The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

4. I’m Getting The Distinct Impression You Have A Crush

4

I’M GETTING THE DISTINCT IMPRESSION YOU HAVE A CRUSH

Jason

Since it’s the night before a game, we switch from beer to LaCroix then settle onto the couch in my living room with our drinks. Beck takes one end of the U-shaped couch, and I grab the other.

“Talk to me,” I say, relieved he wants to chat about something easy. For a second, I thought he was going to throw me an awkward curveball. It happens, anything from can you introduce me to your agent, which I’ve gotten from other players, to were you hitting on me earlier, something I’ve had to deal with a couple of times from homophobic assholes in college.

Fortunately, I haven’t had that in the pros. Representation has grown, and now, major sports count plenty of out athletes among their players. But you never know when you’ll run into a bigot. I take nothing for granted.

Beck drags a hand through his dark hair, then sets his drink on my coffee table. “So, I guess the question is—how the hell do you do it?”

I laugh, appreciating how forthright he is now compared to earlier today. He’s not a dick; he just has stage fright. “It’s an art form,” I joke. Then, I exhale deeply, setting down my drink too—time for some real talk. “Listen, I’m presuming we’re not exactly in the same situation, but I had to make a choice a few years ago. Be open, be accessible, be available.”

Beck nods intently, as if he’s taking mental notes or maybe snapping pics with that photographic memory. “Sure, I get you.” Then in a quieter voice, he adds, “On most of that.”

Wait. Hold on. Is he telling me something without telling me something?

But I don’t want to read into his most of that remark. I’m just glad he’s picked up on my overall meaning. “I’ve had some mentors over the years,” I continue, focusing on his question. “Guys I could look up to who had to face some of the same scrutiny. Like Grant Blackwood,” I say, naming the out catcher for the local baseball team. “From talking to him and others, I sort of figured out I needed a shtick with the press.”

Beck’s brown eyes flash with understanding. “Got it. I need a shtick, you’re saying?”

I reach for my can on the coffee table and raise it to punctuate my point. “Bingo.” I take a drink.

Beck nods, absorbing my advice. “And your shtick is...”

He’s not so much asking a question as waiting for me to finish for him, so he doesn’t have to be the one to identify my press persona.

But I’m not going to let him off so easy. “You can say it.”

He laughs, shaking his head. He’s not touching the answer with a ten-foot pole.

“C’mon, Cafferty. Say it,” I goad him as I set down the drink, then stretch an arm across the back of the couch.

More laughter, then he holds up his hands in surrender. “Can’t do it.”

I sigh in over-the-top disappointment. “How can I help you come up with a shtick if you can’t say what mine is?”

He dips his face, maybe worried he’ll offend me. But he finds the guts to mutter, “Bad dad jokes.”

“Dude! There’s no other kind of dad joke.”

He laughs. “I won’t argue with you there.”

“But I also kind of go for the whole mayoral routine,” I say, a touch more serious as I share what’s behind the lame jokes. “Know what I mean? I glad-hand. Ask the reporters how they’re doing. It works, and it helps me stay on a good footing with them.” I rub my palms, getting down to business. “So what’s yours going to be?”

He laughs, a little helplessly. “Hell if I know. Got any ideas?”

I scrub my chin, giving him a once-over. Damn, he’s handsome. But that’s irrelevant. I shake off the thoughts of his good looks. I’m not interested in admiring straight men and their stubbled jaws, intense irises, and full lips.

“You’re a smart guy, right?” I ask.

“I like to think so,” he says, uncertain.

“You think so, or you know so?”

This time he owns it, saying with confidence, “I know.”

“Lean into that then. Maybe your shtick is the thoughtful QB. Play around with some options. Because the reality is this—when you’re the quarterback, you can’t shy away from the media.”

“True words,” he says.

A chime rings from my smart home on the table. “ Unfinished Business starts in ten minutes,” a cool, robotic voice announces.

I sit up straight, hunting around the cushions for the remote. “Sweet! I’ve been waiting for the new season to binge,” I say.

Beck’s quiet for a beat, looking down, but a smile seems to tug on his lips. “Me too.”

It comes out soft but with a hint of hope in it.

Maybe this is ridiculous, but it sure sounds like he wants to watch it. With me . When Beck turns my way, the look in his deep brown eyes borders on sexy, maybe even dirty.

A little like the show. Unfinished Business is one of those romantic comedies that centers on several different couples—some gay, some straight. Watching a show like that together is kind of date-y, especially when the show gets kind of sexy, as it does.

But I’m probably reading something into nothing. Lots of people like the show. And I have heaps of straight guy friends. Maybe Beck is just a straight dude who wants to hang. Nothing wrong with that.

Don’t overthink this . Just be the mayor . “Want to watch it?” I ask in my best cool and casual voice.

Before he can answer, Bandit skids into the room, leaps onto the back of the couch, and jumps onto Beck’s lap.

The other quarterback scratches the kitten’s chin. “Hey there, little dude,” he says, then, without meeting my eyes, Beck says, “Let’s watch it, Jason.”

Not McKay .

Jason .

The back of my neck prickles. I find the remote behind a stack of books on the coffee table, and out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Beck’s watching me, looking at me.

I point the clicker at the flat-screen and turn on the streaming service, grateful to focus on the show. The soft light of dusk streams through the window. Curfew is a couple more hours away for him.

As the opening credits roll, I put the clicker on the cushion and settle into the couch. Beck looks cozy with my new kitten curled on his shoulder. “I told you. He’s part parrot,” he says, in a hushed tone, like he doesn’t want to disturb the kitty.

I don’t respond to his parrot comment. I don’t know what the hell to say.

I focus on the show. One of the characters leashes up her dog for a walk then bumps into the cute guy, Jamie, in the apartment lobby. If this were a date, I might remark on how absolutely fucking adorable Jamie is, and he might agree, but I zip my mouth closed.

When Jamie meets up with his work buddies later—two guys who just started dating each other—I keep quiet too and stare harder at the screen.

But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Beck looking at me. Then he swallows and darts his eyes away.

What the fuck is going on? My straight friends don’t steal glances at me when we watch TV. And I’m not going to check him out, no matter how soulful those brown eyes are.

Nope. Won’t go there. I am too much of a sucker for great eyes to even risk a peek.

I try to concentrate on Jamie and Zoe, Garrett and Carlos, but I’m too keenly aware of Beck on my couch, mere feet away. His can I ask for your help with the media request is suddenly loaded with new possibilities.

Midway through the episode, Beck clears his throat and rises, the kitten in his arms.

Oh, okay. I guess he’s done. That’s fine. If he’s taking off, that puts an end to my confusion. I kind of want him to go so I can stop wondering, but I don’t want him to leave either.

Ugh.

“Bathroom down the hall?” Beck asks.

Oh. He’s not going at all, so I get to stay confused. Great.

“Yup. Down the hall,” I repeat.

He bends closer and hands me the cat, his fingers brushing mine.

He did not just touch me intentionally. That was a cat handoff, that’s all.

As he heads away to the bathroom, I drag a hand through my hair, trying to process the shift in the mood—the date-like feel of the night, the way he’s giving off flirty vibes.

But then, I press the brakes.

I don’t know Beck from Adam. Don’t know his agenda, so it’s best to assume it’s truly just this TV show he’s staying for.

“I’m getting the distinct impression you have a crush on my dog.” The feminine voice from the TV show reconnects me to reality. Well, TV reality.

Shit. I didn’t even pause the show when Beck left. The clicker’s in the middle of the couch, so I scoot over and grab it, point it at the screen, and back up thirty seconds.

Beck returns to the living room, circling the couch. To get back to his seat, he has to go by me, and his dark eyes are on mine as he slinks past. “You stole my cat,” he says, his tone teasing, flirty, his eyes sparkling.

What is going on?

He sits down.

Closer to me.

He’s a whole cushion closer.

I don’t know what to do.

“Anything good happen while I was gone?” he asks.

I swallow, trying to form words. “I rewound it,” I say, stating the obvious since the screen is paused.

Then I hit play, and I do my damnedest to watch Unfinished Business. When Jamie and Zoe stop in the stairwell, I don’t move. I laser in on the screen. The kiss gets a little hot, a little heavy.

No idea what Beck is doing, and I refuse to peek, even when Bandit leaves my lap to curl up in his.

Lucky cat.

When the episode ends, I bet he’ll say thanks and take off. But once the credits roll, he clears his throat, takes a breath, then blurts out, “Want to watch another?”

His question is Mach speed, as if it’s fueled by hope.

A spark slides down my spine. I’m supposed to be in control. But I don’t feel that way right now.

And I like that feeling too much.

“Sure.”