13. The Buffer Zone
13
THE BUFFER ZONE
Jason
A marching band leader’s energy radiates off Megan today in the studio. She’s been on fire for the last eighteen minutes, and she looks from Beck to me and back. “And now, are you guys ready to quarterback each other?”
I stifle a laugh. I know she said that last week, but it’s hitting me now that it sounds vaguely dirty. “Let’s do it,” I say.
“I’m ready,” Beck seconds.
Megan starts with the guy across from me. “Beck, the Hawks won, but what’s your post-game take on Jason’s first-quarter performance?”
Oh, this is gonna be good. I chucked throw after incomplete throw in my weak-ass opening drive. “Yes, Beck. Tell me more about how I drove the ball ,” I say.
They want chemistry, after all, so I’ll play it up.
Beck’s all matter-of-fact as he answers: “You need to come out more aggressive against challenging defenses.”
Oh. Well, excuse me. I bristle, not expecting that sort of feedback. That’s the shit scouts rate you on before they draft you. “What would you have done then?”
“Go for a long pass,” he says, like a thoughtful professor evaluating a paper. “Open with an explosive play rather than saving those just for the end.” Then he smiles as if he’s hiding the holy grail behind his grin. “Or maybe not. Sometimes you need short passes.”
Wait. Hold on. He’s doubling back on his own advice? Is he tripping over his words again?
“So, go long? Or go short? Which is it?” I ask.
But that smile of his becomes more... wicked. He snaps a finger. “I remember now. My advice is this—be sure to complete the pass. Doesn’t matter if it’s long or short.”
Nice. Of course, the dude isn’t going to blab his strategy in front of an audience, let alone a rival. Here I was ready to come to his rescue, and he burned me before the entire city.
“Ouch. I need some aloe,” I say. King of Dad jokes strikes again.
“CVS is having a sale. I’ll get you some,” Beck says drily.
Megan turns to me. “Jason, what tips do you have for the second-year starter?”
A whole mess of them. Starting with you can’t one-up me here .
“That’s easy.” I take a beat to set up my review of his on-field performance yesterday, which was, annoyingly, damn good. “Staying power. That’s what you’ll need to work on, Cafferty. It’s a long season, and you don’t want to rest on your laurels three games in. You’re going to need a lot more stamina.”
Megan nods approvingly. “A fair point. Thank you, guys. It’s a pleasure having you two on the show. Be sure to tune in again for next week’s Monday Morning Quarterback .”
Megan hits the end button, then blows out a satisfied breath. “Nice work, guys. That was even better than last week.”
“Glad you liked it,” I say. I’m hoping the ratings shoot higher this week too. Nadia will be so psyched.
“I can’t wait to see the photos from the shoot today,” Megan adds.
“I thought it would be the three of us.”
She laughs, waving a dismissive hand as she heads to the door. “No one wants to see my picture on ads and billboards. They want to see the two stars. So it’ll be you guys and the photog.”
As she grabs the door and trots out, those words hang heavily in the air, as if someone turned down the background music. The only thing I can hear is the drumbeat of... you guys and the photog .
Of course, I knew a photographer would be present at a photo shoot, but I thought Megan would be a buffer between Beck and my desire for him.
I adjust to the new expectations for the shoot. Just Beck and me and the guy behind the camera telling us to move closer to each other.
Once I set down the headphones, I check the location for the shoot in my email. “We need to go to Crissy Field,” I say, then meet Beck’s gaze. His expression is neutral, the way it’s been this entire morning. Maybe he’s not having the same wild thoughts as I am. “We’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes. See you there?”
“Sure. I’ll grab a Lyft,” he says, heading to the door too, a canvas bag in his hand.
“You don’t have a car?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I leased one in Los Angeles, and the lease ended when I was traded. I haven’t bought one yet. So...”
Ah hell. It’s not like we’re going to make out at stoplights or feel each other up as I drive. “I’ll give you a ride, Caff,” I say, making my way to the hall.
“You sure?” he asks as he follows alongside me.
“Positive,” I say, then wink. “You can tell me more about those long and short drives I ought to be making on the field.”
As we walk down the hall together, I refuse to look at the stairwell door. I won’t let on that my thoughts have strayed too many times to that hot moment on the steps. I march forward to the bank of elevators. When I hit the down button, one opens right away. I step inside and he follows. The doors whoosh shut.
It’s only us and my super-sized libido.
The whole ride to the parking garage I fight not to stare at him. The man makes tight jeans and red shirts look like the luckiest clothes in the world. Once the elevator doors open, I gesture down the row. “Mine’s the blue Tesla two cars down,” I say.
He snorts. “Of course it is.”
This guy . “You give me a hard time about my cat, and now my car, even when I’m giving you a ride?”
“Evidently, I do,” he says with a knowing smirk.
I click on the app on my phone to unlock the door, wishing I could get a read on Beck today. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you find so amusing about my car?”
“It’s what nice guys drive,” he says, offhand, as he heads to the passenger door.
That feels like another burn. But maybe more personal this time. Since, well, nice guys usually finish last. “That’s not a compliment, Caff. Tell me—why am I giving you a ride?” It comes out like a mild warning.
But when he swings open the door, he flashes me a smile as he slides in. “Because you’re a nice guy.”
I get inside too, then give him a what gives? look. “How is this a nice guy car?”
“It’s good for the planet and all,” he says, then drops his canvas bag to the floor. His jersey must be in that. Mine’s on the back seat.
“Well, yeah,” I say, backing out of the parking space.
“And blue is a nice color,” Beck adds.
I tug at my light blue polo shirt. “I like blue,” I say, defensive on behalf of the color and a little irked on behalf of me too.
“I’ve noticed. You always wear blue,” Beck adds nonchalantly as I drive toward the parking garage exit. “You had a navy shirt on last week. A light-blue one the night I met you. You wore a teal-blue one last week to the gym.” He waves his hand my way. “And now... this shade. Sky blue.”
“So I’m a nice guy because I wear blue and drive a green car?” I counter.
Beck laughs, shaking his head. “No. You just happen to be one.”
I speed up the ramp a little faster than I need to. “Do nice guys drive fast in parking lots?”
“Ooh, you’re such a scofflaw,” he remarks, clearly playful now.
“Dude, you can walk,” I tease. I think I’ve got it now. He’s just playing into the rivalry vibe. I slide my parking ticket through the reader, then exit onto Market Street and into Monday morning traffic.
“So, you’re not a fan of nice guys?” I ask. I might be a glutton for punishment, or maybe this new bit of intel will get me over my crush for good.
Beck’s quiet, and the silence unnerves me. Then when I slow for the red light at the end of the block, he turns to me and whispers, “I like nice guys.”
Oh, he’s completely readable now. His brown eyes are fire. He’s all blunt edges and directness. I like it too much for my own good.
This is going to be the hardest car ride of my life. Especially when I realize that when Beck teased me about my preference for blue, he was admitting he notices every little detail about me.
As I turn onto Franklin Street, I fish a little more. “So you just like to give me a hard time?”
“It makes it easier, Jason. Know what I mean?”
When I stop at the next light, I catalog his expression. The warmth in his eyes. The softness in his lips. Here in my car, behind the tinted windows, he drops the mask. His face tells a story of vulnerability mixed with heat.
All that is evident in his body too. He’s a picture of checked restraint, body tight, nearly rigid. But I spot a dead giveaway. His left hand inches closer and closer to the console.
Almost like an invitation.
Like he desperately wants me to touch him. Maybe he’s been as hungry for a sign as I’ve been, but he needs to hunt for it in his own very Beck-like way. He’s measured in his approach, calculating even. He observes everything around him, takes in data, then acts.
He’s that way on the field.
Out of the corner of my eye, I check the light. Still red.
I seize the chance, dropping my right hand from the steering wheel, then brushing my thumb along the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Slow and deliberate.
With a surprised gasp, Beck shudders so I keep going. With my thumb, I trace a line up to his fingertip, sparks kicking through me from the barest of touches, from his unadulterated reaction. His lips part as he sinks into whatever sensations are racing through his body.
The light changes. I grip the wheel and focus only on driving the rest of the way.
The car feels like it’s ticking.
I draw a deep, lungful of air to get my bearings, but the air is filled with him . The outdoorsy scent of his aftershave is wreaking havoc with my brain.
When we arrive at Crissy Field, I pull into a parking spot along the grassy expanse of playing fields, the Golden Gate Bridge rising majestically above the clear blue waters. I exit the car and grab my jersey.
The sun is shining uncharacteristically for a September morning. The air is warm. The world is my changing room.
I stand outside the car, tug off my sky-blue polo, and toss it in the backseat.
On the other side of the vehicle, Beck does the same with his shirt, reaching for the hem, jerking it over his head, chucking it into my car.
I try not to stare. I swear I do.
But I fail miserably when I catch black lines curling over his shoulders, then down and around his biceps. My mouth waters as my eyes trace the ink.
I turn the other way as I pull on my jersey. Don’t want to be sporting wood during a photo shoot, no matter how much I like ink.
And I like it a lot .