Page 2

Chapter Two

Will

The outside doors slid shut behind me as I left the stadium, locker room, and Paul Martell behind. What is his deal? And why do I even care?

I scoffed. Of course he didn’t need me. But this was the second time he’d said that, phrased it that way. The reader in me couldn’t help but remember the quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet : “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

I picked up my pace, heading away from the stadium and toward the restaurant the team had chosen for the post-game celebration, trying desperately not to think about Paul standing there in a while towel, water dripping down the carved planes of his chest. Instead, my mind slid to the previous few months with the team.

Two months ago

Humid early August heat billowed around us, the air and the eagerness equally tangible as we cooled down and hydrated.

“…Lawrence, Zaya, Abbott…”

Come on, come on. Please let him say my name. My train of thought was running out of control, but to the casual observer, I was as cool as a cucumber. No fidgeting, no swaying, just cool indifference. My mother’s much-repeated advice, the same thing she’d told me years ago when Dad died and cruel kids used that against me, reverberated in my mind as though she were right there. Never let them know they affect you.

“…Bolden, MacLeod…”

The tension melted from my muscles, and I didn’t hear anything else until the coach put down his tablet and looked around the group of sweaty dudes. “Congratulations,” he said. “You live to see another day. Let’s see if you survive practicing with the team. If I didn’t read your name off, you won’t be playing for the Rams.”

After a few weeks of strength and conditioning and tryouts, what had started as a group of probably seventy-five prospective unrecruited walk-ons for the football team had been whittled down to less than ten.

I wanted to believe I’d had a better shot than most, transferring to State U for this semester from a Division III school where I was the starting quarterback. I could do agility drills and run 40s in my sleep. And maybe I did have a better chance—but I wasn’t on scholarship, and the next day I’d be suiting up with the rest of the team to prove myself all over again.

Some of the team, including starters, had even showed up to watch the tryouts. Most were guys who anyone would instantly clock as football players, but one dude could have been a Calvin Klein model, and I unfortunately hadn’t even seen him with his clothes off. His dark tan skin glowed in contrast to the college-logoed light gray hoodie he wore, which was stretched to capacity around his wide shoulders. Nearly black hair swept across his forehead, almost too short to run my fingers through. And his eyes, a stunning gray, were locked on me.

I’d seen the roster online, and his eyes gave him away—Paul Martell, one of the starting wide receivers. Talented, a junior like me, and, unless I was way off in my assessment, he liked what he saw. And I didn’t mean my passing skills—more like my tight end.

With a short nod, Martell got up off the bench and headed out. Didn’t matter. I’d meet him soon enough.

I stripped off my sweaty pads and stretched before grabbing a Gatorade and fist-bumping the other dudes who made the cut.

“MacLeod!” Bernard, one of the offensive coaches, jogged up to me as I was unwrapping a protein bar. I swiped sweaty dark blond hair away from my forehead and squinted in the bright sun to see him better.

“Coach was watching today. Got quite an arm on you.” Bernard gestured over his shoulder to the head coach before he scrolled on the tablet sandwiched in the crook of his arm. A hint of farmer tan peeked out from his shirt sleeve. “Originally from California, and transferred here from a D-III school as a junior, huh? Gave up a starting slot to shoot your shot here?”

I stood up a little taller. “Yep. I wasn’t on scholarship there either and State U’s closer to home now.”

Bernard cocked an eyebrow, but I didn’t elaborate.

“Well,” he said, “Coach likes what he sees. Gave me the go-ahead to officially get you on the roster.”

Holy shit. “Thanks, Bernard.” My stomach did happy flips like an excited dolphin.

“We’ll see how you fit when you practice with the team. Oh, and stop by ResLife, they’ll get you situated. Congratulations, kid. You’re officially a Ram.”

*

“So, how did it go?” Even the tiny phone speaker couldn’t drown out the excitement in my mom’s voice. I’d texted her after I hit up ResLife to let her know I had news, and she’d called right away. Anyone else I’d let go to voicemail, but never her.

“I’m on the team, Mom. I’m hella stoked.”

“Will, that’s wonderful! When’s your first game?”

I chuckled, enjoying her enthusiasm, and sat in the shade on a low retaining wall around some flower beds to give her my full attention. “Slow your roll, Mom. Tomorrow I practice with the team for the first time. We’ll go from there.”

“Show them what you got. You always make me proud, no matter what.”

A lump formed in my throat, and I pictured her drawing me into a hug, encouraging me to stoop so she could kiss my forehead. I’d outpaced my mom in both height and bulk since I was twelve, but she was always a spitfire, doing what needed to get done, especially since Dad passed a decade ago. Since then, it had been just the two of us.

“I—I even got housing. I’m moving in this afternoon.” I swallowed tightly, eyes burning. “No academic scholarship, but they sent me to ResLife and they’re covering my room and board in the athlete complex. It’s sweet AF and right across from the shitty dorms I’ve been in for the summer session.” I still couldn’t believe it—my brain totally glitched when the housing adviser told me.

“Give me your new address when you’re settled. I want to send a welcome care package.”

“You got it.” I adjusted the phone in my hand as I laid down on the grass. “So, now that the news is out of the way…what did you think of chapter seventeen?”

“When the duke finally hooks up with his valet? I was fanning myself so much I thought it was a hot flash.”

When I was a senior in high school, I’d unwisely teased Mom about reading romance novels. I believe I used the word “trashy.” Surprisingly, she wasn’t angry, and insisted I read one before I judged them. I’d already come out to her a couple years before, and she’d doubled down by finding LGBTQIA+ romances to read together, chapter by chapter, a book club of two. She was right—I loved them as much as she did, reveling in happily-ever-afters with couples who looked like me.

We discussed our current read for a while longer—how the men were almost caught together on the balcony when the duke left the ball early, and how neither of us saw the duke’s sister’s betrayal coming. Soon, the sun had shifted enough that I checked the time. Mom must have noticed it too.

“Okay, sweetheart, I’ll let you get started packing. I’ve got to work my side hustle and prep for an open house tomorrow.” After Dad died, we were priced out of living in California and had to move. Until then, Mom only had one job—middle school math teacher. But ever since I was old enough to stay home on my own—and since my football leagues and training got more expensive—she’d gotten her real estate license to supplement.

“Sell those houses,” I said. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I headed back to my old dorm, every step a little lighter. Things were looking up for Will MacLeod.

*

“Fuck!” I wheezed, desperately sucking in a breath around my spasming diaphragm. I hadn’t been sacked like that in a practice in…never. And in the past week since I’d been practicing with the team, never was practically every fucking day.

The starting linebacker who’d just taken me down sneered at me. “You gonna play like shit, or be the shit ? Get your shit together.”

Shit. I coughed and got to my feet. He didn’t offer me a hand, just turned away to hydrate. Coach had made me the second string quarterback two days ago, telling me not to make him regret it. I couldn’t speak for him, but I definitely had some regrets. But I had no intention of showing my nerves to the team. They were already nipping at me, and I didn’t want them to give me a reason to eat me alive.

A heavy hand fell on my left shoulder pad. “Hey, man, you good?”

As soon as I turned to see who was talking, my mouth went desert dry. “All good, bro,” I said to Paul Martell, somehow managing to keep my cool.

“Rough hit.” He frowned, his gaze assessing, stripping me bare. This wasn’t a perfunctory look over for injuries; this was a full-on eye fuck.

“Yeah. I should’ve been ready for it.” I gave him a wincing smile as I was finally able to take a deep breath. At least I could blame my red face on lack of oxygen.

“Probably.” He shrugged, a grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Next time, you will be. Oh—and the nose of the ball’s been down on your throws. Loosen your grip. It’s your first week, you’re probably nervous AF, but you’re letting it affect your throw. Unclench.”

I sucked in another breath and nodded, face burning, both from attraction and disappointment in myself.

“Show me your form.”

I nodded and picked up a ball. Deliberately relaxing, I channeled the unflappable QB who’d headed the small school’s team I’d been on for a couple years.

Martell took off down the field, sprinting as though this were a championship game.

As soon as the ball left my hand, I focused on its trajectory. Perfect. His hands closed around the ball and he jogged it back, tossing it to me when he got close enough.

“See?” he said. “Relax. That was better.”

“You gonna help me with that?” I replied, cocking an eyebrow.

“Just did.”

*

A week—and more sore ribs—later, I was getting into a rhythm with the team. Though the drills were familiar, the intensity of the practices was something I’d never experienced, and if I wanted to close the gap between my current skills and where I needed to be, I had to up my game.

“Hey, dude, you got a sec?” I asked Martell as conditioning was winding down early one morning. Every day while we’d been suffering through agility training, I kept staring at him like my eyes had no choice but to be drawn in by his gravity. Watching as Martell’s thick thighs pumped through high knees. Following as he dodged around cones and, later, defensemen, his calves flexing. Lithe body sprinting to make a catch.

But what I hadn’t expected to see was Paul Martell’s gray gaze staring right back in a “I want a verrry private, sweaty, clothing-free one-on-one workout with this new guy” way.

Fuck yeah. Feeling was mutual.

But now that I’d flagged him over, I had to keep it cool. Pretend you don’t want to dick him down. Easier said than done.

“What’s up?” His tongue slipped over his plush lips and my brain shorted out. Focus.

I shook my head and pushed sweaty blond waves out of my face. “You free? I could use some feedback on my pass?—”

“Sorry, man. No time. Got PT in a few,” he replied, already heading away. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I tried not to let it get to me—after all, more than a few teammates had turned me down for extra practice—but it stung.

Not just the rejection, but the increasingly obvious difference between walk-ons and scholarship players. The access to tutors, leniency from professors, the special meals…the list went on. I was a good student in general, and I could easily find time to read for my classes as an English major, but everything about this experience had me feeling like a green freshman all over again. The only thing keeping me going was that every time I pushed back when they gave me shit, I gained some yards toward their respect.

Instead of heading back to my sick new dorm, I stayed behind to do some passing drills with other second string players who had later classes. I needed to work ten times harder to prove myself. Starting now.

*

“Hey, Martell,” I called out to him after Bernard the offensive coach outlined the drills we’d be doing. “What time do you get out of class today? There’s this new sandwich place?—”

“I’m following my meal plan today.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No worries,” I said. “You wanna partner?—”

“ I don’t need you ,” Martell spit out and turned to walk toward Darryl Washington, our starting QB.

I watched him retreat, stunned. What the fuck did I do?

For the rest of the practice I concentrated on my form, my throws, the feel of the ball in my hands, anything to prevent thoughts about why Martell blew me off like I was nothing.

He’s never really given you the time of day. What makes me think I’m anything to him other than nothing ?

Though the number of times we caught each other staring said I was anything but.

*

“Oh no, it gets better,” I said, trying to keep it together and finish telling the story to the group of Rams I was stretching with. “The poor kid was so turned around, not only did he run the wrong way, but when he reached the endzone, he puked all over the ref.”

My teammates exploded in laughter and my face split in a wide grin. “Bro, I’d never show my face again,” one of the linemen said, grabbing my shoulder as he left to get a drink.

Weeks had passed since I’d been made an official Ram, and I finally felt like one of them. Brutal conditioning, drills—the intense practices where I worked with the second string and closely with the starters in case I needed to fill in had slowly, brick by brick, built trust and camaraderie.

I got up to stretch my quads and noticed Paul Martell behind me, his deep gray eyes shooting daggers at the lineman who’d patted my arm. My stomach swooped, but I was sure I’d mistaken his expression. It was probably a cramp or something. It couldn’t be jealousy.

*

The first games of the season came and went. Mom and I started a new book—a Regency romance between a sea captain and a vicar. Classes got more involved, papers written, tests taken, and Martell and I maintained the status quo. If it were even possible, Martell was more distant. Early on, he’d at least come over and show me how to improve a technique. Gave me pointers. Helped me navigate a play. But he’d pulled back completely, only acknowledging my presence as someone who threw him a ball once in a while.

If that.

His eyes stilled burned me though, turning my edges into embers.

That hadn’t changed. I hadn’t stopped watching him either.

No matter what I did, Martell seemed determined to just ignore me at best, hate me at worst. We even lived on the same goddamn floor—it was hard to avoid someone whose suite was two doors down the hall, but he managed. And I was fucking tired of it. The heat searing between us had to go somewhere before it ignited the atmosphere and, stupid as it was, it wasn’t in my nature to just let it go.

Even if it was a hate-fuck to get it out of our systems.

As we’d headed into October, it seemed like it might stay as a hate- eye -fuck, at least from his end of things.

Goddamn locker room. And that fucking pass.

The stoplight turned red and I waited to cross the street, still a few blocks from the restaurant. I exhaled, the crisp fall evening fogging my breath. I should have been thinking about how well the day had gone, but Paul’s words had stung more than I cared to admit. He’d insinuated that I had nearly cost them the game with my pass—the one he hadn’t caught.

Bullshit.

I hated that I cared so much about what Paul Martell thought of me and how I played.

The light turned, and I pushed forward with the crowd again. I’d never had an opportunity to sub in like today. Not that I’d ever wish an injury on a teammate, but I’d had a chance to shine. That incomplete pass, though…not my fault. The internet and ESPN had supplied me with plenty of angles. It was Paul who’d fucked up, sprinting a split-second too late. This wasn’t a mistake he’d made before. What the hell?

A strand of blond hair flew into my face and I roughly brushed it back, temper rising. The rest of the team had treated me just like one of them today. Everyone except Paul. What was so hard about just congratulating a teammate who’d played well? Or just not being an asshole?

I stopped in my tracks, still a block from the restaurant. Did he think I didn’t belong with the rest of them? Was it because I wasn’t on a scholarship? Did he disrespect me because I wasn’t a starter?

“Fuck him,” I said out loud, earning me a dirty look from a middle-aged woman standing within earshot. I had to know where I stood. It was one thing if he didn’t like me or wasn’t interested. But if Paul thought I hadn’t earned my place on the team a hundred times over, he should have the balls to say it to my face.

Guessing that Paul had gone back to campus, I took out my phone and hailed a ride, then texted one of the guys to say I was exhausted and wasn’t going to make it. By the time he hit me with a thumbs-up emoji, my ride was at the curb.

One minute I was getting in the car, the next it was pulling up in front of the new athlete housing complex. Modern lines and tinted windows loomed over me as I swiped my ID card to open the main doors.

The floors were relatively quiet, everyone out partying. Later, it’d be filled with enormous dudes with equally large hangovers, but for now, the silence suited what I needed to do.

I let myself into the common area of my suite and threw my jacket onto one of the sofas. After a few deep breaths, I headed out of my room and down the hall, pausing in front of Paul’s suite, ready to knock.

Weird. The door was ajar but wasn’t propped like he was waiting for someone. Whatever. With a deep breath, I entered.

“Martell? You here?” I called out. No response. “Hey, Paul?”

The whole team had been in and out of each other’s suites over the past few months and I knew my way around, so once I’d navigated the sitting area I forked toward Paul’s room. Like the front door, his was mostly closed, only allowing a faint line of light to escape.

A low moan followed the same path as the light, and I tensed. But it didn’t sound quite like he was hurt.

I pushed the door open and walked in, gearing up to defend myself and give Paul a verbal ass-kicking.

But when my eyes adjusted to the light, I wasn’t prepared for the scene in front of me.

Paul sat in an armchair angled slightly away from me, but he had headphones on. A laptop rested on his desk where a video played of two men fucking on cushioned patio furniture. One guy had messy, longer blond hair, and the other had dark hair and a deep tan.

Paul was completely naked, legs splayed wide, his sweatpants pooled on the floor. A full-length mirror gave me a side view my inner voyeur drooled over—one of his hands pinching a tight, furled nipple while the other caressed and teased the foreskin on his impressive cock. It smoothly slid with his hand’s movements, the tip glistening as Paul swept his thumb over it, spreading a bead of liquid around.

Holy shit.

I couldn’t look away.

“Mmm, Will. Just like that,” Paul murmured. His breath hitched and his hips stuttered up just a little.

It took a second for his words to register in my rapidly short-circuiting brain, but when they did?—

“ Fuck ,” I said, maybe too sharply.

Paul’s head snapped to the door where I stood against the frame. His face went ghost white. In one panicked motion, he leaned forward, threw his headphones on the bed, and slammed his laptop closed. Somehow he managed to grab his sweats from the floor and shoved them on to cover himself.

All I could do was stare.

Before he could say anything, I kicked the door closed the rest of the way and flicked the lock, filling the rest of the frame with my body.

Paul stood straight on shaky legs. Other than his blown-wide pupils, his expression was unreadable. Gone was the panic, replaced by…resignation?

“How long were you standing there?” Paul ground out.

I crossed my arms. “Long enough.”

“Just fucking great.” Paul barked a laugh and clenched his fists at his sides. “Why are you even here?”

“I—” My voice broke after the one syllable. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

I shook my head, more to clear it than to answer him. Having Paul this close, this worked up, this human , was exhilarating. My mind was fuzzy, but I met Paul’s fiery gray eyes straight on. “You said my name.”

Paul’s jaw hit the floor. “ What? ”

“Don’t deny it. I heard you say?—”

“No. No no no no no…” Paul wavered a little on his feet, the unsteadiness so unusual for someone so sure-footed on the field that it set off alarm bells. He swayed again, and I grabbed his biceps. Paul tightly wrapped long fingers around my forearm. “Fuck, yeah, okay. I said your fucking name . I was thinking about you ,” he said, defiantly raising his now nearly black eyes to mine. “Are you happy now? Shit, this can’t get any wor?—”

I took control and tilted his chin up with my other hand, leaned in, and pressed my lips to his, stealing his words straight from the source. The kiss was quick and close-mouthed, chaste by any standard, but it set my blood on fire.

Paul stared up at me, full lips slightly parted, and I had to force myself to not kiss him again.

“Now will you let me talk?” I asked, smiling slightly when Paul nodded.

Here goes nothing.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve done that exact same thing,” I nodded toward his laptop, “just, you know, with the door locked.” Paul’s eyes widened and I closed mine. This absolutely wasn’t how I’d expected this conversation to go, but there we were. I inhaled, breathing in the scent of aroused male and his body wash, preparing to let the universe sort it out. “Jesus, Paul, you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and I never thought I’d have a chance with you. Ever.”

“What?”

“I’ve seen you watching me. During practice, drills, conditioning. You know I’ve been watching you too. But you never responded to anything I did—and I thought my flirting was obvious—so I assumed you weren’t interested.”

Paul shook his head. “You—Will. I don’t get involved with teammates. Seen it happen, too much drama. I told myself it would be better if I avoided you…”

Was I hearing him correctly? I scrunched my eyes and cocked my head. “Okay, to be clear—you were interested, but brushed me off because I’d be a distraction ? I got no say in it?”

“Yeah.” He snorted. “And the joke was on me—actually made it worse. I…shit. You’re on my mind all the fucking time.” Paul tilted his head back and drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. “The incomplete pass today was because I was watching you. Just a split-second too long, but…”

“Wow. Okay.” I’d need to take some time processing that one. “And none of this is because I’m not on scholarship?” I pressed my lips into a thin line.

“No.” Paul squeezed my arm. “I never gave a shit about that. What I said before—I’m sorry. For all of it.”

I nodded, my brows knitting together. “So, you essentially took a page out of the douchebag little boy’s pony-tail-pulling guide to letting someone know you liked them?”

Paul winced. “Yeah. I was an asshole.”

“Yeah, you were. But…” I tightened my grip on his arm. He still hadn’t let go of mine. “You had your reasons. I get it.” I took a small step toward him. So close we were pressed together from abs to shoulder, so close the warmth radiated from his body, so close I could lick him if I wanted to. Yes, please. “But now, I totally want to hear you say my name again. Only louder.”