Twenty-Four
All Star
Spencer
This motherfucker. This motherfucker has me sitting practically in the end zone on a Sunday afternoon.
No, literally on the grass right by Arizona’s end zone in some kind of tent setup.
Sun’s blaring, whole stadium humming with energy, and I’m basically on the field, wedged into a cushioned chair with a bucket of ice-cold sodas and a view so close I can count the sweat on the players’ brows.
I lean over to Jen and mutter, “I can’t believe this is where you guys sit for games.”
Jen grins, her cheeks flushed. She’s in an extra-large jersey, Ryan’s number nineteen stretching over her pregnant belly.
“Well, we know several of the players, Spence. Perks. But yeah, these are great. We used to sit in one of the boxes on the fifty, but they started doing these casitas a couple years ago, so the boys made sure we get one for home games.” She shifts, resting a hand on her stomach.
“Which is a good thing with Lexi and I being as big as a semi. We’d never make those stairs. Probably pop one out on the way up.”
I bark out a laugh before I catch myself.
It’s easy around Jen. Still, I glance at her belly, and something tightens in my chest, a feeling I keep locked away.
That kind of future isn’t for me—too messy, too fragile—but in this moment, seeing how this friend group holds space for each other, it makes me wonder if I’m missing out on something.
Gives me the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe there’s something good left in people.
Before I can spiral, Jen elbows me, sharp and familiar. “Ow! What?” I grumble.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she points out onto the field, smirking.
I follow her hand, and my vision zeroes in on Ryan Buterbaugh, bent double, stretching, that glorious, ridiculous ass right there in the sunlight, snug in those white football pants.
Not even fifty feet away. My mouth waters.
He straightens, and that perfect bubble shifts as he moves.
Then he spins, like he can feel my eyes on him, and hits me with that stupid, beautiful grin.
Next to me, Jen hums, “Mmhmm.” I keep my mouth shut. She’s not getting shit out of me today.
Ryan jogs over, helmet in one hand, cheeks already pink from the warmup. He stops right in front of us, and Jen doesn’t miss a beat.
“Looking good out there, Butters,” she says, grinning wicked.
“Thanks,” Ryan answers. His gaze flicks to her, then to me. “But I haven’t even thrown any warmup passes yet.”
I know he knows what’s coming, the little shit. He’s just lobbing it up for her. “I was talking about your ass in those pants,” Jen quips, and makes squeezy motions with her hands.
And there it is.
Ryan laughs, full-bodied and unbothered. He turns around, popping his hips out, giving us both the full show, then glances over his shoulder. “It’s good, right? Nice and bubbly.”
My fists clench in my lap and I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting every urge in my body. He’s going to pay for that later. He knows he’s killing me.
Jen leans forward and smacks his ass, the pop echoing beneath the tent. Ryan just laughs, but I nearly see red. I want to be the one touching him. I want to claim him, but my damaged brain’s too chicken-shit to do anything about it.
Ryan turns back around, meets my eyes, and for a second it’s just us in the world—green eyes, flushed cheeks, that sexy as fuck lip-biting grin.
“Heya, Spence,” he says, a little softer, a little less sure than he is with everyone else.
I swallow, hard. “Hey, Ry.”
He gives me that look, the one I know means he’s nervous—shifting his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—um, I’m glad you’re here. Means a lot.”
I can feel Jen’s head on a swivel, looking between the two of us. But I just shrug, trying to play it cool. “No biggie.” I wave out at the field. “Now go impress me, Ball Boy.”
Ryan grins wide, his annoyingly gorgeous face beaming brighter than the Arizona sun. Before he turns to go back to his team, he taps the dimple in his chin twice, a secret message just for me, and winks.
Then he’s off, running, helmet under his arm, leaving me sitting there with my heart in my throat and a riot in my chest.
Goddammit.
I become keenly aware of eyes on me. I turn. Jen is staring, eyebrow cocked.
“What are you looking at?” I snap.
“Nothing. I’m just trying to think if I’ve ever seen you blush,” Jen says, her eyes way too smug.
I narrow my eyes at her. “I am not blushing.” The lie doesn’t even sound convincing to my own ears. Like I said…
This motherfucker.
Before I can think of a better comeback, Lexi leans over, her face bright with mischief. “Don’t tell Beau, but Butters does have the best ass on the team. Can’t blame you for gawking.”
I rub a hand over my face and groan. There’s no winning with these women.
Not a moment too soon, Anthony and Chance arrive, filling up the little casita with their presence.
Lexi tries to get up, but her belly keeps her anchored in the chair.
Chance points at her and Jen. “Hey. Don’t get up.
We’ll come to you.” He crouches down beside Lexi, cradling her face in his big hands and planting a kiss on her forehead. Pure admiration.
He turns to Jen, who raises a warning finger. “Don’t you dare.” Chance just laughs and rubs her stomach anyway. She shoots him a glare, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.
Anthony rolls his eyes at Chance and leans down, giving Jen a gentle hug. She pats his back, grumbling but not really protesting.
When Anthony straightens back up, Chance bends back down, then leans into Jen and attacks her forehead with a scatter of obnoxious, noisy kisses, ending with a loud raspberry on her temple. Jen bats at him, laughing and shoving him away. “Get out of here, jackass.”
Chance grins, unbothered. Anthony looks at Jen and Lexi with a soft smile. “You both look great. Only a couple more weeks and you can go back to life as normal. I can’t thank you enough—”
Lexi cuts him off, sharp and full of warmth. “Will you stop thanking us? We’re happy to be able to do this for you both.”
Jen points at Lexi, nodding. “That. Also, nothing’s going back to as it was. We’re going to have two littles running around. Then Beau and Lexi will have their own. Our little found family is growing.”
Anthony raises a brow, lips quirking. “Careful, Jen. Your heart is showing.”
She flips him off, unapologetic, and everyone laughs.
I just watch all this unfold, a lump forming in my throat. Is this what letting people in looks like? I rub my palms together, trying to ground myself. I guess if it’s people you’ve chosen, a person could have a loving support system.
I stand and offer my hand to Anthony. “Hey, Anthony.”
He clasps my hand, always that genuine smile. “I’m glad you came, Spence. Hopefully you make it to more home games. Always good to support our clients.”
I nod. “I’ll definitely try. This is a great setup.”
Then I turn to Chance, shake his hand too. “Hey, if you’re in the office tomorrow, I’d like to talk to you about some kind of event for the kids. And maybe do a friendly competition to bring a few of them to a game in this tent.”
Running the queer youth center for almost a year now—on top of my other responsibilities at the agency—has been more fulfilling than I ever expected. But I want to do even more. I want to consistently find new ways to give these kids something to look forward to.
Before I can say more, a whirlwind of color and chaos crashes into the casita. Dita approaches first, impeccable as always—dressed head-to-toe in Arizona’s finest shade of red, from her lipstick to her perfectly laced Chucks.
The chaos is Parker. God. Parker looks like someone unleashed a preschooler with a pack of markers.
He’s in denim cutoffs and I can tell, even from the front, that his ass cheeks are hanging out of the bottom.
He’s got a cutoff shirt on that only covers his chest. The rest of him—abs, face, arms—is covered in paint.
And he’s rolling a bright red sucker on his tongue, naturally.
“Hey boss!” he shouts, grinning like I should be proud.
I look him over and shake my head. “What—”
Before I get the question out, the stadium speakers blast one of those obnoxious jock hype songs, something about a tootsie roll, and Parker squeals, “Omigod! This is my jam!” He spins around and my jaw actually drops.
Painted on his back, in giant white letters: TIGHT END, with a big arrow pointing straight down to his ass.
Then, in front of an NFL stadium full of people, he starts twerking. I slide down in my chair and cover my face. Jen and Lexi are practically doubled over, cackling.
Anthony laughs, eyes glued to Parker’s performance. Chance emits a low rumble—half warning, half amusement. Anthony just shakes his head, still laughing, and grabs Chance by the arm. “Come on. Buy me a fifty-dollar hot dog, Husband.”
They disappear in the direction of the concession stands, leaving the rest of us in a fit of laughter, Parker dropping it low with no shame, and me thinking maybe, just maybe, I need to start lightening up.
I feel like maybe I could fit in with these people.
That maybe there’s a place for me if I allow myself to have it.
And I would have Ryan to thank for that.
The game starts, the crowd’s roar swelling around us as the kick sails downfield. Jen nudges me, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You know, football games are a great place to spill your guts to me about your crush on one of the guys on the field. Just ask Chance.”
I open my mouth to deflect, but the words stick. Instead, I settle for, “Nice try.”
She grins, unfazed. “You know you can talk to me about him, right? Even if it’s just an unrequited crush and he’s completely clueless about it.” She softens, just for a moment. “You know he would never intentionally hurt you, right?”
“It’s nothing, Jen. Can we drop it, please?”
She tuts, crossing her arms, clearly not satisfied.
I look out at the field, watching Ryan command the huddle.
He’s a natural leader—his teammates hanging on every word.
The play clock winds down and he’s pointing, shifting the formation, cool as hell.
Then the snap, and he’s all action: dropping back, scanning, launching a perfect spiral to his receiver.
Yeah, I’ve learned a bunch of words and phrases like formation, huddle, and perfect spiral. Let’s not make a federal case over it.
“It’s weird to watch this close in person,” I say, leaning over so Jen can hear me.
Jen nods. “It really is. He looks almost elegant, the way he moves, don’t you think?”
My brain helpfully supplies images of how elegant he looks riding my cock, so I keep my mouth shut.
I just hum loudly and nod.
We watch a few more plays. Each time, Ryan’s in control, moving like he was born for this. The offense marches downfield, and my chest fills with confusing pride.
On Arizona’s last possession of the first quarter, Ryan drops back for a pass.
They’re butted up against the end zone we’re gathered at under the tent.
Seattle’s defensive end, a monster of a human, breaks through the line.
Time slows. Ryan doesn’t see him coming.
The defender barrels down, and all I can do is watch, helpless, as the hit comes—full force, square into Ryan’s side.
Ryan’s body twists, legs tangling awkwardly, and then…
CRACK.
Ryan goes down, and his leg snaps back in a way no leg should move.
The sound of Ryan’s scream is sickening, even from here.
My ears ring. The crowd’s noise fades and it’s like the world’s gone silent except for the white-hot panic tearing through my chest. I can’t breathe.
My gut drops out, heart slamming so hard it hurts.
And then I’m running. I don’t even remember standing. I just know I have to get to him. I shove through the tent opening, past startled fans, toward the sideline. I barely make it ten yards before a coach and a ref catch me, holding me back.
On the field, Ryan is screaming—high, raw, animal. The kind of sound that turns your blood to ice.
“Let me through!” I yell, fighting against the hands holding me. “That’s my—” I choke, words lost in the chaos.
“Spence.” A voice somewhere behind me, arms wrap around my midsection, but I ignore it all. I have to get to Ryan.
“Spence!” The grip tightens, arms hauling me back.
“SPENCE!”
I’m spun around, vision blurry. It’s Chance. He lets go just as Anthony steps in front of me, hands on my shoulders.
“Let them do their job,” Anthony says, voice calm but firm. I just stare at him, mind blank except for the image of Ryan, broken and screaming.
Anthony’s hand squeezes my shoulder. “Come on. We’ll take you to the hospital so you can be there when—”
“Hospital?” The word barely makes it out, rough and raw.
“Yeah,” Anthony says gently. “He’s probably going to need surgery.”
“Surgery?” My voice cracks.
Anthony glances at Chance. “Help me get him to the car.”
Chance rubs my back and, somehow, my feet move. I barely feel my legs as they lead me off the field, the stadium’s noise a distant, meaningless roar behind me. All I can see is Ryan, and the way his leg bent, and the sound of his scream echoing in my head.
Everything else disappears.