The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

24. The Man with a Plan

24

THE MAN WITH A PLAN

Jason

Moonlight shines through the bedroom window at five in the morning, just enough for me to make out the shapes of a thousand birdhouses hanging in trees.

As I zip up my jeans, I peer out the glass. Yards are rare in the city but not unheard of—I have one too. Is Beck into birds, like his landlady? Does he putter around in this yard? I could see him being all outdoorsy, mowing a lawn and raking leaves.

I have a million questions for him.

I want to take him out to breakfast at Lulu’s Diner around the corner and learn all the things I don’t know about him—how he felt when he threw his first touchdown, how long it takes him to solve the daily Wordle, and what he listens to when he works out, just for starters.

I want that breakfast so badly. I can see us reading the big floppy menu, me giving him a hard time about ordering mud to drink, then him mocking me for asking for a strawberry smoothie. I’d probably sneak a hand under the table and squeeze his knee. Sounds like a great morning.

But eggs and potatoes in public aren’t in the cards for us.

Of all the guys in this city, why did I have to fall for my rival?

I shake my head in frustration, then exit the bedroom. Quickly, I locate my shirt next to the beanbag in the living room, pull it on, and make my way to the bathroom, brushing my teeth with the toothbrush Beck gave me last night in between episodes of Unfinished Business .

When he’d handed it to me, he said: “I’m convinced dentists give you these after cleanings, so you have them for... guests.”

“Dentists—the secret enablers of . . . sleepovers,” I’d said.

Neither of us said hookups .

Beck is so much more than a hookup, even though I know that’s all we can be. Fans and teammates would lose their minds if we dated for real. No way can that happen. But, dammit, if I can’t have that breakfast at Lulu’s out in the open, I deserve one more night in private, just with him.

But I have to work out the details first because making plans would be a huge step for us. We don’t schedule time for sex and sleepovers. He shows up, I show up, we combust. We mess around and say this can’t happen again. But I’m tired of the uncertainty. I don’t want to peer out my living room window every night next week and wonder if he’ll bang on my door. I want a plan for his first time, even if we have to sneak around to make it happen.

Trouble is, there’s also the minor issue of our insane travel schedules, full of curfews and practice and media and games. But I’m going to figure it the fuck out.

I return to his room, padding quietly to his side of the bed. God, he’s sexy in the morning, his hair a rumpled mess, the sheet riding low across his strong ass, his entire muscular back on display. I itch to slide my palm along all that smooth, golden skin.

Instead, I indulge in the view for several seconds, watching his shoulders rise and fall with each slow, sleepy breath.

But I can’t go all Edward Cullen on him, so I whisper a quiet goodbye. On my way out, I spot the purple Seductive hat on the coffee table in the living room. I grab it and tug it down low, doing my best to hide my face.

I slide on my shoes by the door and slip out, glancing from left to right, casing the ’hood. Like a cat, I move along the stone path and then scan the sidewalk. It’s the dead hour of five, so I’m alone as I head down the street to my car. Once I’m inside, I breathe easily, then click over to my texts. Time to start planning.

I’m going to the gym this morning around eight-thirty. If you happen to be there around the same time, that won’t look suspicious. I could even grab a boba with you after the gym like I would with anyone else. That place in Hayes Valley has a sister shop nearby. If anyone wondered what we were doing together, I bet we’d probably be plotting a new segment for the show. No one would think twice. I could even make a social post about it. Fans would eat it up. Well, my fans would since you’re not on social, Mister Anti-Social.

I hit send, then I’m about to take off when I glimpse myself in the mirror wearing his hat. This hat drove Beck to my door that night, fueled by bravado and white-hot desire.

I snap a quick pic of me in it and send it to Beck. Guess I’m feeling all sorts of warm and fuzzy today.

By the way, I took our disguise this morning. How do I look? As sexy as you looked when you showed up wearing this? Fuck, I love this hat.

I hit send before I lose the nerve. Might as well stand under his window with a boombox and shout I’m so into you .

But fuck it.

If my feelings weren’t apparent last night in the way I kissed him, touched him, and talked to him, one bold text proclaiming I dig his cap isn’t going to clue him in. He’s either figured it out, or he hasn’t.

Before I pump the gas, I steal one more glance at his home and spot a woman on the second floor, curly brown hair falling past her shoulders. She’s drinking a cup of coffee at a sink, staring out the glass. Chimes hang in her window.

For a second, it seems like she’s looking at me.

But my windows are tinted, it’s dark, and surely, she’s just an early riser, listening for birds.

At home, I toss the hat on the entryway table, crash for two hours, then get ready for the gym and—I hope—a secret date. As I tug on workout shorts, my phone chirps, and I grab it from the bed.

I read the text from Beck and snort. In a nod to my recent note, he says I should call him Mister Anti-Social.

Fair enough. I change his profile name and thumb back to the continuing thread, then flinch at what I see.

Mister Anti-Social: Your middle name is Finley.

I don’t use my mom’s maiden name anywhere. Before I can ask how he knows it, another text pops up.

Mister Anti-Social: This is so unfair.

What the hell is he talking about?

Mister Anti-Social: You’re already ridiculously handsome. You have that dimple. That magic smile. And now I learn you’re the only person in the world with a good driver’s license photo.

I relax. In our up-against-the-door-frenzy last night, he tossed my wallet on the floor. My license must have skidded out. I bound downstairs and grab my wallet from the table in my foyer. Flicking through it, I confirm my license is indeed missing. So’s a condom.

Hmm. That must have landed on his floor too.

I’ll take that as an opening, thank you very much. But first, I need a new text name too. I settle on one quickly, a perfect contrast to Beck. Maybe it’ll show him that we fit together. By the way. I’ll be Mister Social.

Then I return to the good stuff.

Mister Social: Looks like my license isn’t the only thing I left behind.

Mister Anti-Social: Gee, were you trying to leave me a subtle message after our convo last night?

Hell, yes.

Well, not intentionally, but I’m going to make the most of that condom in every way.

I flip through my mental calendar. Tonight is out since I’d be too tempted to stay up all night fucking, and that’s a mistake leading into a game weekend. The Hawks play at home, so I’ll be in the football-only zone tomorrow and Sunday. Same for Beck. He flies to Chicago on Saturday for a Sunday afternoon game. We’ll both be back by Monday, so he could come over that evening.

Perfect.

That’s the plan, and I’m so damn eager to ask him to spend Monday night with me. But I don’t want to do this over text. He’s too sarcastic behind a phone. Besides, I need to read his body language. While we have boba this morning, I’ll search for the right moment to ask him to spend the night with me on Monday.

With that settled, I write back.

Mister Social: I promise I’ll be unsubtle when I see you. That is, if you liked my “date idea” from earlier?

I want to make sure he knows my post-gym invite was a date. I hit send, even though my steady hands are shaking. I’m fucking nervous now, for real. I hope he says yes to seeing me after we hit the machines.

Mister Anti-Social: When you mentioned that boba shop the first time I saw you at the coffee place, were you hoping someday I’d say yes to a date?

Mister Social: Are you still trying to prove I have a crush?

Mister Anti-Social: Yes.

Mister Social: You win.

Mister Anti-Social: Excellent. Also, why do they call it a sister shop? Why not a brother shop?

Mister Social: You’re killing me. Bro shop, sis shop, who cares? Give a dude an answer.

Mister Anti-Social: With you, it’s always yes.

When I shut the front door behind me on my way out, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Anyone who sees me will be able to tell I’m deep in the red zone with infatuation.

I jog down the steps, but once Zena’s house comes into view, I erase the I-got-laid-and-I’m-getting-laid-again look as best I can. She’s watering flowers on her porch, so I call out, “Hey, Zena. I have some good news for you.”

Her smile brightens against her olive skin. “You changed your mind?” She flies down the steps, watering can in hand.

“No, but do you know Carter Hendrix?” I ask as she reaches me on the stone path.

“Of course. I love my Renegades!”

I roll my eyes. “You never really wanted me anyway for your app,” I say with exaggerated disdain.

“Of course I did. You were my first choice, and I still want an out athlete as a partner. But the Renegades are the Renegades, so I’ll happily work with one of their players,” she says.

“I mentioned to Carter you might be interested. I can have his agent get in touch.”

“You’re a doll,” she says, then leans in to give me an air kiss.

“For a Hawk,” I grumble.

“That’s true,” she says. When we separate, she dives into business mode. “But you can’t escape me entirely. Date Night is also sponsoring the Ultimate Player Auction, both here and in New York. With so many queer and straight players doing the event, there was no way I’d let another app beat me to it. My app is very LGBTQ friendly.”

That gives me another idea. “If you really want a queer dude too, I might know someone,” I offer. Hell, maybe I’m a matchmaker now for my buddies and sponsors. It’s that kind of day, and I am spreading the love.

Zena’s eyes sparkle. “I’d love any recommendations you might have.”

“Let me make a call.”

After I say goodbye to Zena, I text Carter the Zena details, then call my friend Luke, the second-string quarterback for the New York Leopards.

“McKay, I’ve told you before,” Luke says when he answers. “I’m not sharing the playbook with your sorry ass. You’re gonna have to find another way to win.”

“Ha. We’ll destroy you next weekend, regardless. And I hope they put your sorry and slow ass in so I can personally annihilate you,” I say as I walk along Jackson Street.

“I can’t believe I ever said you were nice.”

“Did you, Luke? Did you ever say that?”

“Hmm. Actually, nope.”

We shoot the breeze for a minute or two, catching up on events since I saw him in New York over the summer. “So, are you doing this Ultimate Player Auction in New York again?”

“I am. I want some hot dude to bid more on me than anyone bids on one of the straights. I pulled it off last year when I went for the highest price. I want to do it again. I’d love for a bad boy with a sexy accent to place the winning bid,” my friend says, going a little dreamy.

“That is both a noble goal and a very specific one.”

“Put it out there and the universe will deliver. Or something like that,” he says.

“I think you want the bad boy to deliver, not the universe, buddy.”

“Or maybe I want the bad boy to deliver in my universe,” he says.

“Maybe you should try out for the New York Horn Dogs. Anyway, I wanted to pass on a tip for you and your agent if you’re looking for sponsorship deals. Zena Palladium is dying to have a gay dude be the face of her app. I can connect you. I turned her down.”

“Aww, you’re giving me your sloppy seconds.”

That’s not the case, and I want him to know it. “I’m just not dating.” I feel bad lying, so I shift gears as I near the ice cream shop on the corner, where black spiders and cobweb cutouts decorate the shop window in the spirit of the season. “Anyway, are you coming here early next week before our game?”

“I’ll fly out a day or two early to see the family, but I’ve got some time. You want to hit the links?”

“Yes.”

Wait.

I stare at the too-cute-to-be-spooky décor, and inspiration strikes. Halloween is six days from now, on a Thursday. I am an evil genius! If I have a Halloween party, I’ll have reason to invite Beck... along with everyone else.

Can’t ask him out to the movies, or for dinner, or anything that screams real date, but a party is a perfect cover. I won’t have to flash the I like you Bat-signal to get another night with him, both with friends and then alone.

When the party ends, Beck can stay behind with me. Just me and him and my Alaskan King bed. That’d give me two nights with Beck—Monday and Thursday—and I don’t have to serve up my heart.

I ad-lib an invite to Luke. “And I’m having a Halloween party next week too. My house. Sports-themed costumes, but you can’t be an athlete in the sport you play,” I tell him.

“Rules. God bless ’em. And yes, I’m in for the party and a round of eighteen,” Luke says.

I say goodbye, thinking of the party prep I’ll need to do over the next few days. But I love that shit.

A few minutes later, I reach the gym.

Even though I saw Beck mere hours ago, the prospect of seeing him again now excites me on a whole new level. I hope he’s feeling the same way.