Page 5 of Phantom Faceoff (Daddies of the League #5)

Chapter Five

Zander

Holding two cock’s in my hand, I couldn’t help but feel like I was being watched. And not by the bright eyed, handsome man lying beneath me.

A quick glance to the side just shows a lump beneath Blanchard’s covers. Still.

I’m imagining things.

The thrill that shoots up my spine as the feeling returns—as there’s a moan too deep to come from the man I’m frotting against—is all too real.

It hits me at an incredible rate—the orgasm that is—and I end up using my own cum as lube to finish Julian off.

I should be more focused, but something about this entire night has me jumbled. There’s something in the air, some unspoken energy charged between Julian and Malachi that piques my curiosity.

There’s a challenge in the mystery.

And I’m a sucker for a challenge.

“Babe,” Julian whines as my fingers brush his inner thigh. He wiggles in my hold, pressing closer.

I flex my hand across the outline at the seem of his jeans, heat blooming across his sweet, pale cheeks.

“Hey now. Let’s keep it PG in the quad.” Micky whacks my ankle with the back of his hand, eyes firmly focused on the notebook in front of him.

He’s got these thick, plastic frames sitting on his nose that keep sliding down and reminding me of one of those grumpy librarians from high school.

“And I assume what you’re writing on that paper is PG, hmm, Donovan?”

His ears turn pink, and this time he punches me in the chest. Micky could lay me out if he wanted to, but instead he just knocks a bit of the wind out of me.

Michael Donovan—The North Haven Ravens’ co-captain—is a secret smut writer. I came across his fanfiction pen-name when he forgot to log out of his AO3 account while letting me borrow his laptop last year.

Not that I’d ever out him, but teasing? That’s fair game.

“Ooh, do we read dirty fiction in this circle?” Julian turns to face me, lacing his fingers through mine where they rest on his shoulder.

“Can’t say I have of my own free will,” I say, and Julian’s face falls a little. “Nothing wrong with it, though.”

The smile returns. “Mal has a couple fandoms he dabbles in—reading and consuming, not so much writing.”

Ah. It isn’t very often we go long in conversation without the roommate being mentioned. It’s what happens when you’re that close to someone, I suppose. A lot like how Micky brings up Parker.

“So, you and Blanchard,” I hedge, stroking Julian’s arm in slow, even circles. “The two of you ever been … ya know … intimate?”

Julian looks up at me and blinks slow, resting his cheek on my shoulder. “When we were teens we’d kiss and touch here and there, but it was never sexual. It was more like wrapping up in your security blanket. A safe place away from all the hurt.”

“Were things that bad for you?”

He shakes his head. “Not as bad as it was for Mal. We basically grew up together in the group home, and Mal sort of took on a parental role to the rest of us.”

A brief hint of discomfort clouds his expression, and he pulls his knees to his chest, tucking himself into my side.

“He took the brunt of every beating, every punishment. I honest to god thought they’d left him for dead once.

I dragged him to the bathroom on my own and nearly drowned him trying to clean him up. ”

He chuckles, but it’s humorless.

“I know he comes across abrasive,” he says, squeezing our joined fingers. “But that’s who he always had to be. To survive. He’s secretly a puppy dog. I promise.”

Now I feel a little bad for feeding into the rumors that go around about him.

Malachi Blanchard is bad news.

Blanchard is a hot-head.

Dangerous delinquent.

“But no,” he goes on. “We’ve never dated. Or been romantic. Or slept together. Or even hooked up in a traditional sense. He takes care of me, and I make sure he doesn’t self-destruct.”

I catch Micky’s smile out of the corner of my eye. He must be thinking about Parker, who was his best friend long before they were boyfriends.

“Sorry to bring up bad thoughts,” I say and place a kiss on Julian’s temple.

He shakes his head. “They aren’t. Mal needs more people in his corner. He has trouble letting anyone in, and if sharing our story makes you a little more inclined not to hate his guts … I’ll take it.”

I bury my nose in the mess of hair at the top of his head. “I don’t hate him.” If anything, I’ve always found him intriguing, but a little out of reach.

Micky taps his pencil on my shoe. “Hate-boner.”

Julian giggles into the crook of my neck. “That’s exactly how I would describe their pissing matches.”

“Let me clarify.” I playfully pinch his side, and he pouts up at me with his bottom lip puffed out dramatically. “Blanchard hates my guts, but I don’t have anything against the guy. Other than he’s fun to rile up.”

“I’m fun, too, right?” Julian smiles and places an open-mouthed kiss to my collarbone. His fingers feel around for the hem of my shirt and slip beneath.

What were we talking about again?

The bark of the tree we’re sitting against digs into the exposed skin of my back as Julian tugs my shirt up. Not off to make me indecent—we are in public after all—but room for his hands to splay across my shoulder blades.

There’s the sound of rustling grass and a muttered, “that’s my cue” followed by retreating footsteps.

But I’m laser focused.

Julian and I are … having fun. We haven’t labeled whatever this is.

A relationship?

Casual sex?

A friends-with-benefits situation?

We do what feels good, and right now his weight hovering over my lap feels phenomenal.

“I think,” Julian whispers against my lips. “He might actually like you.”

“Who?” I’m too zoned in on the way our mouths move together, on Julian’s tongue stroking my own, to follow his train of thought.

He chuckles. “Mal.”

We separate, but Julian keeps close like he doesn’t plan for us to stay that way.

“The way he huffs and puffs when I bring you up, and the way you bicker about Taylor Swift of all things. Bold, by the way. Daddy is serious about his music.”

My libido is still in charge of my brain, so I shake my head to clear some of the fog.

“I’m not sure if I want to question you on Blanchard liking me”—which he absolutely does not—“Or the fact that you just unironically called him Daddy .”

Julian presses his lips together, brows dipping down. “Don’t worry about the second part,” he says with a dry chuckle. “It’s an inside joke.”

“Which brings us back to Blanchard liking me is about as likely as Ellis winning a face off against Micky. Which is statistically improbable, alright?”

“Malachi,” Julian says, extracting himself from my arms and planting himself back on the ground, “wants to believe that he’s better on his own. That if he doesn’t give anyone the power to hurt him, then they won’t.”

Julian is earnest. Caring. Fiercely loyal.

Safe.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Julian huffs out an exasperated breath. “He’s a great guy to have in your corner. If you ever get in a bind … Mal will protect you. Even if he thinks you’re annoying and hogging his best friend.”

It’s sweet. The way he wants us to get along.

“I’m pretty sure if I took a puck to the face he’d just stand there all broody and refuse to call an ambulance.”

Julian rolls his eyes and pushes at my chest, climbing to his feet and offering me a hand. “Stubborn.”

“Seems you have a type,” I say with a wink.

That’s all it takes to turn us back into a tussle of tongues and teeth, ravishing each other against the willow like the rest of the world ceases to exist.

These are the moments that I thrive in.

Messy. Passionate.

Wild.

Asher Roth can drink me under the table on his worst day, and while he may have called me out to fight a case of the blues, this is far from one of them.

With my first Music Theory paper due and my spot in pre-season on the line, I could use a little black out mind numb.

I’ve lost count of how man shots I’ve downed, but I know Asher is at least double. There’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me that he’ll be in no condition to get us back to campus.

Another voice tells me that the girls at this party are really fucking pretty, and I should see how many flavors of lip gloss I can rack up.

Spoiler alert, I forgot to count, but my mouth currently tastes like blue raspberry watermelon.

And I have completely lost sight of Asher.

His phone goes straight to voicemail, and I’m not surprised because he leaves the thing chronically uncharged.

Me

Ash is AWOL. Booze and Babes.

Two seconds later.

Ellis

This is why I have him air tagged. Thx. Need a ride?

Yes.

Me

Nope. I’ve got it.

I most certainly do not, but my feet are already in motion, so why not let them say their piece?

I have not a damn clue where I am, but I know that it’s almost 2AM and the street lamps are all starting to blur together.

Thanks to the nighttime air and the solid hour on my feet wandering the city, most of my inebriation has cleared.

I’m still buzzed all to hell, though. I can’t hold a single thought for too long without feeling the beginnings of a migraine.

Eventually, my steps come to a halt, and a familiar heaviness settles on my shoulders.

Find a safe place to crash.

There’s an alley tucked into the side of a building to my left, and it looks as safe as any other spot to wait out the effects of the alcohol.

Normally—and I say that meaning maybe two or three times in recent history—I’d curl up in the deepest recess of the alley until I’m able to get my bearings.

However, as I’m lowering myself to the ground with spectacularly uncoordinated movements, a ladder attached to the side of the building draws my curiosity.

It happens in the span of seconds, a blink and miss it moment. First, I’m looking at the rusted, janky metal, then suddenly the rough bite is scrapping my palms and my feet come into contact with patchy roof paneling.

The wind whips at my face and chapped lips—still holding the faint taste of a fruit whose name I can’t place—and I close my eyes to focus on the light caress.

When I open them, my legs are dangling over the edge. The roof is slanted, and I’m sprawled on my back staring up at the star-speckled sky. My vision swims, floaters as a precursor to what is bound to be one nasty as shit hangover.

There’s not a chance in hell any of my limbs obey my commands to get back to the ground.

Dozing off here wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. At least as long as I wake up before morning when the shop owner most definitely calls the cops.

A sign a few feet away captures my attention. Black, white, and sprinkles of orange.

The Den.

Why does that sound familiar?

A sea of records pop up behind my closed eyelids.

The record store.

Blanchard.

I bet he wouldn’t hesitate to push me right off this damn roof.

Julian.

Seeing me up here would scare the shit out of him. That is one thought I am one hundred percent certain of.

I know where I am. I should call Micky. Sure, he’ll yell and lecture me. But at the very least he won’t let me fall.

Or push me.

My thumb hovers over my contact list, drawn to one name.

If you ever get in a bind, Mal will protect you.

My heart pounds as I glance over the edge of the roof.

Fifty/Fifty he scoffs and leaves me to my own natural consequences.

My eyes close, too heavy to hold themselves open anymore.

I put the phone to my ear and listen to the line trill.

My mind is lost to the haze of exhaustion. I’m seconds away from losing my grip on the phone and listening to it smack against the pavement.

Someone grunts.

Silence.

My imagination.

A throat clears.

“Hale?”

I try to open my mouth, but a pained sound through my teeth is all I can manage.

Who let me get this hammered?

My concentration falters.

Why was I trying to stay awake again?