CHAPTER 2. TENSION
The next time I see Sawyer Moon is eight months after that kiss.
Not that we ever talked about it.
But I won’t lie—I spent months trying to make sense of what the hell even happened.
At first, I was pissed. I mean, what was I supposed to think? He calls me a slur on the field, then gets turned on when I call him out, kisses me, and when I don’t kiss him back, looks at me like I just broke his favorite toy. Like, seriously?
Maybe he’s that touch-starved—even a little skin-on-skin contact fries his brain. Fine. Whatever. I don’t care. But kissing me? After everything? That wasn’t necessary. What—was that supposed to cover for the fact he got hard?
After a while, I was just annoyed, because the memory wouldn’t leave me alone. It kept popping into my head. Into my dreams. And I hated that it was taking up so much brain space. Probably because I couldn’t really tell anyone about it.
Well—except Nick, my straight older brother, and his soon-to-be wife, Samia. And since they’ve been happily coupled up for a decade, neither of them was exactly thrilled with the story.
“That’s a red flag if I’ve ever seen one,” Samia said when I finished, sipping her coffee.
“Yup. Keep away from him,” Nick added, glancing over his shoulder as he loaded up a plate with leftover party food. I was staying at their place after Nick’s birthday—still a little hungover—so I’d gotten hit with a wave of honesty and told them the whole thing.
“I’m not planning to talk to him or anything,” I said with a snort, even though something twisted in my chest. Not guilt, exactly—just this weird flicker, like I was lying. I wasn’t. But some part of me still bristled at the implication in Nick’s voice.
“I know,” Nick said, smirking—and yeah, that got under my skin. Like just because the guy kissed me, I was supposed to be into him or something. Which is kind of insulting, honestly.
I didn’t tell them about the hard-on, though. That would've been weird. They know Moon as this big-deal soccer star, and dropping that detail felt like crossing a line.
Which is stupid, I know. I don’t need to be out here protecting my own bully. But there I was.
Anyway.
Since Nick knows the whole story, fast forward to today—eight months later, half an hour before the friendly between the Centaurs and the Dragons—and I get three messages from him, back to back.
Ancient One: Good luck tonight!
Ancient One: Moon’s in the Dragons’ starting lineup
Ancient One: Don’t get pregnant ;)
I sigh, rolling my eyes. I’d kind of hoped he’d forgotten about it.
Him teasing me just pisses me off—not sure why, exactly. Maybe because it turns the whole thing into a joke, when it really wasn’t.
“You nervous?”
I lock my phone and glance up just as Eric drops onto the bench beside me. He’s got that lopsided grin, looking at me like he knows something.
“Why would I be nervous?” I say flatly, summoning every ounce of calm. I’m not, really. At least not about Moon.
“Good,” Eric says, clapping me on the shoulder. “I know it’s just a friendly, but I really want to crush them after last time.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
A dull pang tugs at my chest. That match—when Moon and I both got red-carded and thrown out—Dragons scored before regular time ended, and the game finished in a draw. Then in extra time, they scored again and took the spot in the semis.
So for the past eight months, I’ve been living with the fact that blowing our shot at the championship was on me.
Funny thing is, the absurdity of Moon kissing me kind of dulled the sting of losing. And the Dragons getting knocked out in the semis didn’t hurt either.
I toss my bag and phone into the locker and glance around. The air already smells like liniment and sweat. The room’s buzzing—no trace of that usual pre-match tension, probably because it’s just a friendly.
Manuel, Joe, and Jo?o are stretching and talking about the buffet we’re getting after the game at the Lafayette—the hotel we’re staying at. Will and Derek are taping their ankles. Patrick, Charlie, and Adam are arguing about Halloween plans. Everyone else is halfway into their jerseys.
“Got plans for Halloween, Cap?” Adam asks, catching my eye.
“Not really,” I say, propping my leg up on the bench to re-tie my laces. I wear cleats a size too small so I can feel the ball better, which means I’ve gotta keep the ankle tight—no wobble.
“I’m sticking around Dallas for the weekend,” I add. “My brother lives here.”
“Nice,” Adam says, shooting a look over at Eric. “What about you, Tommo?”
“Huh?” Eric turns toward him with his right ear—the one without the AirPod. He always keeps just one in. “What am I what?”
“Are you doing anything for Halloween?”
“Yeah,” Eric says, standing up. “Crashing with the Woods brothers for the weekend. Figured I’d drag Mark and his brother out trick-or-treating—Dallas gay club edition.”
“No way!” Charlie grins, eyebrows shooting up, then looks at me. “Is that true, Mark?”
I snort, rolling my eyes. “I never said yes.”
“Yet,” Eric says, deadpan, and Adam, Charlie, and Patrick crack up.
I roll my eyes again as Eric smirks at me, brushing his hair back like he’s in a commercial.
Eric’s very handsome—objectively—and he loves gay clubs.
Mostly because, at six-four, he’s the tallest guy in the room, soaking up attention and free drinks from every guy who wants to fuck him. Or more accurately, get fucked by him.
I’ve known Eric since Midwest Soccer Academy, but I’ve never gone clubbing with him—not once. It’s not about hiding anything—I’ve been openly gay for years. I just get swarmed by fans every time I step into a crowd.
But from what I’ve heard, when Eric’s out partying, pretty much every bottom in the club tries to climb him.
And even though I’m basically infamous for having zero social life—hence the guys’ reaction—I’m actually considering going this time.
Reason A: Eric’s been trying to drag me to a club for years.
Reason B: Halloween parties might be the one time I can wear a costume and not get recognized.
And reason C: I really want to get drunk this weekend—and that sounds way more fun than getting wasted with Eric and my brother Nick in his one-bedroom apartment.
(Samia’s out of town at some dental conference in New York.) Because when Eric and Nick get together, they fuse into this snobby cinephile megazord and start binging arthouse films that make me want to claw my eyes out.
“Five minutes, guys,” says Daemon, Coach Skinner’s assistant, poking his head into the room.
The small talk dies down, and everyone starts locking in. Coach Skinner walks in a moment later, making his way around the room, giving each of the starters a few quiet words of last-minute advice—stuff we’ve already gone over at least three times.
I know this match, even if it’s just a friendly, matters to him too.
And tonight, I need to prove myself.
I’m not letting Moon get under my skin. Not this time.
***
Okay, maybe that was a little premature—because not even a minute into the match, I’m already trying not to lose it.
Guess what this asshole just did.
You know that moment before kickoff, when both teams line up and shake hands? Yeah—when it was time for him to shake mine, he crossed his arms and looked away. Didn’t even glance at me. Fucking disrespectful prick.
And the whole stadium saw it.
Even though we’re on the Dragons’ home field, our fans are loud enough to boo him for that little stunt. Still, my heart’s pounding—tight and angry in my chest.
“You okay, Cap?” Jo?o asks, shooting me a worried look.
That pulls me back.
This is exactly what Moon wants. The whole handshake thing—it’s probably just a setup to screw with me, to throw me off my game. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
After how I lost it last match, I know the team’s a little on edge—especially Jo?o. He joined the Centaurs this season, so he doesn’t really know me yet.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, giving him a quick smile.
Jo?o smiles back, a hint of hesitation in his eyes, then gives me a slightly clumsy clap on the shoulder. He’s a head shorter than me, with a mess of black curls and big brown eyes.
But just as we’re about to jog to the center of the field for the coin toss, I feel Moon’s gaze snap toward us. He’s already stepped aside with the rest of his team, but his eyes flick from me to Jo?o and back again—then away—before his lips curl into this faint little smile.
A rush of anger burns in my chest.
Jo?o’s one of three openly gay players on our team—the other two being, well, me and Eric.
And while I’m not even slightly worried about anyone messing with Eric—because, yeah, no one’s dumb enough to start shit with a six-foot-four slab of muscle who looks like he could bench-press a car—I have to admit, I feel protective as hell over Jo?o.
He’s kind, sensitive—one of those rare people who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.
So if Moon even thinks about pulling the same crap with him that he does with me, he’s gonna have to think again.
Because I will kick his ass.
The match starts, and from the first few seconds, it’s clear this isn’t just a friendly. Both teams are locked in—tense, totally focused.
Barely two minutes in, Jo?o sends a perfect pass to Eric.
Eric takes it and fires it across to Jackson, slicing right through the Dragons’ defense.
Kim and Brooks, the Dragons’ defenders, close in fast, trying to shut Jackson down, but he fakes them out and chips it back to Eric—already in the box—who slams it in with one of his signature headers, like a fucking cannon.
My heart skips as the ball rockets toward the Dragons’ goal.
Price, their keeper, dives for it, and for a second, I think he’s got it—fingertips outstretched, almost on target.
But the shot’s too strong. It clips off his fingertips—hard—and still slams into the net.