Chapter 5 Beck
BECK
Coach McCoy’s backyard is loud with laughter, shitty old country music, and a team full of wrestlers who have no respect for the neighbors.
It’s the same chaotic energy every year —overloud bravado about which rivals we’re going to take down this year, the eager chatter of excited freshmen, and Coach’s barking voice as he regales us with tales from his glory days.
Normally, this is one of my favorite pre-season events, a familiar event that reminds me I’m among family and gets me excited for the year to come.
It’s chaotic and loud, yes, but it’s also predictable.
And I like predictable. Predictable people, predictable routines, predictable nights.
But nothing feels predictable tonight, least of all the way Brody Miller has slotted himself into the team like he’s always belonged here, bright and easy and unburdened.
The longer I watch him joke with Fish or listen to him laugh at some story Roman is telling him, the more something acidic spreads under my ribs. I’m not sure if it’s jealousy or dread. Both feel equally poisonous. Maybe it’s just indigestion from the charred burger I ate.
Everyone is buzzing about going out after this.
It’s tradition for the upperclassmen to have one last wild night before pre-season kicks our asses.
It’s never been my favorite part of the night, and one I’ve skipped out on before, but being captain means putting my team first. It’s my job to look like I’m enjoying myself even if I’d rather gouge out my eyeballs than spend the night babysitting a bunch of drunk assholes.
So I straighten my shoulders, step into the center of the yard, and impose order onto the chaos because that’s the one thing I’m good at.
“Alright, listen up,” I call out, raising my voice over the chatter.
“After the barbeque we head straight to the Howl. No wandering off, no getting separated, and if you’re drinking, keep track of what you’re actually consuming.
Pierce, you’re responsible for keeping the freshmen from doing anything stupid.
Please remember that your behavior reflects on Huntston University, this team as a whole, and Coach McCoy. Cade, you–”
Cade doesn’t even wait for me to finish. He throws his head back and goes, “Yes, daddy. Thank you, daddy,” in a sugary voice that makes half the team dissolve into laughter. Even Coach barks out a laugh from behind the grill.
My jaw tightens, but Cade just grins wider, licking barbecue sauce off his thumb. Idiot. No matter how many years I’ve spent cultivating a perfect mask, Cade always seems to be able to either piss me off or make me laugh.
I roll my eyes and turn away before I say something I shouldn’t, pretending that the interruption doesn’t bother me and letting the whole thing go. Maybe I’ll make sure everyone gets to the club, then cut out early. I’ll say that Caty wanted me to meet her or something.
A throat clears behind me, and I turn to see Brody approaching with his trademark self-important smirk.
He strolls over with that relaxed, loose-hipped confidence of his, the kind of posture that says he’s never once worried about how people see him.
He stops in front of me, arms crossed, eyes warm but sharp.
“You ever relax and just have fun?” he asks, voice low and conversational like we’re normal teammates who don’t spend half our time circling each other like predators. “Or is micromanaging everyone else your idea of a good time?”
“Back off,” I mutter, because it’s the safest thing to say. Anything else would reveal how much he’s affecting me.
He doesn’t back off. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he tilts his head and regards me with an unsettling steadiness, like he can read the parts of me I’ve buried so deeply, even I’ve forgotten where they’re hidden.
“As much as I find your grouchy, uptight thing adorable,” Brody says, “the attitude toward me is getting a little old. I’m not your enemy.”
Heat flares behind my sternum again. It’s not anger exactly, but something close enough that I cling to it.
He steps slightly closer. Close enough that I feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that I have to fight not to step back.
“We’re teammates,” he continues. “And we’re going to continue being teammates for this entire year, and the next. Unless you’re planning on quitting.”
I scoff. “As if you could make me quit.”
“Good,” he says, sounding like he’s actually happy to hear it. “Then get used to me. Because I’m not going anywhere either.” He lets his gaze drag over my face like he’s cataloguing every twitch.
“And before you get your panties in a twist and start spiraling,” he adds softly. “I want to point out that I haven’t done a single thing to threaten your ego, your secrets, or your top-dog spot on this team.”
My pulse stutters at his mention of secrets, as if mentioning that I have one is akin to threatening to tell everyone.
“So,” Brody finishes, stepping in even closer, “either you get over yourself, or I’ll show you just how easily I can put you in your place.”
He walks away before I find something to fire back. I can’t, because I’m too frozen with the humiliating clarity of what the feeling in my chest and abdomen are. The realization that occurred when it flared to life with his words.
It’s not jealousy or apprehension or even heartburn. It’s far worse than that. It’s…
Want.
The Howl is a blur of pulsing lights and thumping base that vibrates all the way into my teeth. It’s packed in here, the air thick with the humidity of a late August night and sweaty bodies grinding together.
I’m perched on a barstool, trying to pretend that I’m here because I want to be and not because I have an image to maintain.
The guys are scattered across the club. Fish is playing pool with Jay and Aaron.
Roman and a few other teammates are doing tequila shots from some girl’s cleavage.
Sean is laughing with his roommate Carl, talking closely, probably so they can hear each other over the music.
I look over at the dance floor where Cade is dancing with two, or maybe three, girls at once.
Which of course leads my eyes right back to Brody, at the center of it all. The gravity that keeps pulling my eyes back unwillingly. His shirt is off and tucked into the back of his jeans, his hair slicked back with sweat, golden skin glowing under the neon lights.
He’s dancing with girls and guys alike without hesitation, laughing when someone pulls him close, throwing his head back like he belongs here more than anyone else in this room.
His jeans are unreasonably tight, sitting low on his hips.
Every roll of his body sends a ripple down the defined slope of his torso.
His abs flex with every shift of his weight, every grind of his hips.
It’s obscene. And I can’t stop my eyes from wandering in his direction.
Brody’s ability to not give a single fuck what anyone thinks of him is easily his most infuriating trait.
He has no idea what it’s like to live under the weight of expectations and obligations.
Meanwhile, everyone expects me to be that guy.
The perfect, reliable, straight as an arrow, professional man my father raised me to be.
Men like us don’t falter. We don’t slip.
And we damn sure don’t want things we’re not supposed to want.
I force myself to face the bar to keep my eyes anywhere else.
The bartender is pretty and slender, almost feminine even.
Not exactly the type I’m supposed to want, but close enough to pretend.
The type that fits neatly into my life without threatening to unravel it.
He gives me flirty smiles every time he catches me looking—smiles I don’t return, but he still reads interest in my stillness. Guys like him can always sense it.
If I stood up right now and walked towards that dark hallway behind the bar, I bet he’d follow. I wouldn’t even have to speak.
It’s predictable. It’s the safest kind of risk. It’s something I’ve done a few times, when the pressure builds too tightly inside me. In moments like this, it’s easy to remember how much I hate myself after.
I’m weighing my options when the air shifts beside me. A familiar, unsettling presence leans against the bar, far too close for my liking. I can smell his sweat and the underlying soapy scent of his bodywash.
Brody reaches for the water the bartender hands him without even being asked, like he’s been waiting for his cue. Brody’s smile is easy and warm, making the bartender suddenly forget I exist.
I don’t know why I feel embarrassed. It’s not as if either of them know where my thoughts had gone.
But it still feels like a calculated move on Brody’s part to humiliate me, to take something else from me.
He pisses me off so fucking much. I turn to glare, ready to say something cutting, but he’s not even looking at me.
He tilts his head back and chugs the water, Adam’s apple bobbing, throat flexing.
A bead of condensation rolls off the bottle and slides over his fingers, then drips onto his chest. It traces a path down his sternum, slips between his pecs, glides over the ridges of his abs.
Lower and lower it trickles, gathering speed as it dips into the waistband of his jeans.
And I watch it all the way down. I can’t not. I don’t want to. I don’t mean to. But I can’t tear my eyes away.
His jeans cling like they were molded to him. The V of muscle on his hips draws my eyes down and traps them there, where his button-fly strains.
My mouth is dry, and my groin has a pulse.
I have just enough wherewithal to blink back up at him, and my face heats when I see he’s watching me take him in. The bastard winks and leans in.
His breath brushes my cheek, warm and humid from dancing. “So are you out or what?” he murmurs. It’s so casual. So calm. So devastating.