Shut Up and Catch (Full Contact #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

LUKE

I normally have bad ideas. Embrace them, even.

My parents expect a fuck-up, so that’s what I give them.

Aside from my football scholarship—which still seems to confuse the hell out of them—I’ve done absolutely nothing to make them proud.

Coming out as gay at thirteen didn’t help.

Neither did leaning all the way into the femboy vibe throughout high school. Definitely not their dream-son arc.

I’m sure when they found lingerie in my room back then, they assumed it belonged to someone else.

There was no way their son bought it for himself.

Not when being gay was a phase, according to them.

It’s probably why my mom would quietly wash them and fold them, leaving them on my dresser to return to the girl they hoped I was banging.

It was always little things like that—small rebellions, quiet acts of survival. Anything to keep from suffocating inside their very religious home. If there is a God and I’m not sure if there is, I don’t think loving someone would be on the top of his or her sins.

College, though? College has been liberating. I can breathe here. Be myself. Well, mostly. I still don’t wear skirts in public—not because I don’t want to, but because I already draw enough stares without flashing my thighs around campus. It’s my magnetic personality, I’m sure.

Even though, let’s be honest, I’d rock that look. Tall black boots. Short skater skirt. Nylons. I’d have half the campus drooling.

Maybe the other half, too.

Instead, I settle for my makeup. My armor. My favorite sin, according to my deeply disappointing parents.

I lean closer to the mirror, dragging eyeliner across my lash-line with the precision of a surgeon.

Which is fitting, considering that’s the plan.

Surgeon. Millionaire. Savior of lives. Maybe even specializing in bottom surgery—just to give my parents one final fuck you while actually doing something that matters.

With a satisfied sigh, I lean back and study my reflection. The eyeliner turns my eyes a sharp, piercing blue—intense enough to make people uncomfortable if I hold their gaze too long. And the shiny lip gloss I’m about to put on makes my pouty lips just that much more pouty.

Yeah. I’d fuck me.

“Are you done yet, Luke?” Ty grumbles from the couch in our new home for the year, eyes glued to the game he’s been button-mashing for the last twenty minutes.

Living with my two straight best friends is probably going to be a disaster of epic proportions. They love me—but they also had their own space the last two years, and this is…an adjustment.

“Almost,” I say, popping my lip gloss open.

Will flops down beside Ty with a dramatic groan. “I thought you were already perfect.”

“I am, fuckwad.” I swipe on a glossy coat and pout at myself. “But perfection takes maintenance. Plus, I plan on getting laid tonight, and that’s not gonna happen unless I can snag some horny masc. And horny masc’s love guys who wear makeup—they like watching it run when—”

Will shoots a hand up. “Nope. Absolutely not. Finish that sentence and there will be rules, and we both know you hate those.”

Ty makes a gagging sound and lobs a controller at me. “Jesus, man. The visual. It’s like visualizing my sister with a dude.”

I cackle, ducking easily. “You love me.”

They both roll their eyes, but they’re smiling anyway. Straight boys. My favorite kind of chaos.

“Are you sure about this?” Will asks after a beat. “Training camp starts early tomorrow, and we all know how you are with mornings.”

Ah, yes. Back to the bad idea.

The one where I meet a guy from Prism tonight—a guy I’ve only talked to for two days and whose profile picture is nothing but a whiskey glass and a tanned, tattooed hand.

My type, basically. Dangerous. Secretive. Probably older.

I grin at my reflection, grab my keys, and blow them both a kiss.

I grab my favorite jacket—the cropped black leather one that still smells like last weekend’s club—and shrug it on over a black mesh crop top.

It clings just right, showing a flash of abs and the line of my tattoo when I move.

The jeans are spray-on tight, black denim that leaves nothing to the imagination.

If I drop something tonight, it’s staying on the floor.

“I’ll be back before we have to be on the field. It’s not like Coach is going to ride us hard tomorrow. It’s the first day.”

“Whatever, man, your funeral,” Will grumbles.

Ty finally glances over at me, and he whistles. “Jesus, Luke. You planning on causing an accident or giving everyone hard-ons?”

“Why not both?” I throw him a wink, grabbing my keys. “If I’m not back by morning, delete my browser history and tell my mom I died doing something stupid.”

Will groans. “You mean like every weekend?”

I blow him another kiss and head out.

Riot is practically home.

It’s the kind of gay club that smells like glitter—if glitter had a smell—tequila, and freedom. Neon lights pulse in time with the bass, rainbow strobes cutting through haze, and the bartender knows my name—and my drink—before I even hit the counter.

It’s wedged between a taco place that somehow never closes and a vape shop that probably sells more questionable substances than vapes.

Next door, there’s a straight club called Ignite, full of polos and heels and people pretending not to stare when someone from Riot walks by.

I prefer our kind of fun.

The bouncer grins when he sees me. “Back again, Trouble?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, sliding past with a wink.

Inside, the music thrums inside my chest like a heartbeat—deep, heavy, alive. The crowd is already moving, bodies pressed close, heat rolling off the dance floor. It’s loud; it’s messy; it’s perfect.

I weave through the crowd toward the bar, pulling my phone from my pocket to check Prism. No new notifications, so I find his profile and send a quick message.

BornforTrouble: Here yet?

The reply comes almost instantly.

WhiskeyAndInk: Already watching you.

My pulse kicks up.

I glance around the club, scanning the crowd, and my gaze snags on a man near the back—leaning against the wall by a tall round table like he owns the space without needing to announce it.

His skin is a warm golden-brown that catches the lights beautifully, dark hair cropped short with a subtle wave to it, black so deep it reflects blue under the strobes.

A whiskey glass rests loosely in his hand, tattoos curling up his forearms and disappearing beneath rolled black sleeves.

Even from here, I can tell he doesn’t belong. Too composed. Too grounded. Like he walked in carrying his own gravity. Too straight-club-next-door or motorcycle-club president—opposite ends of the spectrum, sure, but somehow he fits both.

And he’s too hot for his own damn good.

He lifts his glass in a silent toast.

I grin and turn in his direction, the leather of my jacket creaking softly as I move through the crowd. Hello, gorgeous, I’m going to let you ruin me tonight.

Up close, he’s even worse for my sanity. Sharp jaw, five-o’clock shadow dark against his skin, features all strong lines and quiet confidence. His eyes are a deep whiskey brown—warm, assessing, dangerous in a way that promises he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Born for trouble?” he says, voice deep enough to drown in.

“That depends.” I tilt my head, letting my lips curve. “Are you the bad idea I’m meeting tonight?”

His mouth twitches, somewhere between amusement and sin. “Could be.”

“Then, yeah—I’m trouble.” I step closer until we’re sharing breath. “You can call me Luke.”

He studies me, gaze dipping over my mouth, my throat, the bare skin under my mesh. His pupils darken, and something tightens between us—something magnetic.

“Nice to meet you, Luke.”

The way he says my name—low, warm, and almost reverent—makes my pulse stutter.

“Nice to meet you too…?” I let the word hang, all challenge and tease. Some guys on Prism don’t give out names.

He smiles, the kind of smile that’s all slow burn and confidence. “Silas.”

Silas. Even his name sounds dangerous. This is one bad idea I won’t regret in the morning.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, leaning in just enough for me to catch the scent of whiskey and something clean—cedar and rain.

I arch a brow. “Depends. You planning to drug me or charm me?”

His lips twitch. “Can’t it be both?”

I laugh, quick and bright. “Bold of you to assume I’m not the dangerous one.”

He signals the server with a small, efficient gesture, never breaking eye contact with me. “What’s your poison, Luke?” he asks as the waiter comes to a stop next to our table.

I lean one elbow on the table, drag a finger along the edge of a napkin as if I’m bored instead of buzzing with excitement. “Usually something that burns a little going down.”

His mouth curves—not really a grin or a smile, but clearly amused. “Tequila, then,” he says, already turning his attention back to me. “And a whiskey for me. Neat.”

He looks at me again, slower this time. “Hermoso desastre,” he adds quietly, like it just slipped out.

I blink. “Was that an insult or a compliment?”

His mouth tilts. “I don’t waste words on insults.”

Well.

That’s hot.

I lift a brow. “Confident.”

He shrugs, casual but sure. “I like knowing what I want and getting it.”

“And what is that?”

His gaze flicks briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “Bad ideas that don’t ask for more than they’re offered.”

Interesting. And perfect. He’s not looking for anything beyond a hookup, which is exactly what I’m here for.

The server returns quickly, setting the glasses down between us—tequila in front of me, whiskey in front of him. Silas nudges mine closer with two fingers. Our skin brushes for half a second. It shouldn’t feel like anything, but a spark of awareness shoots up my arm from my fingertips.

I wrap my fingers around the glass, heat curling low in my stomach. “You always order for other people?”

“Only when they’ve already told me what they want,” he says smoothly.