Page 21 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Dare Me

Chance

Today’s shift is steady but manageable. I’m mid-shift, restocking the temporary Halloween section up front and my thoughts drift where they always do, to Ant.

It’s been over two months since I laid eyes on the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

Two months of hanging out, working shifts together, and sharing laughs.

He’s been opening up to me a little more with every interaction, and it only makes the pull I feel toward him stronger.

I’m completely lost to my thoughts of Ant when Jen’s voice breaks through my daze sounding like she’s got the world’s most important secret.

“Chance!” she calls, waving me over from the front counter.

I glance up, a little wary of whatever she’s scheming now. “What’s up?”

Jen leans on the counter with her usual mischievous grin. “So, Anthony’s next home game is next Saturday. Halloween.”

I nod slowly, unsure where this is going.

“And,” she continues, her tone dripping with mock drama, “I got you two tickets.”

“Wait, what?”

Jen slides an envelope across the counter, sly and smooth. “You’re going. No arguments. And you can’t tell Anthony you’re coming.”

“I don’t—”

“Nope,” she interrupts, holding up a hand. “You don’t get a say. You’re going, and that’s final. Also…” She ducks below the counter and pops back up with a large box. “This is for you. But you can’t open it until right before you leave for the game.”

I eye the box suspiciously. “Jen, what are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she says, feigning innocence. “Just being a supportive coworker. Now take it before I make a scene.”

With a sigh, I grab the box and the tickets. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yep,” she says with a wink. “Get back to work, slacker.”

“I will, but for the record, I want to go. I was just trying to say I could have gotten my own tickets, but you wouldn’t let me get a word in,” I tell her as I get back to stocking the spooky vinyl.

“Just buy me a beer at the stadium, Sullivan.”

The afternoon drifts by with sprinklings of lighthearted banter. Jen reminds me nine more times that I am not to open the box until game day. Each time, I tease her by saying I’m opening it as soon as I get home, and she responds by threatening me with various methods of torture.

Her prodding does remind me I need to find someone for the other ticket. I pull out my phone and text Lexi.

Me: Don’t make plans for next Saturday. Got a surprise for you.

Lexi: Ooh, what kind of surprise?

Me: You’ll find out. Just clear your schedule.

Lexi: Wait, that’s Halloween. I’m not bartending, but who says I don’t have sexy plans?

Me: Do you?

Lexi: Fine, whatever. No, I don’t.

Lexi: This better be good or you have to blow me.

Me: Ha! Morph yourself into a college football player that loves ‘80s music… and I will.

Lexi: Boy, you got it bad.

Me: You have no idea.

I tuck my phone away, shaking my head at her predictable snark.

Over the past couple of months, Lexi and I have grown quite close. She has this way of drawing people in with her humor and unapologetic honesty, making it easy for me to let my guard down in a way I wouldn’t with anyone back in Boston.

A few weeks ago, not long after she spotted Ant leaving my apartment, we were hanging out at her place. One or two too many margaritas later, she gracefully approached the sexuality conversation.

“Okay, let’s play Truth or Dare, except truth is the only option,” she announced suddenly, taking another sip of her margarita.

“Oh God, what are you talking about, woman?” I asked, laughing.

“It’s simple. I’ll go first,” she said with a smirk. “Truth. I mostly get with men, but I’ve been known to dabble with a hot woman from time to time. Okay, your turn.”

“Well, that’s a creative way of asking a guy his sexuality,” I said, laughing as I played along. “But okay, I’ll play. Truth. Strictly dickly.”

Lexi grinned, shaking her head. “Damn it! That explains the tragic lack of interest in my magnificent breasts. I mean, I kinda figured you liked cock, but was holding out on the chance you were bi. Oh well, probably for the better. I would’ve notched you in my bed post and never called you again.”

Just like that, I had come out to another person, and it was exactly the reaction I expected from her—light, funny, and perfectly Lexi. We spent the rest of the night talking about hot actors, musicians, and, of course, a certain sexy as fuck Italian.

Since then, she’s been my sounding board for all the messy thoughts swirling in my head about Ant. At first, she laughed, reminding me she’d seen it from a mile away. She teases me relentlessly now, but I don’t mind.

I know she’ll love going to the game, but more importantly, I know she’ll make it her mission to keep me distracted if Ant dominates my thoughts the entire time.

But let’s be honest, he absolutely will be.

He’ll be out on the field. In tight football pants.

Not that I haven’t already scoured the internet for photos of him in said pants.

There are a few, but the angles aren’t great.

Let’s just say I’m ready for the live show.

By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m buzzing with a mix of nerves and excitement.

Ant mentioned the game in passing during a shift earlier in the week, and I’d played it cool, nodding and wishing him luck.

Now, standing in my bedroom with the box Jen gave me, I feel like a kid on Christmas morning.

I’m honestly impressed with myself for waiting to open it.

Who am I kidding? Jen scares me. I wasn’t going to touch it until today.

I peel the tape off carefully, lifting the lid to reveal a pristine jersey. It’s maroon and gold, the school colors, withASU on the front, and PACINI printed in bold letters across the back above the number 22.

My chest thumps, a strange mix of pride and something deeper settling over me: possession. The thought of wearing his name, his number. It makes me stand a little taller.

I pull the jersey on, smoothing it over my torso. It fits perfectly. I take a moment to stare at my reflection in the mirror, feeling like I was always meant to be branded with his name.

A knock at my door pulls me out of that little daydream.

When I open it, Lexi is standing there, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto the jersey I’m wearing. She already pried it out of me earlier this week where we were going.

“Turn around,” she demands.

“Nope.”

“Turn around right now, Chance,” she repeats, more forceful this time.

I sigh, blowing out a breath, then reluctantly comply.

“Oh, holy shit,” she says, and I can hear the smirk in her voice. “Look at you, superfan. I didn’t think you were the type to wear someone’s name on your back.”

“Don’t start,” I warn, but there’s a small smile tugging at my lips.

Lexi steps inside, giving Guinness a quick pat on the head before turning back to me. “Does he know you’re going?”

“No,” I admit, clipping a leash on Little G. “And don’t start, Lex. It wasn’t my idea.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she says, miming a zipper across her mouth. “But for the record? You look hot in that jersey. Just saying.”

“Thanks, Lex,” I say, rolling my eyes.

We take Little G out, tuck him in his crate, and head off to the game in her car.

The energy at the stadium is palpable, buzzing with students, faculty, and alumni. Lexi and I weave through the crowd, our tickets guiding us to a prime section near midfield.

“Chance!” Jen’s voice rings out before we enter the section to locate our seats. She appears out of nowhere, practically bouncing with excitement, then screeches to a stop.

“Holy fucking shit!” she screams, earning a few disapproving looks from nearby parents. “Who is this beautiful creature?” she clarifies, gesturing to Lexi. “Chance, introduce me. Immediately.”

I chuckle, gesturing between them. “Lexi, this is Jen. Jen, Lexi.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lexi says, laughing and extending a hand.

Jen shakes it enthusiastically. “Oh, the pleasure is all mine. My god, look at you. You’re stunning,” she gushes.

Jen grabs Lexi by the hand and leads us toward the seats. When we reach our row, she points to Lexi and says, “You’re sitting next to me.”

I shoot Lexi an apologetic look as Jen plants herself firmly between us. She waves me off with a grin, clearly amused and starts talking to Jen about her shoes or some shit.

It’s then that I notice something very, very off about this situation, and I interrupt.

“Uh, Jen?”

“Yes, sweet, dear, darling Chance?” she replies, batting her lashes dramatically.

“That will get you nowhere with me, and you know it,” I remind her. “But seriously, where are your and Lexi’s jerseys? Not that I’m not appreciative, but when I opened the box and saw mine, I figured at least you would be wearing one too.”

“Oh. Yeah, no,” she says with a shrug, the little asshole, and turns back to talk to Lexi.

“Wait a minute. Jen, I can’t be the only one wearing his jersey.”

“Yeah, you can,” she says, staring at me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“At least let me go buy you guys some generic jerseys from the vendor stands,” I offer, already half-turning to leave.

“You can waste your money if you want, but we won’t be putting them on, right, Lexi?” Jen asks, leaning into her new best friend.

“That’s right. I’m good here,” Lexi says with a smirk. “How are people supposed to see this incredible rack if it’s covered in a baggy jersey?” she adds, gesturing proudly at her chest.

“Seriously, Sullivan, that would basically be a crime against humanity. It’s a great rack!” Jen proclaims with dramatic flourish. “Besides, it’ll ruin the desired effect if we’re all wearing them,” she finishes with a wink.

“Whatever. You’re both dead to me,” I grumble, but deep down, that little part of me—the one that secretly loves the idea of being possessed, of wearing his name on my back like a brand—grows just a little stronger.

The game starts with a burst of energy, the players taking the field to roaring cheers. Ant is easy to spot, his number 22 shining under the stadium lights. My chest does that thing again at the sight of him, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

“Not bad, huh?” Jen leans over, her voice cutting through the noise.

“What?” I ask, glancing at her.

“Your boy,” she says, nodding toward the field. “That ass in that uniform.”

I shake my head. “He’s not my—”

“Relax,” she says, smirking. “I’m just saying. Football pants. Am I right or am I right?”

Believe me, I am overly aware of that ass in those pants.

We watch in silence for a while, the tension on the field mirrored by the energy in the stands. Ant moves with precision, every step and catch calculated. He’s so fucking sexy, I can barely sit still in this seat.

“You know,” Jen says as the second quarter gets underway, “I have a black belt in gaydar.”

“We already had the whole coming-out moment, Jen,” I reply, laughing.

“I’m not talking about you,” she says, nodding toward the field.

“I’m saying this not just because of the way you look at him, Chance, but because I know him.

I haven’t drawn it out of him yet because it’s different with him, you know?

With you, I knew I could be bold and just ask.

With him, it’s not so straightforward. It’s not as simple as ‘hey, do you like boys or girls?’ I think he’s buried any sense of sexuality altogether.

I used to think maybe he could be asexual or demi, but I don’t think that anymore. ”

“I don’t—”

“Let me finish,” she cuts in, holding up a hand.

“Like I said, my gaydar is unmatched, and I always suspected, but he’s never shown interest in anyone who’s come into the shop.

Ever. So, I couldn’t prove my suspicions.

Then you waltzed through the door and suddenly, he’s opening up like this big, beautiful, gay flower.

His energy is shifting, and for the first time, he’s showing signs of actually having sexual interest in someone. ”

She turns to me, her expression soft but earnest. “My point, Chance, is that if you’re as into him as your eyes keep giving away, I hope you’ll keep chipping away at those walls.”

Her words hit their mark, and honestly, I’m not sure how to respond, except with the truth.

“Between us, strictly?” I finally say.

Jen nods, her expression serious.

“He’s all I think about,” I admit. “I just want to be careful about pulling someone along if they’re not ready. I’m going slow and cautious because I think that’s the pace he needs.”

Lexi leans over, exchanges a glance with Jen, then they turn to me and say, “Awwww.”

“Alright. Fuck off, the both of ya,” I say with a laugh.

Jen studies me for a moment, then nods. “You’re a good one, Chance Sullivan. Just don’t let fear stop you from going after what you want. Don’t let him hide inside himself forever either.”

“I won’t.”

Before Jen can say anything else, the crowd erupts around us, drawing our attention back to the field. Their quarterback, Ryan Buterbaugh—who Ant refers to as “Butters”—steps back in the pocket, scanning for an opening.

“There he is,” Jen says, nudging me as she points.

Ant breaks away from his defender, sprinting toward the sideline. Butters locks onto him and throws a perfect spiral. The ball arcs high against the backdrop of the stadium lights, and it feels like the entire crowd holds its breath.

Ant leaps, his body fully extended as his fingertips brush the ball, pulling it down with precision. He lands smoothly, barely breaking stride as he pivots past a charging defender.

He’s off, weaving through players with an almost effortless grace. His legs pump, his cleats digging into the turf as he dodges one tackle after another. The crowd roars louder with every step he takes. By the time he crosses into the end zone, untouched, the stadium explodes into cheers.

“Holy shit. He’s fucking good,” I shout, unable to take my eyes off him.

Jen whistles, leaning closer to me. “If you weren’t hot for him before…”

I don’t respond. My heart is pounding too hard to speak, and I can’t stop watching as Ant celebrates with his team, his face lit up with pure joy.

As the game goes on, I can’t help but watch Ant more closely. I notice the little things—the intensity in his focus, the unrelenting determination in every play, and the way he connects with his teammates, offering encouragement and commanding respect without even trying.

By the time the final whistle blows, securing a 14-7 victory for Ant and his team, one thing is painfully clear… I’m completely and undeniably fucked.