Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
You’re a God
Spence
I blink awake, the world slow and thick around me, heavy with sleep.
Something’s off—there’s a weight pressing into my chest. And it’s definitely not Fucker.
For a second I think maybe I’m dreaming, but I look down and there’s a big arm thrown over me.
Not just any arm, either. Muscular. Tanned. Scattered with tiny blond hairs.
I shift my eyes to the right. Ryan’s out cold, mouth slightly open, long lashes resting on his cheeks. He’s breathing soft and deep. I freeze, heart thudding, brain setting off every alarm bell my past trauma has set.
Shit. The line of my rule about sleepovers blurred the second I brought him home from the hospital. But this—this is the line being wiped out completely, and I don’t know how I feel about that.
I don’t doubt him anymore. Not about his sexuality, obviously.
But he’s still a dangerous game. He could have anyone.
If he retires from football—and I have a sneaking suspicion he’s actually thinking about it—he’ll have whole new worlds to explore.
Once he’s out, it won’t be just me. It’ll be everyone else at his damn feet.
To his fans… and any gay man with a pulse, he’s a god. And me? I’m not.
I’m also not strong enough to resist those dimples and that ass. I’ll keep fucking him as long as he’ll let me. But I’ve got to keep a lock on my heart. Still, I can’t help but stare at him all curled up and beautiful.
I’m already losing the battle.
Ryan’s eyes flutter open. He catches me staring, and grins, slow and lazy, rubbing little circles on my chest. “Hi, Perfect,” he hums.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t ‘Hi, Perfect’ me. What are you doing?”
He puts on his innocent voice—the one I know is anything but. “What do you mean?”
I look up at the ceiling because it’s safer than his eyes. If I look at those eyes, I’ll incinerate the last rule I have left. That’s right, folks. Only one left. Because here I am with Ryan between my sheets as the sun rises.
Sleepover. Check.
And two… yep, you guessed it.
I fucked around and caught some feelings.
I blow out a breath, run a hand through my hair. “Why are you in my bed, Ryan?”
He shrugs, still pressed against me. “Couldn’t sleep.” He scoots in, rubs his hard cock against my thigh. “And I was lonely.”
I glance at him, and my resolve nearly breaks. “We talked about this.”
He flashes a wolfish grin. “I’ve never been good at following rules.” He grinds against my thigh again, no shame whatsoever.
I sigh, pick up his arm, and move it gently off my chest. I can feel my walls closing in, panic crawling up my throat.
I need out of this bed or I’m going to give in to him completely.
That voice in my head, the one that got louder every time I got burned as a stupid kid, tells me this is too much, too soon.
With the exception of Chance’s gallery thing a year and a half ago, it’s always been gym, fuck, repeat.
Until he got injured. Now I’m—what? Playing house?
It’s not that I regret helping him. I like having him around actually. It’s just a lot. And it all happened fast.
No, you’re spiraling, Spencer.
I rip the covers off and Fucker practically screams and jumps, then flies off the bed. Woops.
Ryan laughs and I shake my head, then sit up, and swing my legs out of bed, searching for air. I’m halfway to the bathroom when I hear, “Fucking fuck.”
I look back. Ryan’s propped up on one elbow, smirking at me. “Sorry, I just love watching you walk around in your legal briefs.”
I scoff, then roll my head, try to loosen the tension in my neck, then walk around to his side of the bed and hold out my hand. He looks up at me, then at my hand.
“Come on. I’ll help you wrap your cast so you can shower before you drag me to whatever you’ve got planned for today.”
He lights up, scrambling to swing his legs over the edge so I can get him up. I roll his knee scooter over, help him get situated.
As we head to the bathroom, I mutter, “Besides, you owe me a shower handy for pulling your little stunt crawling into my bed in the middle of the night.”
Ryan just laughs, bright and unbothered. “That’s not the deterrent you think it is.”
After the shower—where Ryan had me pinned against the tile, his face buried in my neck, kissing that spot just behind my ear he knows is my weakness, hand wrapped around me and moving with practiced confidence—I’m left feeling like a little more of my willpower washed down the drain along with my cum.
We get dressed in comfortable clothes, jeans and T-shirts, like any Saturday, and head into the kitchen.
Ryan gets straight to work, pulling out the leftover biscuit dough I saw him prepping yesterday when I got home late.
He rolls it out with these quick, sure movements, dusting the counter with flour and humming under his breath.
While the biscuits bake, he beats eggs, tosses in mushrooms, spinach, and crumbles of feta, the pan sizzling as the omelet takes shape.
I just watch him, arms folded, trying not to think about how domestic this all feels—or how good he looks in my kitchen.
My egg white bagel routine suddenly seems like the saddest thing in the world.
We dig in at the counter, plates stacked high. The biscuits are golden and flaky and the omelet’s perfect—salty, herby, and creamy all at once.
“Damn. These biscuits are heaven, Ry,” I say, mouth full.
Ryan pumps his brows, cocky as ever. “Oh, I know you like my biscuits.”
I shake my head, grinning despite myself. “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
He shrugs, popping a piece of biscuit into his mouth. “Nope.”
“Figured as much.” I wave my fork at him. “Eat up so we can get on the road then.”
Ryan takes an enormous bite, growls, and shakes his head like a lion tearing at its prey. I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. “You’re a jackass.”
He grins at me, crumbs falling onto his shirt. “Thannkew,” he manages around the mouthful.
“You’re lucky that mouth’s good for other things,” I grumble, but it comes out fond, and Ryan tips his head back and laughs. I have to shove down the warmth rising in my chest.
I glance down and see Fucker, paws kneading at the tile, going absolutely to town on the crumbs. When the last one’s gone, he mews pitifully. Ryan notices, scoots his chair back, and pats his lap. Fucker leaps up and Ryan tears a bit of omelet and feeds it to him like it’s perfectly normal.
I just stare at him, speechless.
Ryan looks up, all innocence. “What?”
“You’re teaching him bad habits. He’s not supposed to get up on things.”
Ryan shrugs. “Come on, Spence. He’s a cat. You should see when you’re not here—” He cuts himself off, lips rolling inward.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to know.”
Ryan looks down at Fucker. “Ooh, we’re in trouble, F-Bomb. Daddy doesn’t like his rules broken.”
That earns him a glare. I stand, walk over, and take his plate.
“Hey, we weren’t finished,” he protests.
“You are now. I’ll clean up, then we should go.”
I rinse the plates and load the dishwasher, washing pans while Ryan makes more coffee, pouring it into thermoses for the road.
After about twenty minutes of following the GPS to whatever secret destination Ryan plugged in, we pull into the parking lot of Golden Days Retirement Village. I stare at the sign, then at Ryan. “Seriously? What are we doing here?”
“You’ll see.”
I don’t push him further on it, just shove my door open, climb out, and circle around to help him out of the passenger seat. I yank his crutches from the back and hand them over.
Ryan grabs them and says, “Only a couple more weeks and I’m allowed to put weight on my foot again. I can’t wait to burn these fucking things.”
I let out a low chuckle as he nods toward the entrance.
“Come on, Perfect,” he urges. I fall in beside him, but after a few steps, something in my gut turns and I stop dead. Ryan halts on his crutches and looks back over his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
I swallow, the nerves giving my voice a little hitch. “This commitment you have here… is it a grandparent or something? Are you introducing me to family? Because I don’t know if—”
Ryan cuts me off, eyes soft but mouth stubborn. “Stop. It’s not that. Can you just trust me for five minutes?”
I shift on my feet, glance at the doors ahead and then back at him. “Yeah, okay.”
He snickers. “Good. Now can you get the door for my injured ass?”
I fight the urge to say something about really injuring his ass, and stride ahead, glancing over my shoulder. “Come on, hop-a-long.”
I hold the door open, and Ryan pauses in the doorway, leans in close, and whispers, “I’m going to hop on something long as soon as we get home,” complete with eyebrow waggle.
I let out a startled laugh, but inside, the word “home” is a grenade. It’s warm and tingly, but also packed with confusion and panic. I don’t have time to process, though, because suddenly a rich, southern voice calls out, “Ryan Buterbaugh, you get your little behind in here right now.”
We step in and my eyes are drawn to a beautifully dressed woman, probably in her fifties, sweeping around the counter in a flurry of mint green fabric and white accessories.
Ryan grins at her. “Now Miss Clara, I take offense.”
She plants her hands on her hips and gives him a look. Ryan turns, waggles his ass a little, and says, “You know damn well my tushy is not small. Go ahead, give it a squeeze.”
She barks a laugh and smacks his arm. “Boy, you are not right. Now turn around so I can give you some love.”
He pivots and she wraps him up in a big hug and he nearly lifts her off her feet—even though he’s balanced on one crutch.
She pulls back and gives him a hard swat to the chest.
“Ow. What was that for?” Ryan yelps.
Clara huffs, but there’s tears in her eyes. “For scaring the bejeezus outta me. I was watching that game, you know.”
Ryan’s smile softens. “I know. You already yelled at me about it on the phone. I’m sorry.”
She wipes her eyes, hand gentle on his arm. “Ain’t nothing to be sorry for, baby. I’m just glad you’re on the mend.” She nods toward a door off to the side. “Though you may leave here with a few more broken bones. They were watching too.”
Ryan laughs, and then Clara turns to me, eyebrows raised. “Well, seems I’ve gone and forgotten my manners. And so have you, Ryan. Who is your friend?”
Ryan beams. “Clara, meet Spence. He’s been helping me while I recover. He’s my bestest friend.”
I groan internally and stick out my hand, but she waves it away.
“Oh, no, baby. We hug people where I come from. Especially people who take care of our cherished treasures.” She glances at Ryan, then pulls me into a hug before I can protest. Over her shoulder, I catch Ryan grinning like he’s about to combust.
But honestly? The hug feels… nice. Warm. Safe.
Oh fuck, I’m malfunctioning.
Clara steps back, gives me a long, assessing look. “Hm. I don’t know, Ryan. You’re all busted up now. I may have to trade you in. Your friend here is gorgeous.”
Ryan claps a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Miss Clara.”
“Oh, you know I love you,” she tuts.
I’m starting to wonder if she’s the reason we’re here, but this is more of a friendly visit than something he does in his free time. Clara turns to me and says, “Very nice to meet you, Spence. But you better get your friend through those doors or there’s going to be a riot.”
I frown at her, confused, and glance at Ryan. Clara sighs, rubs my arm. “Goodness gracious. Did you not tell him?”
My eyes dart to Ryan, who’s barely keeping a straight face. Clara looks at me with exaggerated sympathy. “Well, no matter now. Godspeed and good luck, son.”
I freeze, eyes wide, but Ryan just jerks his head toward the door. “C’mon, Spence. We have work to do.”