by Beth Bolden
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
About Beth
Acknowledgements
Copyright
For Larry.
“This time I’m ready to run;
Escape from the city and follow the sun.”
Colin O’Connor didn’t look anything like the Sports Illustrated cover that Nick had spent the last three months trying not to drool over.
He looked even better.
Nick tensed, even though in his job as a journalist for Five Points, a sports and pop culture blog, he’d interviewed dozens of good-looking men. Sure, he hadn’t felt that intensely visceral pull to any of them the way he did with O’Connor, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t stay professional.
“Thanks for dropping by. I see you’re not too tired from those three touchdown passes against the Rams to talk to me today.”
Colin blushed; it made him look even more attractive. Nick inwardly swore.
“I was at the game yesterday,” Nick continued, trying to stay on topic, “and being the first home game back in LA, it was definitely spirited in the stands. How did it feel on the field? Any difference you noticed?”
When Colin had agreed to stop by Five Points, like any journalist, Nick had done his research. He’d been doing research on Colin O’Connor for years.
He’d read every scrap of information he could get his hands on. He’d watched homegrown YouTube footage of Colin’s football games in Alaska. He’d hired Jemma Keane as his assistant based almost entirely on the college football profile that she’d written on him. She alone had managed to put together an article that seemed to finally tell the world something about the man who’d go on to win a Heisman trophy, lead his team to the National Championship, and eventually be selected as the first pick in the NFL draft. And that was probably because she was also his best friend and Colin had let her write the article.
Colin gave the bare minimum of interviews. When he did give one, it was difficult to penetrate his reserve. He posed for Sports Illustrated, and while shirtless and undeniably handsome on the cover, his blue-eyed stare revealed nothing, and the accompanying article seemed to ask more questions than it ever answered.
The mystery of Colin O’Connor was the frustration of Nick’s career.
Colin shrugged. “It was my first away game in the NFL. It’s tough to judge. Seemed pretty exciting to the crowd.”
When Colin had sat down opposite him, muscular thighs exquisitely framed by a pair of clingy khakis, Nick had sworn he’d seen those blue eyes checking him out, one long head-to-toe sweep.
Nick might not be a cover model like some people, but he knew he was decently attractive. And it seemed, incredibly, that Colin O’Connor might think so, too. That single, speculative glance threatened every promise Nick had ever made about mixing work with pleasure.
“Well, I was pretty excited,” Nick said, with a smirk. His sexuality wasn’t a secret, but he still rarely made mention of it during interviews. Mostly because the interviews weren’t supposed to be about him.
It took Colin a second, but then he grinned back. “About the game or…?”
“You’re definitely an exciting player, even when you’re throwing three touchdowns against my home team.”
Colin’s smile grew. “Always happy to convert opposing fans.”
“Do you feel like that’s tough to do?”
“I’ll be honest,” Colin said, which was incredibly ironic because while yes, he was probably always honest, he was also a closed – and locked – book, “I find a lot of people don’t like me.”
Flirting was almost too easy when Colin kept throwing out such slow pitches.
“I like you,” Nick said, shooting Colin the smile he usually reserved for cute men in clubs.
“Very reassuring,” Colin said.
“Why don’t people like you?” Nick paused, then gave Colin another long look up and down. “Cause I’m not seeing a reason.”
Colin blushed again.
“They don’t like that I’ve won so many things. Heisman trophy. National championship. They think I'm all ego.”
“Again,” Nick said, a degree under a straight leer, “I’m sitting pretty close to you and I can tell you with certainty that you’re not all ego.”
“We’ve already established you’re easy enough to win over,” Colin retorted, but he was smiling.
It had never occurred to Nick that Colin O’Connor, the NFL’s golden child, might not be straight. But Nick knew how straight men flirted with him – and bashful interest simmering in Colin’s eyes now wasn’t like that at all.
Nick threw his hands up. “Guilty as charged.”
“But to clarify, no, I’m not all ego. I work hard. Really hard. Maybe that’s not a popular or a mainstream opinion, but my success is all due to hard work and vigilance.”
“Vigilance? That seems a bit extreme.”
Colin shot him a strange look that Nick barely caught before it was locked down and away and that stupid, bland smile was back.
“Tom Brady eats the same thing every day, keeps the exact same schedule. He’s the most vigilant and the most successful. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
“Would you say you look up to Tom Brady?”
The strange look came back, for a split second longer this time. “I’m a quarterback in the National Football League. I think it would be hard to be that and not look up to Tom Brady in some capacity.”
“Would you consider him your role model?”
“No.” The answer was swift, sudden, and completely unexpected. Nick realized he must be getting to the man more than he’d realized. Colin retrenched. “No, I mean, of course I’d love to have the stat line he does. The Superbowl rings. But I consider Nelson Mandela to be my personal role model.”
Nick, who had read every scrap he could find on Colin O’Connor, was almost one hundred percent sure that he’d never mentioned that in an interview before. He was also fairly certain that despite generally being a heathen, even he couldn’t work Nelson Mandela into a flirtatious double entendre.
“So why Nelson Mandela and not Tom Brady?”
“He fought for something he believed in,” Colin said with perfect conviction. “Something bigger than himself.”
“Someone to emulate, then?”
Colin shot him that look again, longer and more puzzled than before. “While I’d love to bring about the sort of systemic change Nelson Mandela fought for, I don’t think three touchdown passes against the Rams is going to do it.”
“Right, right,” Nick said. He felt off his game. Unprepared. Rocked, a little. He was resolutely not staring at the way Colin’s bicep flexed when he clenched his fingers together, which he did each time he answered a question. What Nick needed was to funnel his distraction into something that could crack Colin O’Connor.
“Boomer told me after the game that you changed two of the touchdown plays at the line of scrimmage. You obviously became adept at running the no-huddle offense at Oregon. Is that something you’re going to work for the Piranhas?”
Colin looked annoyed now, which made sense because the coach of the Piranhas, Daniel Mortensen, had explicitly confirmed that in his press conference two days prior. “That’s the plan.”
“Sounds like you’re better at issuing orders than taking t
hem,” Nick purred, angling his body closer. This portion of the interview would never make the final cut, that much was inevitable, but Nick couldn’t help himself.
Colin looked shocked and speechless for a moment. But it didn’t take him very long to recover, and for someone who still blushed at female reporters’ vague flirtations, he seemed very comfortable dishing it back to Nick.
“I can swing either way. It’s all about the heat of the moment,” Colin replied smugly, blue eyes twinkling, and a sly smile tilting up the corner of his perfect mouth. Looking straight at Nick. Daring him to take it one step further.
And that was it. That was the moment that sealed it. Nick Wheeler’s body, and the part of his soul that didn’t already belong to Stephen Curry, transferred semi-permanent ownership to Colin O’Connor.
Eight months later . . .
Rebellion tasted like vodka with a splash of soda and a sliver of lime, balancing precariously on the edge of Colin’s glass.
Players were allowed to go out and party, mostly because nobody from the Piranhas organization could stop it from happening, but tonight at this particular club, Colin couldn’t help but feel like he was pushing his luck.
It wasn’t that he didn’t go out, because he did. You couldn’t live in a city like Miami and not go out, but he tried to avoid it because loud pulsing music, superficial standards, and free-flowing alcohol weren’t things he normally enjoyed. But Teddy had insisted on him coming, and he’d even slipped in a hard-to-resist sweetener: “There’s this new club,” he’d said, “it’s good for girls and guys, if you know what I mean.”
Colin knew what he meant, and for that and many other reasons, Teddy was his favorite guy in Miami. Nobody else would have taken the time to find a place where Colin could theoretically mingle with both sexes, even though he was usually only interested in men. Nobody else would have cared. Truthfully, nobody else but Teddy knew.
Wasn’t that the ironic cherry on top of the last few years? He was usually interested in men, but the one woman he’d fallen for hadn’t liked him that way. Instead, she’d kindly but firmly kept their friendship platonic.
He was probably the only Heisman-winning quarterback to ever be friend-zoned.
Echoes of the tension headache he’d been fighting earlier throbbed in sync with the heavy bass. Colin took a long pull of his drink, and felt the vodka burn all the way down his throat.
Of all the things he’d done to try to move past his best friend Jemma, he hadn’t tried alcohol yet. Maybe it was time to try to drown his sorrows in more than too many reps and too many long, lonely nights studying the playbook.
Colin set his empty glass down on the VIP table in front of the couch he’d chosen, (mostly because it had the best vantage point of the whole room), and also had the bonus of removing him from anyone who might want to talk to him.
He thought he’d been subtle about it, but when he’d sat down, Colin had seen Teddy’s resigned glare.
The waitress appeared in front him, like she had an alert button for when his glass emptied. His third, and all he felt was a mild, nauseous buzzing at the base of his stomach. Which was why he usually didn’t drink.
Alcohol made him loose and looseness made him nervous.
“Another?” she asked, gathering the glass and the damp napkin sitting underneath it.
He didn’t miss the way she’d been so attentive tonight, bending over further than necessary, flashing him long glimpses of her exposed cleavage. She was beautiful, with lots of smooth, tan skin and piles of dark hair on top of her head, exposing her graceful neck. No doubt the waitress had seen him, the rookie quarterback for the Piranhas, in her section and thought she’d hit the jackpot – and not for just the excellent tip she was assured. What she couldn’t know was that while she was gorgeous, she didn’t do a thing for him.
“I’ve already got it,” a voice said behind her. Colin glanced up, and felt everything that he didn’t for the nice waitress.
He was also gorgeous, with dark eyes and cheekbones to die for, a low-cut, black tank showcasing biceps that told Colin he knew his way around a weight room.
“Belvedere with soda, right?” the guy asked, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve been paying attention.”
Colin looked at the pair in front of him, clearly competing for his attention, and hated the anxiety threatening to break through the comfortable numbness from the last three glasses of vodka.
Not for the first time, he wished he was just gay, because as hard as that had been in high school, that had seemed less a constant struggle to figure out what the hell it was that he really wanted. He’d known he liked men; he’d been absolutely sure. Then he’d walked into that first college class, seen Jemma’s smile, and everything he’d accepted suddenly didn’t feel as settled.
Of all the factors in the decision before him, Colin didn’t think about what might happen if he took the drink out of this guy’s hand, making his preferences clear. Yeah, this was an exclusive club, but people talked. Colin only wanted them to talk when he was ready for them to do so.
Every time before this, when he’d been confronted by a similar choice, he’d chosen nothing at all. Even Jemma hadn’t been a choice, because she’d never chosen him. He could decline the drink and leave. But where had that practice gotten him? Alone and miserable, that’s where.
Fuck it, Colin thought, and reached for the glass, giving the guy what he hoped was a flirtatious smile.
He didn’t usually flirt, because everyone did it for him.
The guy smiled back brightly and shot the waitress a mildly triumphant glance of dismissal. She looked surprised, and Colin couldn’t blame her; his preference for men was hardly common knowledge.
“Hi, I’m Matt,” the man said, settling on the edge of the couch, his imbalance causing him to lean further into Colin’s space.
Colin might have minded usually, but this was what he was supposed to be doing, right? Letting cute boys buy him drinks to help him forget about Jemma?
“Colin,” he replied, fully expecting the guy to say, of course you are.
It wasn’t easy being so recognized. There were a lot of perks to his success, but the constant revolving door of people who wanted something got old. Colin hoped this guy wasn’t one of those because he was hot, and it had been so long since Colin had let himself think that a guy was cute.
But Matt gave no hint that he knew who Colin was. This wasn’t exactly unprecedented, but it was nice. Maybe Matt was just a really good actor.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” Matt said, leaning even further in so Colin could hear him over the music.
Or maybe he really didn’t know who Colin was. Colin relaxed a fraction.
“I’ve never been here before,” Colin admitted.
Matt’s gaze swept over him and it was proprietary. Colin found he liked it; liked feeling being wanted for a change, and not because of all his accolades and accomplishments over the past few years. Jemma had liked him for other things, but then she’d never liked him the way Matt might.
“You’re the hottest thing in this room,” Matt confessed. “I would have definitely remembered you if I’d seen you here before.”
Colin quenched the bubble of irony that threatened to escape his throat.
“I’m glad I came,” he said, and to his own surprise, he meant it.
“Me too,” Matt flirted back, one hand sliding up Colin’s back and the other covering his knee. “You wanna dance?”
Colin made a face. “Not really. I’m a horrible dancer.” He could move around the football field like a natural, but confronted with a person and any kind of music, he was a mess.
He was pretty sure it was more of an emotional hang-up than a physical one, but then he’d never really been motivated to find out.
Maybe he was motivated enough now.
“Oh, come on,” Matt teased, his fingers moving up from Colin’s knee to his thigh. He squeezed and Colin told himself to relax and enjoy it. But eve
ry instinct he’d had since high school was hide, don’t let it show, don’t touch him the way you want him to and it was hard to fight all that noise. “Athletic boy like you? I bet you’re great.”
Colin palmed his glass and hesitated a split second. Then he lifted it to his lips and downed the rest of the liquid. If there’d been any soda in there, he’d be really surprised. And for the first time, the noise in his head quieted a fraction. Not a lot, but it was enough.
He reached out a hesitant hand and brushed Matt’s fingers, lingering on his upper thigh. “I’ll dance if you want me to,” he said, which was as good as he was going to get at flirting. He was beginning to think he was way too straight-forward for flirting. His natural instinct was to cut through all the bullshit teasing and get to what they both wanted.
Matt’s dark eyes sparkled as he grinned. He really was gorgeous — open and charming and at ease with himself in a way Colin couldn’t help but envy.
“Well then, let’s go,” Matt said, tangling their hands together and tugging him up, making no secret at all about his interest.
Colin let Matt lead the way out of the VIP platform and into the thick of the club. Nobody was looking at them and he felt a wild thrill at the anonymity of it.
He even found that he could move decently, especially because Matt was such a great dancer; sinuous and with hips that Colin wanted to grip. He had the thought and then he realized a moment later, he could. The idea blew his mind, and before, he’d never understood why closeted men sought out these clubs, but the idea of acting without thinking first was unbelievably appealing.
Colin’s first touch was hesitant, but the way Matt leaned into it helped give him the confidence he needed to grip those slim hips and pull the man flush against him. Matt smirked, clearly pleased with himself for busting Colin out of his comfort zone and dragging him into Matt’s own. Colin found he didn’t really give a shit if Matt was the smuggest asshole on the planet. It had been so long since Colin had touched someone with non-platonic intentions. Even longer without that familiar pulse of guilt over Jemma. He was feeling good, and he was going to enjoy it.