The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

12. Mister Right

12

MISTER RIGHT

Jason

Beck’s not at the gym on Tuesday or at the coffee shop on Wednesday after my morning cardio.

That’s for the best. I have too much else going on. Namely, Coach’s game plan for this coming Sunday when we host the Denver Mustangs.

At the start of practice on Wednesday afternoon, he stalks the field, barking orders: “No distractions, men. Get your heads in the game this week because the Mustangs have a formidable defense.” He stops, gives me a searing look. “We need to keep their secondary on their toes. The game plan is to confuse the hell out of them about what plays we might be running. Got it, Fourteen?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. I’ve studied the playbook for this weekend upside down and inside out. Because of course I fucking have. That’s the job.

He continues down the line until he reaches the starters on defense, staring icily first at Elroy, then Johnson, then the others. “And I want you to breathe down their necks. Is that too much to ask this time?”

“No,” Elroy says.

“What was that?” Coach repeats, brow arching.

“No,” Elroy repeats, firmer now.

When we break into practice squads, I pat Elroy’s shoulder. “You got this, bud,” I say.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, and I hope he starts playing like he did a year ago—ferociously.

On Thursday morning, I swing by Nate’s home in the Marina to pick him up for practice. He’s upstairs on his balcony, shades on, savoring his morning view of the water. With a chin nod, he signals he’s on his way down. The man can fly—ten seconds later, he bounds out the front door and slides into the passenger seat, his game face on. “Jaybird, did you hear the news?”

My mind snaps to Beck and me. Did my rival and I get spotted in the stairwell? Or maybe there’s some news about Nate and his man situation? “No,” I say cautiously. “What news?”

“If we beat the ponies this weekend, we’ll have a winning record,” Nate declares as I pull away from the curb.

I laugh with relief. “Thanks for the update. I had no idea.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To catch your passes and do basic math.”

“Somebody has to,” I say as I drive past the bay, the rising sun glinting off the dark blue waters.

“Seriously, though. I’ve been thinking about Elroy and Johnson. Remember how they played last year?”

“Like motherfucking badasses,” I supply. “But they haven’t been playing that way lately.”

“I know. What can we do?” Nate asks.

I go quiet for several blocks, trying to solve the puzzle of the linebacker and the tackle. Lately, they seem tense. Like Beck was with the media before he learned how to handle questions. He’s not perfect now, but the dude turned a weakness into a strength.

With his brain.

“I’ve got it!” I tell Nate my idea, and my right-hand man agrees.

We’re early for practice, but Dwight Elroy and Leo Johnson usually are too. Before we hit the field, Nate and I head to the weight room, hoping to find them.

Excellent.

The tackle and the linebacker are racking plates by a bench.

Nate struts in, giving a derisive look at the plates. “That’s all you can bench?”

Elroy glances around, then points to his chest. “You talking to me?”

Time for some trash-talk motivation from the team captains. “Nate, weren’t you telling me this morning you’d smoke them both on the bench press?”

Nate nods exaggeratedly. “It’s going to be epic destruction.”

Elroy whistles in shock. “No way. No fucking way, Chandler.”

“I believe you mean... it is on ,” Johnson says, climbing to his feet with a fierce glimmer in his eyes that he’s been missing on the field along with his confidence. His cockiness.

“One hundred bucks says I bench the most,” Nate says.

Johnson snorts. “Double or nothing.”

“Let’s do it,” Nate says, then goes first on the weight bench.

Soon, the four of us trade reps in a full-on weightlifting competition.

I don’t push too far. I’m strong, but I’ll never win the award for benching the most. When I set down the bar, coming in last, Elroy hoots.

“Pay up, suckers,” he says.

I don’t hide a smug grin as I fish a big bill out of my wallet and slap it into Elroy’s waiting hand. “Great job. Now do that on Sunday.”

Elroy and Johnson blink from me to Nate, who nods to back me up. “What Jay means to say is, play like that on Sunday, like you know you can win.”

“Yeah, well,” Elroy crosses his arms. “We know we don’t suck in the weight room.”

“And you don’t suck on the field,” I say. “Coach is stressed about the team and his job. Get him out of your head. Focus on what you do well—finding weak spots on the other team and exploiting them. You don’t suck. You’re in a rut. You’re Hawks. You’ve got this.”

We leave the weight room and head to the field. It’s the best practice we’ve had as a team in a long time.

After a shower that afternoon, I change back into jeans and a polo, then head down the hall toward the parking lot to meet Nate at my car.

As I near the door, I catch the distinctive sound of high heels on the pavement. From behind me, a voice calls, “Hey, Jason,” and I straighten like a student called on in class.

Swiveling around, I come face to face with Nadia Harlowe. The team owner is sharply dressed in black slacks and a cranberry blouse, and the diamond in her wedding band nearly blinds me. “I just wanted to say thank you for doing Monday Morning Quarterback . You sounded amazing, and your chemistry with Cafferty was fantastic,” she says, and my gut tightens in worry. Did she catch some sort of vibe between us?

“Very zinger-y,” she adds, and I breathe easily, glad she noticed the banter rather than any sexual tension. “I think the show will gain fans and improve game attendance.”

If the big kahuna is happy, I’m happy. “Thanks for asking me to do it. I’m having a blast,” I say.

“Also, I have news!” She glances from side to side, then whispers, “I got us Xavier Walters.”

Am I hearing things, or did she just tell me she’s acquired one of the fiercest veteran cornerbacks in the league? The dude is still at the top of his game after more than a decade. “You traded for the X-Man?”

She smiles devilishly. “We’ll announce it tonight, and he starts tomorrow. I want to win, Jason, and I especially want to beat our local rivals. If Wilder Blaine and his Renegades take home another Lombardi this year, I will stomp like Rumpelstiltskin in Louboutins.”

I laugh at the image, even as I wince at her extreme emphasis on rival . “Same here.”

She says goodbye, and I meet Nate in the lot. Once we’re in my wheels, I give him an I’ve-got-a secret smile. “Dude. You are going to freaking flip. Xavier Walters starts for us this Sunday.”

Nate unleashes an ear-splitting war cry.

The next day, the newest Hawk bursts onto the practice field, all energy, and swagger. Xavier strides up to me, points at my chest, then says, “You. Me. We’re going to do this.”

“We fucking are,” I say, matching his cocky grin with one of my own.

He spins around and turns to the starting defense. “I am here, brothers, to help you destroy the Mustangs this weekend and the Defenders the next, and so the fuck on.”

The guys lose their minds.

Damn. If he can whip the guys into a frenzy on the field, we might just have a shot at winning with defense.

That evening, I head to the gym for some quick cardio, dialing into the kick-ass playlist that TJ made for me. I’m cruising along to the music and the rhythm of the run, but just as I’m hitting my third mile, I sense a shift in the Force.

A muscular arm tosses a towel on the handlebars of the treadmill next to me, the only open machine at the gym.

Beck steps onto it, looking far too good in shorts and a purple T-shirt I want to strip off him. I want to know what he looks like in just those shorts. Then in nothing. I want to get my mouth all over him. Taste his skin.

Ah, fuck, Jason. Maybe cool it before he picks up on the horndog vibe you’ve got going on.

I pop out an earbud. “Just admit you’re stalking me.”

He scoffs. “Please. When I show up at your house late one night to surprise you, then you’ll know I’m a stalker.”

That’s fodder for some dirty dreams—Beck showing up in the middle of the night, ripping off that shirt, tearing off my clothes too, and grinding his muscular body against mine.

Great. Now I’m aroused at the gym. “Thanks for the warning,” I deadpan, then I turn to my phone, fiddling with my playlist for a distraction. The envelope icon flashes at the top of my screen. Reese Kingsley is the sender, so I click it open.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beck also swiping across his screen. The email’s addressed to Beck, the Renegades’ PR guy, and me.

Hello Jason and Beck!

Monday Morning Quarterback launched to killer ratings. The station tells me that after its first few days, it’s already the top-ranked podcast this month! Megan loves your chemistry, and the station wants to run an ad campaign around the show. Can you two do a photo shoot on Monday after that episode? Wear your jerseys, please!

Also, Go Hawks!

There’s a reply from Ian already saying, Go Renegades forever! Also, I love this idea.

I want to make Nadia happy. I want to make the whole team happy. So I reply first with Sounds good .

Seconds later, Beck’s answer lands on the thread. I’m game .

I set the phone back on the treadmill’s dash. “Beat you to it,” I say with a smirk.

“Feel free to win the fastest to answer an email award anytime.”

“Asshole,” I mutter playfully.

He smiles and flips me the bird.

“Dickhead,” I add.

He lifts his finger higher. Then whispers, “Prick.”

Oh, but I want to win this battle of words. I take my sweet time flashing him a sly smile. Then, dragging out the word on my tongue, I murmur, “Cocksucker.”

A hint of a shudder moves through his body. His dark eyes suggest he wants all sides of that word with me.

A few seconds later, he whispers, “Same to you.”

There’s a smirk on his lips—those lips that taste so fucking good. I run a mile longer than I planned to so I can erase the thoughts of his mouth and the things I want him to do with it.

When I’m finished with my cardio, I take off with a quick wave. I’m only a little disappointed that he doesn’t leave at the same time. But it’s for the best we put that stairwell session behind us and lean into our rivalry.

Like our employers want.

Like our fans want.

Too bad it’s not what my dick wants.

On Sunday afternoon, we’re down by three with five minutes left in the third quarter. The Mustangs’ offense is encroaching into our territory, but when their quarterback scrambles in the pocket too long, hunting for a receiver, Elroy smells blood. He’s ferocious as he swings around some of the biggest guys on the field, and boom—he sacks the quarterback.

I cringe in sympathy as the guy goes down, but I can’t dwell on it because the Mustangs are forced to punt, and I’ve got to get out there again.

Coach calls for a big passing play, and I nail my first throw to Orlando, who hightails it into the end zone.

That’s how you do it!

I cheer the loudest as Orlando puts us ahead. Xavier booms a yes from the sidelines.

Maybe that was what we were missing. Someone who could carry the mantle for the defense.

And carry it he does when Xavier intercepts the ball on the Mustangs’ next possession, giving me a chance to put it in the end zone once more.

We pad our lead and don’t look back.

The best part of the win? As we head off the field, Coach gives Elroy and Johnson pats on the back.

In the locker room, I invite them, Xavier, and some of the other guys to join Orlando, Devon, Nate, and me at The Spotted Zebra.

That’s what we need. To be more of a tight-knit team.

Riding on a post-game high, I practically jog through the concourse to meet my dad. The stubborn turkey is powering up the steps on his crutches.

“You need to stop showing off!” I call out.

“Never.” Then he adds, “Great game, kid. Everyone played well.”

“They did,” I say, boosted by adrenaline and pure joy. “They really did.”

We stop in at Dad’s favorite Chinese restaurant before I take him home, then I park the car at my place so I can walk to The Spotted Zebra.

Along the way, I check the rest of the scores in the league. “Fuck,” I mutter when the Renegades’ overtime win flashes on the screen.

But I’m not totally annoyed. I’m weirdly happy for Beck, and that’s not a feeling I want to have for my rival.

I don’t want to think about him too much either, so I do my best to focus on my teammates when I reach the bar.

It’s time for a karaoke sing-off.

Xavier takes to the stage, busting out some John Denver in his baritone while Elroy and Johnson cheer him on.

I opt to croon some Frank Sinatra, but when I sing the line about exchanging glances in the night, I’m picturing Beck without even wanting to.

What’s he doing tonight? How does he celebrate a win? Will they let loose on the team plane on the way home?

Thoughts of Beck dog me the rest of the night even as I chat with the guys about the game, the city, and life as we know it.

As nine rolls around, I’m spent from today’s hard-fought game, so I head to the register and ask the bartender to close out my tab.

“I’ll have that for you in a minute,” she says.

“Thanks so much. And I’ll cover the rest of my team too,” I reply.

“Sounds great,” she says.

As I return to Devon, Orlando, and Nate a few stools away, the voice of the sports anchor on the TV screen snags my attention.

“This is Eva Sanchez, and I’m here with Beck Cafferty after the Renegades’ win against Texas. How did that feel, Beck?”

He looks ridiculously hot after a game. Sweaty, spent, and elated.

“Texas is a tough team, and we knew we had to stay focused on the X’s and O’s the whole time,” he says, calm and methodical. Nice. Beck practiced his media skills, and it’s paying off.

“And now one more question,” the reporter says. “Is there a special someone waiting on the sidelines for you?”

I flinch. What the hell? Reporters don’t usually get that personal after games.

Beck doesn’t balk. “I’m still looking for Mrs. Right,” he says, then takes a deliberate pause and adds, “Or Mister Right. But for now, I’m focusing on football.”

Whoa. That’s . . . hot.

The reporter smiles. “Thanks for your time, Beck.”

“Thank you, Eva,” he says, then walks out of the shot.

Nate’s next to me, and he whistles in appreciation. “That was ballsy. For anyone . Coming out on national TV.”

“And awesome,” I add, ridiculously proud of the guy.

Some pro athletes have been out since high school, like me. Some have come out on social, like Gunnar Ford on the Dragons. Now, Beck is part of that group, and like he often does, the guy surprised me by doing it mic-drop style.

That’s just . . . hot.

Men who know who they are turn me on.

A big hand comes down on my shoulder. “Holy shit. Dude just came out on TV. You two know him?” Xavier asks.

My jaw clenches from the implication that all the queer dudes are friends. Is this going to be a problem with Xavier?

My teammates are pretty cool. They’re used to not one but two star players being gay. But Xavier is new, and I don’t know his heart. I do know this – sometimes you need to give a guy a way to save face. I turn to Xavier and answer, deadpan: “I haven’t seen him at our queer club meetings.”

Xavier winces, but before he can answer, Devon cuts in, the rookie’s gaze locking on the star defender. “And Nate and Jason know every gay athlete in California. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Xavier grimaces in apology. “That’s not what I meant. I just thought it was cool what he did, coming out in front of all of America on TV.” He glances from Nate back to me as if worried he’s misspoken again. “It is cool, right?”

I smile, relieved. “That was pretty awesome.”

Xavier blows out a breath. “Good. But don’t date him, okay? No dating a rival.”

“I’m not involved with anyone,” I say. It’s the truth, but I try and hide the tension of the part that’s a lie—I wish I were seeing Beck.

“And he knows better than to get involved with our biggest competitors,” Nate adds.

I’m damn grateful my poker face is tight.

When I bound up the steps to my home a little later, I spot a plant on the doormat. A bright red bow is looped around the ceramic rim.

Curious, I pick up the pot of what looks like grass and search for a card. I find one at the end of the bow.

Just a little something for Taco. Hope he enjoys the catnip as much as my girl Stella does!

Xoxo,

Zena

That’s sweet of her, even though it has ulterior motive written all over it. Still, I bet my dude will dig this, so once I’m inside, I text Zena, thanking her.

She replies quickly with Anytime! Let me know if he likes it!

I really do owe her. Maybe after I connect with my agent and officially turn down Zena’s dating app offer, I can donate to an animal shelter she supports. But I’ll deal with that another time.

I set down the plant on the living room table, rip off a sprig of catnip, then head upstairs, where I set the catnip on my pillow. I’m not above tricking Taco into curling up next to me.

Then I get ready to hit the hay.

Once I’m in bed, I try out the unblocked number. Beck’s coming-out chutzpah deserves acknowledgment.

Jason: I saw your interview tonight. Nice!

Beck: I’m still shaking.

Jason: For what it’s worth, you made it look easy. You were smooth. No sign of nerves.

Beck: Yeah? You sure?

Jason: Absolutely.

I wait, but there’s crickets, so I slide under the covers, exhausted and wrung out from the game.

Taco leaps onto the bed, and I try to pet him, but the little prick grabs the blades of catnip with his teeth and sashays to his own pillow. “Ingrate,” I mutter, then close my eyes.

As I’m fading and he’s buzzing, my phone vibrates. Instantly alert again, I grab the phone from the nightstand.

Beck: I was out in LA. My teammates knew. My friends knew. My agent knew. My ex-girlfriend too. She’s still a good friend. But I realized I needed to be out here too. It was... necessary. I didn’t want to shout it, but it hit me that I’d been whispering. That’s not who I want to be, so my PR guy and I planned that tonight. He prepped the reporter to ask me that question since I’m not on social media and didn’t want to do a coming-out video.

I’m telling you this because it’s not a journey thing. It’s a me thing.

I can read between the lines— I didn’t do it for you —which gets me even hotter.

Jason: I didn’t think you did it for any other reason than you wanted to, Beck. And that’s the best reason.

Beck: Thanks. Also, nice game today. But I wish you’d lost.

Jason: Same to you. I wish you’d been annihilated.

Beck: I wish you’d been destroyed.

Jason: I wish you’d been pulverized.

Beck: I hope you lose next weekend.

Jason: I hope you lose harder.

Beck: You’ll lose the hardest.

That seems a good note to end on. With a smile, I turn off the phone, but I don’t sleep. My body’s exhausted, but my brain’s too busy with Beck. He’s so direct in his texts, just like he was bold on TV when he took charge of his identity. All of that’s appealing to me. It’s what I want in a man.

I’m half-aroused even as my tired body tries to fall into a deep slumber.

But I better get this lust out of my system now. I give my semi-hard cock a tug, and in a few seconds, it wakes all the way up.

I picture Beck’s mouth dropping down on my dick, indulgently sucking me off until I pant, groan, and come hard.

I tell myself it’s only to help me sleep.

The next morning at Monday Morning Quarterback , I walk down the hall to the studio, chin up, shoulders squared. But inside, I’m hiding a secret, and it’s this hazy feeling of want that’s wrapped all around me.

Like my mind is still getting off to Beck more than ten hours later.

But I’ve got to keep it cool when I see him, which will happen any second. Can’t be a dog raring to hump his leg.

The green light is on, so I push open the door. He’s not on the couch waiting; he’s already in the studio, parked at the soundboard, looking good in tight jeans and a snug red T-shirt across his chest and abs. Lucky T-shirt.

When he meets my gaze, I search for a sign in his eyes.

Something to tell me he’s fighting the same fight. Keeping the same secret.

I shouldn’t want him to still want me. This desire will only make our lives harder.

His dark eyes give nothing away.

“Hey,” he says with a chin nod.

That’s all.

Just a hey .

And I want so much more.