Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Reid
It’s early, and the sun is just cresting over the horizon as I reach the bottom of the stairs of the Museum of Art.
It’s my favorite time to run in Philly, even with the cold.
Partly because it’s too early for the tourists who come to race each other to the top and take photos with the Rocky statue, but mostly because the world has this clean, fresh-beginning glow to it.
A delicious, familiar scent fills my nose, and I breathe in a lungful before I turn towards it and find the one person I never expected to see. Luka fucking Hart.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and he pulls out his ear buds, eyebrows raised high.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
“What are you doing?” I repeat, and his smile widens.
“Baking a cake. What do you think I’m here for? I’ve been in Philly for weeks now, and I haven’t run the stairs. Why are you here?”
“I’m here for the stairs too, but I do this run every other day.”
“Feel like making things interesting?” he asks, and his lips pick up on one side in a smirk, the morning light illuminating the light freckles on his cheeks like a fine glitter.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Obviously a race to the top.”
“I figured that. What are we playing for?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“What do you want to lose?”
“What makes you think I’ll be the one losing?”
“Please. I’m younger, fitter, and faster.”
He’s not wrong on two fronts. But while I might be about a decade older than this cocky little shit, I am fit as fuck, and there’s no way I’m losing to him today.
“Okay, what do you suggest, then?” I ask.
He gets this glint in his eye, and my stomach flips. Great, what have I gotten myself into?
“How about, if I win, I get control of the locker-room television for a month?”
Okay, that’s not so bad.
“And if I win?”
“I’ll tell all my adoring fans online that you beat me.”
“I don’t play for praise,” I say as I contemplate asking him to give up on his reckless trick plays as my prize.
But then he could turn around and change his prize and ask me to try one again or give up trying to stop him.
And the chances of me losing this race are high enough for me not to want to risk that. I settle on something simpler.
“How about, if I win, you have to get my game day breakfast for the rest of the season.”
“Done,” he agrees way too quickly. Then he shoves his earbuds into his pocket. “I’ll even give you an advantage and not listen to my park run playlist.”
“You have a specific playlist just for your park runs?”
“I have different playlists for everything. Why? You don’t like listening to music either?” he asks, and I can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.
“I’m not a monster. Of course I listen to music, but I usually just listen to the radio.”
“Don’t you get distracted by all the ads and talking and stuff?”
“I guess not. I never really paid much attention to it.”
He shakes his head like he’s not sure he believes what I’m saying, but moves into a starting pose, holding his water bottle like a baton in a relay race. “Get ready to lose, old man.”
I take a sip of my water and slide the bottle back into place in its holder around my waist, then I get into position.
“Watch who you’re calling old,” I reply, and he smiles as he counts down.
“Three. Two. One . . .”
The second he says “go,” I’m off like a shot.
I normally take these stairs two at a time in a steady rhythm until about halfway, then I sprint one at a time to the top, but today is about endurance as much as speed. Luka keeps pace up the first third, but then he starts to slip out of my line of sight.
My legs pump harder, the muscles supporting my old knees already warm from the jog out here but still burning with exhaustion.
I should slow down. Pushing too hard could put me in a world of pain, but I can’t let him win.
I don’t even care about the prize. I want him to see that I’ve still got it.
Whatever “it” actually is. Chest warm, heart pounding, I reach the top and turn, arms pumping in the air just like Rocky.
He slowly steps up the last two stairs, head dipped forward in defeat.
“Shit . . . I guess . . . you win,” he wheezes as he hunches over, gasping for air.
My chest swells a little at how wrecked he is compared to my old ass. He coughs, and my attention shifts from my own impressive performance to his struggle to breathe.
“Shit, man, are you alright?” I ask, and he nods, holding up a hand as if to stop me from checking on him.
“One sec,” he says, standing upright, arching his back for a second, and then he uncaps his water bottle and takes a long drink.
“That’s better,” he adds, his voice completely normal, and I can feel my brow furrowed tight.
Did he seriously just go from wrecked to ready to rumble in thirty seconds?
I wonder. And then like he’s reading my mind, he answers.
“What? I’m quick on the recovery,” he says with a smirk that makes my cock take notice.
Then he spills water over his face and sweeps it up and into his hair, slicking back the slightly longer waves and highlighting his bright blue eyes, and I can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down, throat glistening with sweat and water, probably salty and delicious.
Nope. What the fuck are you thinking? I turn away before he might pick up my totally inappropriate thoughts next, and I make a start toward the path that leads to my usual trail run.
“See you at the rink Monday,” I call without looking back.
When I push through the door at home, Luka is still on my mind, and I carry the images of him into the shower with me.
I tried to shove the thoughts away the entire run along the river trail, but they just wouldn’t quit tormenting me. Finally, I had to cut the run short and just head home. Running with a semi isn’t exactly comfortable.
Hot water rolls down my back, and I rest my head on my forearm against the cool tile as the other hand finds my cock and works it in slow, even strokes.
This time, I let the images of Luka spilling water over himself fill my thoughts.
I let out a low rumble as I picture the dimples in his lightly freckled cheeks and his lips picked up in that devilish grin, almost daring me to make a move.
Rookie Reid probably would have. But that’s not me anymore.
I can’t afford to be reckless. Not that he would even want me.
This doesn’t mean I want him either. This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just about getting off. A face, a body, a fantasy to get me to release. It’s a one-time thing, I tell myself.
Working my cock faster, I can feel the tension inside circling like a building storm. My pulse is racing, my whole body trembling.
Like a movie stuck in a replay glitch, I watch Luka soak himself over and over, his shirt clinging to his muscled chest, taunting me with his smirk and then my orgasm hits so hard I’m sure I black out for a second, because when I can finally focus on where I am, the water is starting to run cold and someone is thumping on the bathroom door.
“What?” I call, shutting off the shower and climbing out to wrap a towel around my waist.
“Can I eat the leftover chili?” David calls back in an exasperated tone, like he’s asking for the millionth time. For all I know, he could be.
“Sure,” I reply, and his heavy steps thud down the stairs a few seconds later. “You’re welcome.”
I swipe a hand over the fogged-up mirror and I’m taken aback at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed a soft pink, and instead of the usual exhaustion in my eyes, I look wide awake.
Rejuvenated, almost like a whole new man.
Maybe I am. Because the old me never would have fantasized about a teammate to get off, let alone one a decade younger who is infuriatingly persistent in pissing me off.
My cock twitches like that thought was some deep-seated call to action.
“Nope. We will not be doing that again,” I tell my dick, and I’m at least sixty percent sure I mean it.