Page 98 of Playing Dirty

Smirking, I delete my baseball-related message and write out a new one.

Me: Hmm. I don’t know… You know sharing isn’t my strong suit.

Madden: You joke, but I will 1000% withhold sex for peach cobbler.

The threat makes me laugh out loud, knowing damn well it’s an empty one. We’ve both been pretty insatiable since that first time after game night with his friends. Even with us getting busier as we creep deeper into thesemester, we somehow find the time to sneak onto one another’s campus for some fun between the sheets, and I don’t see either of our libidos taking a dive anytime soon.

Me: Now who’s the one making jokes?

Madden: How easily you forget the consequences for testing me.

As if I could ever forget.

He’s unlocked so many pieces of myself I hadn’t known existed. Not just the bisexual part of the equation, but kinks, positions, all of it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…compatible with a partner before him.

Me: You better make good on that promise, MadDog.

Then, for good measure, I pluck one of the peach slices out of the dish and snap a selfie of me biting into it, which earns me an instant response.

Madden: Always playing dirty, aren’t you?

I grin at my phone like a fool, and instead of answering the question, I change topics entirely. After all, if he’s gonna throw out accusations like that, I may as well make good on them.

Me: Looks like you killed it this weekend. Are you as dead to the world as I am right now?

Madden: Nice deflection, Teddy Bear. But nope, still very much alive with too much energy. And since you aren’t home yet, I needed to find a different way to burn it off. ;)

I frown, wondering what the hell he means, when a photo pops up below his text. It’s a selfie of him outside in the dark, his hazel eyes twinkling beneath the black beanie on his head while he’s standing under a light post. And though it might seem rather innocent, the little blue flag hanging on the pole makes me sit up on the mattress.

“That fucker,” I whisper, zooming in on the spot in his photo.

Sure enough, when I make the little flag bigger, I’m able to make outthe Leighton University logo on it. Meaning he just sent proof that he and his teammates are currently raiding our campus in search of the pennant, which is left completely defenseless whenever we have away games. It’s just par for the course, both our schools taking advantage of the other’s away schedule whenever we can, but to see it actually happen puts a little pit in my stomach regardless.

Releasing a little huff, I type out a response.

Me: And you say I’m the one playing dirty? I hope you fall into one of the booby traps we set.

Madden: Only if you promise to come set me free tomorrow.

Me: Nope. I’ll leave you there to rot. I’m not a traitor to my team.

Madden: Says the one fucking the enemy. ;)

Guilt lances through me like a bullet, as it does whenever I’m reminded of my severe conflict of interest by seeing Madden. Usually I can push it down, fight it off until it’s shoved back in a box somewhere in the back of my mind, but it’s never an easy feat, and it’s evident from the way I sit here, struggling to find a response.

I’m still staring at the message a couple minutes later when a quick series of texts pop up along the top of my screen in rapid succession. Only these ones aren’t from Madden but a different dark-haired guy covered in ink.

Quinton: Are you alive? I know you are, because I checked your stats from tonight.

Quinton: Great game, btw. Killed it at the plate. But I would much rather have some tea time.

Quinton: Fuck it, I’m calling you.

I’ve barely had the chance to read the final text when a FaceTime notification pops up along the top of my screen. And while I might not know Quinton well, I’m smart enough to realize if I don’t answer this one,he’s just gonna call again, which is why I hit the accept button.

Quinton appears a few seconds later, a pair of dark frames perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks like he’s sitting in their kitchen, though I can’t be entirely sure. Not that I have time to look, because he’s too busy ragging me the moment he sees me.

“You know, sometimes I think all my texts to you end up somewhere in the ether instead of in your iMessages.”