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebacker can’t take you down, turbulence has no chance.
The three little dots bounce on the screen but I don’t get to read his response as I force my attention back to work. That’s why I’m here—work, not Taryn. A smile twitches over my lips as I remind myself that technically he is part of my work. I could rewatch the Shark’s game from last weekend and no one would bat an eye. But seeing Taryn in his uniform isn’t going to do anything to help my resolve.
Besides, I’m starting to become addicted to the image of him in sweatpants.
Sometimes we video chat and sometimes just message. Other times, Taryn gets home late from catching up with his teammates after practice, and when he calls me it’s dark in my room, and I fall asleep to the sound of his deep voice in my ear. I’m getting worried about how easy it is to talk to him about nothing. I mean, we’ve spoken every day for two weeks now. At what point do we run out of things to say?
I finally give in to the urge to check my phone which has buzzed a few times since I set it down, and I’m smiling before I even look at the screen.
T: You did. You got me to my knees. What does that say about you?
Me: Funny, I don’t remember you being on your knees once.
T: Metaphorically, obviously.
Me: Yeah, I don’t think that counts.
T: Guess there’s only one way to settle this…
Me: Agree to disagree?
T: A do over.
I take a long breath, staring at the words. It’s something I want more than I’m ready to admit. That night… fuck. The bruises on my hips have faded, but I saved the memories. The way he traded between rough and sweet, commanding and kind. Damn, I need that again.
My gaze drifts back to the spreadsheet, my imagination humoring me with running the stats on us being caught, on Taryn being outed, on someone accusing him of throwing a game. I don’t need a spreadsheet to know those stats are low. And I could always stop betting on his team’s games. But that would mean pulling away from the NFL completely, and in doing so, I’d be killing my five-year plan. Football is where the money is.
Growing up with absolutely zero financial security or stability, I’d made myself a promise a long time ago that I’d never be in that position again. It’s hard to turn the practical side of my brain off.
I meet up with Rainer after work, hoping to restore some normalcy to my life. He’s always been incredibly anti-boyfriend, and I hate to admit it to myself, but I’m almost hoping he will remind me why I don’t date. When I get to Oscar’s Garage, Rainer is in his usual place in the booths up the back—this time thankfully clear of any football players. He’s already nursing a beer and has one waiting across from him.
It’s still early enough that the place isn’t packed, but there are a fair few people waiting at the bar, and I’m glad I don’t have to go through that.
“And what time do you call this?” he asks, nudging my beer toward me as I collapse into the seat.
“Work ran late.”
“Work always runs late for you. You need to tell your boss where to stick it.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” I take a sip of my beer. “You are the boss.”
With a shake of his head, Rainer lets a loud breath out through his nose. “Hardly. I’m merely a figurehead for my father’s banks. I’m so sick of having to show up for board meetings when I just don’t care.”
“So quit.” I’m one to talk. I mean, I don’t hate my job, which is weird in itself, but it’s definitely not something I’m proud of. But will I quit? No fucking way. But Rainer is loaded and has his own trust, so I don’t understand why he puts up with that shit.
“I’m thinking about it,” he says.
“What?” I blink at him like a dumbass because Rainer has never considered quitting before. “Why?”
His pretty lips twitch. “Let’s just say Ibiza opened my mind to a few things.” He lifts his beer, hiding half of his face behind it, but something about the way his eyes are squinted beneath a smile gives me pause.
“You met someone.”
Rainer half chokes before he gets himself under control and clears his throat. “How on earth would you know?”
I shrug. “Lucky guess?”
His blue eyes assess me. “Fine. Yes, I met a man, and he’s entirely too good for me, so don’t bother with the jokes.”
“Jokes?”
“Yes, the jokes. You know what I mean. I’ve never planned on settling down. And I barely know the guy. We spent, what, a month together? It’s ridiculous.”
I press my lips together to stop from smiling. “What’s ridiculous?”
“Colton. Me. It would never work, right?” His question sounds more like it’s directed at himself, and how could it not be? I don’t know Colton. This is the first I’m hearing about him, and it actually… I hadn’t given it much thought because I’d been so caught up with Taryn, but Rainer’s changed. I can’t remember the last time I got an early-hours call to come save him from whatever situation he’d gotten himself into.