Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Break out our poly playbook.”
BEAU
Four games may not be a winning streak, but… yeah, it is.
We’re crushing it. We dominate on the field. Everyone is saying this is our year, and we feel it.
Atlanta is hyped. We’re a well-oiled, sweaty machine on the gridiron. We beat Carolina, Green Bay, Detroit, and then Jacksonville. Away games or home game advantage, it doesn’t matter.
“Goddamn!” Coach Williams slaps my back. “Bronson, I don’t care how you’re doing it, but keep it up. This is your best season yet.”
I glance across the locker room at Colt. He just smirks, naked, slinging a towel over his inked shoulder before heading to the showers.
The press is interviewing Martinez and Goodwin. They executed a helluva trick play to secure our win against Jacksonville.
It was late in the fourth quarter. We were down by three in the midfield. I held the ball, and everyone scrambled, thinking I’d throw to Hawke as I have for most plays, but I called a new one. I threw thirty yards to Martinez, who, instead of going down with the ball, passed it to Goodwin, who was wide open, streaking down the field for the touchdown.
Hell yeah, they deserve the praise.
That shit was incredible.
“Goddamn! Way to execute.” Coach Williams slaps their shoulders, too. “Sorry,” he says to the reporter. “You filming?”
She laughs, shaking her head no while I try sneaking by her. Not because I’m naked and need a shower, too. It’s because the press and fans are feral for Blair.
They won’t stop asking me about her.
Thankfully, some fans with a box suite in our stadium are also big fans… of Blair’s. It seems the CEO of Atlanta’s famous beverage company is also a romance reader. She saw the frenzy Blair experienced in the stands during our first home game and invited her to join her in their company’s suite.
So, our woman is safe from the crowds and fans, but not the press.
Neither am I.
“Bronson. Bronson.” The reporter snags me sneaking by.
I turn, nude and smiling. “Yeah?”
“It’s your fourth straight win,” she says. “Can you talk about your confidence in Colton Hawke? He’s leading in receiving yards. Are you surprised?”
“No. He’s a big part of our offense. Our players are really showing their blocking skills and their flexibility, too, this season. Martinez. Goodwin. Smith. Everyone. Our defense, as well. We got some damn good players.”
“And you?” She looks me in the eye, not at my naked body. She’s a pro. “Are you looking forward to Philadelphia next? They’re 4-0, too.”
“Yeah. Should be a good matchup.”
“Speaking of matchups,” she has to ask. It was all over ESPN this week. “Is what Duncan Monroe said about you and his daughter, Blair, true?”
I don’t have to force my smile. “It’s true I’m in love… ” I pause, “…with the game.” Then, I wink, ending the interrogation.
Off camera, the reporter winks back. It’s not unprofessional. She understands I’m trying to respect Blair and protect her privacy.
The hype about us is out of control.
Then, her father bragged to a reporter last week that Blair and I are getting married, like any day now, and he made it worse.
It’s not that I don’t want to get married. I do. But not now.
Something special like that? I want to make a romantic proposal. I want to do it right. I want to give Blair her dream wedding with no expenses spared. So, it has to be done in the off-season, which is months from now.
Besides, where does that leave Colt?
I suds up beside him. Being naked with Colt and dozens of men in the shower is nothing new. It’s part of the job. It never fazed me.
But reporters asking about marriage?
That’s awkward.
Even our teammates feel it.
“Bronson!” Goodwin shouts across the tiled room. “Marry that hot Monroe woman, so they’ll quit asking about her and focus on the real story.” Goodwin beams, shampoo suds streaming down his brown skin. “Me and my Good Wins!”
I laugh. So does Colt.
“Come on now!” I shout back. “You know the only fucking ring I’ll score this season!”
And the team hollers, “Rise up!”
It’s the Atlanta slogan and true. At this rate, Super Bowl rings are in our grasp.
Colt laughs about it on the way to the players’ parking lot. “Just elope over Thanksgiving,” he says. “Do a vacation wedding on the beach so I can be the best man in a tight white Speedo.”
I’m holding Blair’s hand. Fans are waiting by the fence, wanting autographs and shouting our names.
“Oh,” Blair jokes back, “I don’t want a wedding, but I’m all about a topless beach vacation. Or a fake wedding role-play. Some golden cock rings. Some diamond anal plugs. A wedding dress we can trash while I’m the naughty bride, and y’all are two dirty grooms. Wait? Please tell me you own tuxes.”
“Two grooms? I like that idea.” I lift her hand to my lips, planting a kiss. “And yeah, we own tuxes.”
“Hell, no,” Colt scoffs. “I’m not ruing my Dior with cum stains. We can rent role-play tuxes.”
“So,” I laugh, “you’d rather start wild rumors when Atlanta’s QB and running back rent tuxes from the mall and return them covered in cock snot? I can see the Touchdown panties and tapioca pudding fans would throw on the field after that.”
Blair starts laughing, too, but then Colt stops, pointing to the fence at the edge of the lot. “Dude,” he says. “Look at all those kids. We gotta say hello.”
“We will,” I answer, beeping my truck remote. “Let’s toss our shit in the cab and get the A/C running. I don’t want more swamp ass.”
September is still hot as hell in Atlanta. We’re showered and fresh, and I’d like to stay that way.
I open the passenger door for Blair, but she rummages through her purse. “Just a sec,” she says. “I gotta make sure I didn’t leave my phone in the suite.”
I think nothing of it, aiming for the driver’s door while Colt opens the back door. But he also hangs back, checking his phone.
“What are you doing?” I climb in, starting the engine. “Watching the postgame already?”
But Colt doesn’t answer. Neither does Blair. They don’t get in the truck. Something’s off. I sense it, pressing the big A/C button, and BOOM!
The A/C vents explode with confetti. Red, black, silver, and gold glitter showers my truck.
Blair starts howling. So does Colt. He’s got his phone up, recording my face that looks like a million sparkling fairies farted on it.
“Okay, Ziggy Stardust!” Colt laughs, his phone shaking. “Now, let’s sign autographs.”
These fuckers.
Think I’m afraid?
Hell no. I grab the Sharpie I keep in my center console and proudly jump out of my truck, strutting toward the fence and our fans.
“Beau! Beau!” Two boys shout. “Will you sign our T-shirts?”
“Will do, little buddy.”
I reach through the hole in the fence, signing T-shirts, balls, and more, until one girl asks, “Are you wearing princess makeup?”
“Sure am,” I answer. “I borrowed it from Colton Hawke. He loves glitter.”
The crowd laughs, and Colt joins me. Other players gather at the fence, too.
It’s funny. Blair makes sure of it. She laughs all the way home while I bitch, “I’ll be cleaning up this glitter shit for months.”
“Nope. Years,” Blair corrects me, sitting in the passenger seat, sprinkling some in my hair. Like it needs more.
“Let’s scoop it into a bag and save it for your wedding,” Colt jokes.
“Alright,” Blair almost scolds. “Enough wedding talk. That’s just my dad having diarrhea of the mouth. Ignore him. I do. No one’s getting married. You’re winning the Super Bowl.”
But I’m quiet, half-focused on the traffic. Sometimes, I wish I had a chopper to take us home—it’s that bad. We’re crawling in six lanes down the interstate, and it’s awkward.
I’m making it awkward, I know.
But I don’t want to marry Blair without Colt. There’s no hierarchy in our relationship. It’s the three of us, equally. If we marry, it won’t feel right. I won’t leave Colt out. I can’t. Half my heart beats for him, the other half for Blair.
I’m about to say something about the big pink poly elephant in the truck when Colt’s phone sings “I Touch Myself” by the Divinyls.
“There’s my girl!” Colt accepts the call, putting it on speaker.
“Good game,” Ruby sings. “I’m so proud of my man!”
“Uh, thank you, darlin’.” Colt impersonates Elvis. “Uh, thank you very much.”
“Hey, cunt!” Blair calls out so Ruby can hear her.
“Hey DP Duchess!”
I roll my eyes, grinning. They do this every time. Ruby calls, and it’s an hour of verbal grab ass—oh, and vaginal jabs, too.
“Hey, next week,” Ruby says. “After you beat Philadelphia and get a Victory Monday off, fly to Charleston to celebrate.”
I wince.
It almost feels like a jinx.
Yeah, I’m confident in our team. But making plans to have Monday off after a Sunday win? That feels like flirting with bad luck.
“Can we play it by ear?” Colt asks. He feels the same.
“Sure,” Ruby answers. “We’ll send the jet. If and when you win, jump on Sunday evening after the game, and we’ll fly you back early Tuesday morning before practice.”
“So, we spend two nights in Charleston?” Blair clarifies.
“If you want,” Ruby replies. “I can get you a suite at The Mercier. Or you can stay at the beach house.”
“Oh, we know all about The Mercier,” I say, tossing a grin to Blair. She blows a kiss back, remembering our Valentine’s night there, too. “But whose beach house?”
“No names yet,” Ruby teases. “Other pros are coming that Monday, too, and you’ll recognize some. You beat three players in our group already.”
“Shit,” Colt huffs. “You sure we’ll be welcome?”
“More than welcome. There are too few of you not to stick together. That’s what we want to talk about.”
The more Ruby talks about her secret group, the more it feels like salvation and sin at the same time.
“Will my sister be there?” Blair asks what is often the topic of our late-night chats in bed.
She’ll rest on my chest or Colt’s, wondering aloud if her twin is secretly in an “intimate network” with Ruby.
Blair’s teaching us all kinds of terms for our lifestyle.
It’s only fair. We teach her ours.
Our woman now knows what the red zone is, and I now know I’m a bi-monogamous man. I want only one man and one woman. Forever.
I assume that’s not rare in Ruby’s world, in her group, but she doesn’t answer Blair.
“I can’t… shh,” Ruby replies, “My signal… shh…breaking up….will….shh…have a good…shh…later.” But then her giggle is unmistakable. “Bye.”
“The sneaky little cunt candy. She hung up on us.” Blair laughs before she declares, “Okay. New rule!”
“Oh shit,” I mutter. “Break out our poly playbook.”
“I’m serious.” Blair sorta sounds it. “Add this rule right under how all toilet seats must be left down and?—”
“I still object to that,” Colt interrupts. “You’re outnumbered.”
“And you’d like to fuck a clean pussy. Not one dunked in toilet water, so you decide, your Highness of Hygiene.”
I laugh. “She’s got you there. But—” I insist, “I’m dead serious about your fake eyelashes. Damn things look like attack spiders on the bathroom countertop. I about shit my shorts.”
“Fine,” Blair agrees. “I’ll put them away, but I’m serious about my new rule, about Ruby and Vale. If they’re muff-munching, I support it but don’t want to see it.”
Colt snorts, “Won’t you get kicked out of lesbian land for saying that?”
“No!” Blair turns in her seat, telling him. “I’ve muff-munched. I’m bi. All love is beautiful to me. I just don’t want to see my sister do it. My ovaries will shrivel into raisins at the sight.”
“I suspect Vale feels the same,” I say, taking the exit ramp. We drive by the gas station I’ll never forget, so I wonder aloud, “But do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?” Blair asks. “Having a twin so identical that people treat us like the same person?”
“No,” I answer. “I mean, if Vale’s with Ruby, do you miss it, too? Do you ever miss being with women?”
Colt calls from the back seat, “Please answer yes, and please let me watch.”
“I don’t know.” Blair pops her shoulders. “Not really. I’m so dick-drunk in love with you two; I’m happy. I don’t miss anything.”
“Well, Raven, you have my vote,” Colt assures. “If you ever get hungry for another bikini burger, you have my permission. I won’t mind.”
“You won’t?”
“Why should I?” Colt answers me. “I get you and her. You get me and her. It’s kinda unfair in our bipoly world that she doesn’t get to satisfy her needs. I get it. I like pussy, too. I want her to be happy.”
“Babe?” I ask, worried. “Are you satisfied with just us? Do you want to be with a woman, too?”
Blair throws her chin up, laughing. “Oh, I’m satisfied. It takes me a day to recover from your double-dicking. My vag needs a vacay. There’s no way I could squeeze more orgasms into my weekly calendar. I’d never get books written.”
“I’m serious. Colt’s right.”
“Usually am,” he adds.
“If you want to be with a woman, too, we need to talk about it.”
“Oh?” Blair sounds intrigued. “But would you get jealous?”
“Yep.”
“Nope.”
Obviously, Colt and I differ.
“He’s okay with it,” I say, “but honestly, I’m… ”
What the hell is this emotion? Jealousy?
No, not really. It’s deeper. It’s not negative. It’s not ugly or insecure.
It’s…
I pull to the side of the street. We’re in our neighborhood. No one cares, but I do. I turn to her.
“Babe, I love you. I always have, and I always will.” I look over my shoulder and tell Colt, “And I love you, too. Always. I just want us. The three of us. That’s what I’m saying. But if you… ”
Shit, it hurts my heart.
The idea of Colt with someone else or Blair.
“I… ” I try to explain, but Blair reaches, brushing her fingers through my glittery hair.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I understand. I’m serious. I just want us, too. The three of us. I’m just joking about the double-dick stuff.”
“No, you’re not,” Colt chuffs. “Double with our big dicks is no joke.”
She grins, turning to smack his knee while he laughs.
“No,” she says. “Our anything is no joke, and neither is our love. I only want you both. I’m not missing out because I have more than I could’ve dreamed for with you two.”
“Same.” Colt gets serious. “I like watching. I’d like being watched. Whatever we do at this beach house, I don’t care. I’m proud of our love, but I don’t want to share it.”
“Me neither,” I sigh, relieved. “People keep asking about the future. About games. About the Super Bowl. About marriage. They ask like we can be sure when I’m sure of one thing—our future is together.”
Blair climbs over the console. She gives me a tender kiss. Then she turns and offers Colt an even bigger one. I’m not jealous. She’s making sure he’s equal and not left out, even though he insists on riding in the backseat because he won’t let Blair do it.
“Fine.” She plops back in her chair, smiling, looking cute in her Atlanta jersey. She won’t wear one with my number or Colt’s, either. She won’t choose. “Our future is together,” she declares, “but only if you put the toilet seat down.”
“Oh, something’s going down when we get home,” I tease. “We have a big win to celebrate, and it’s Colt’s turn.”
“Yeehaw!” He howls.
And once he sees our surprise—the black leather chaps Blair bought for me and the bare breast and crotchless latex lingerie set Blair bought for herself? Once we tie Colt’s wrists to the bed. Once he begs to suck me, then lick her until his beard is glistening with our cum? Once I’m between his legs, fucking his ass while Blair rides him?
“Goddamn, don’t ever stop fucking me,” Colt roars as we give him the ride of his life.
Goddamn, I won’t ever stop loving them either.