Chapter 17 Jed #3
“Sounds nice,” I say, eyeing him.
“Something that frustrates you,” he says quickly. “Next question.”
I think it over as he takes his turn—and knocks in two of his balls. Well, that changed quickly. “Can I choose a person?”
His head snaps my way, and the glare he shoots me is…so ineffective and adorable. “You can’t choose me.” He pouts.
I bark out a laugh. “I was going to pick Olander and Devereux.”
His face relaxes. “We definitely have that in common. I choose them too. God, those two make me ragey. Like, is it really so hard to just not be an asshole?”
“You know, I really think it’s unfair to assholes to have those two compared to them. Assholes are pretty great.”
Michaels chokes. “Ohmygod. Yessss, man. That was a legitimate joke. So proud of you.”
My grin breaks free before I can stop it. Michaels’s stare drops to it, and it’s like his face freezes. His mouth moves, and no words surface before—
“Something that makes you happy,” he blurts.
“Winning.” I can’t keep the whine from my voice. “I’m so tired of losing.”
“I feel that, but you can’t pick winning.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with liking to win?”
“Nothing, but I don’t know, bro. If that’s what you need to be happy…that’s kind of sad, no?”
I blink at him. Yeah, I guess it is. This conversation has been enlightening.
“Plus, it’s more supposed to be something small. It’s the little things in life kind of deal.” He leans on the cue stick, rocking back and forth, his Golden Retriever tail-wag energy buzzing from him.
“Like for me, it’s quirky things. I know you said you’re not into woo-woo, but I think it’s fun to learn about those kinds of things.
Like the wild things some of the greats have done to improve their game or get out of a slump.
The guy’s name is totally escaping me right now, but there was that outfielder who used to piss on his hands to toughen them up.
He didn’t wear batting gloves, and he swore it helped him with better bat control. ”
My mouth tightens against a smile. Shit, he’s right. I forgot about that.
“Oh! Another one. Pedro Martinez used to wear a uniform that was a size too small. Said it made him more aerodynamic.”
“Turk Wendell used to brush his teeth between every inning,” I add mid-laugh. “Oh, and there was Chicken Man!”
“Yes! See? You can’t help but smile learning about these things. Even you, Mr. Grumpy Wumpy.”
“You got me,” I say and don’t try to put away my smile. “All right. Something that makes me happy—that’s not winning.” I take my turn and sink one ball. One left. “Craft beers. Does that count? I love trying small breweries and discovering new favorite IPAs.”
“Totally counts.” He sinks a ball. “Last question. Something that drives you.” He lines up for his next shot.
“My dad.”
Those blue eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, a wealth of understanding in that one look, before his attention is back on the table. He sinks his final ball. Just the eight ball left. He walks around the table, brows in a concentration line as he weighs his options.
“You?”
His gaze flicks up to mine. “My momma. Everything I do, I do for her.”
Huh. I think that might be respect I feel growing for the flippant, forever joking guy in front of me.
He calls his pocket, but misses, so I’m up.
“I’ll hand it to you, Michaels. Your five-finger game was a good one.” I sink my ball, then glance back at him. “Even if it’s not my favorite version.” I wink, and he bursts out laughing.
The sound fills me, lights me up. The man’s joy is infectious. It’s been so long since I’ve been around joy. Warmth. He’s like a walking ray of sunshine, and it’s not just his blinding smile.
I call the right pocket for the eight ball. I bend low over the table and line up my shot. I glance at Michaels, a chirp on the tip of my tongue, but I completely forget what it was. Because his attention is locked on my ass, and his shiny white teeth are digging into his pink bottom lip.
I quickly turn back to the table and take my shot. But confusion makes my movements sluggish and uncoordinated. I hit the completely wrong side of the ball and send it into the left pocket.
“Wrong hole,” I say gruffly.
Michaels sidles up to me, his arm brushing against mine and his citrus scent washing over me in a wave. His dark blue gaze locks on mine. “Looks like the right hole to me.” His voice is lower than normal, thicker, his words heavy with a meaning I doubt he intended.
“You win,” I murmur.
“Time for me to claim my prize.”
Those words skate over me, and I shiver. Because Michaels looking at me like that? Makes it feel like he’s talking about me.
“We never did name the stakes.” My words are nothing more than a hushed whisper, just as confused, just as thrown off balance as the rest of me.
Those blue eyes meet mine again. Flick down to my mouth. Back up. His throat bobs in a swallow, and then a shaky exhale dances over my lips.
Why can I feel that breath?
But before I have a chance to think further on that, a pair of lips land on mine. My eyes stretch wide. Surfer Boy is kissing me. Shane Michaels is kissing me. Holy fucking shit.
His hand wraps around my neck, slowly, tentatively, and he presses into me, slides his tongue over the seam of my lips.
He’s like…really kissing me. Asking for an invitation for more.
My pulse is going so fast at this point it’s no longer a beat, just a continuous roar.
I’m a cacophony of confusion. What’s his end goal here?
I don’t see what he has to gain from this.
The only thing I can take this to mean is…
He’s not as straight as I assumed he was.
One way to test that. I step into him, trapping him against the table, and lodging my thigh between his legs.
On the next flick of his tongue, I take what he’s been hinting at.
My tongue surges forward, diving in for a taste of hoppy beer and citrus.
I barely hold back my groan. Not just at his taste, but at how he meets me as an equal.
His fingers flex on me, his strong tongue rolling with mine. Eager. Not one bit of hesitation.
I abruptly break away. I study him, our heavy breaths mingling in the few inches between us. “You go around kissing men often?”
His gaze drills into mine. He shakes his head, blond curls scattering. “This would be a first.”
My thoughts ping around my brain, trying and failing to make sense of this.
I had assumed he was straight. Kissing me is a mark against that.
Him admitting he’s never kissed a man goes back the other way toward straight again.
Am I an experiment? There’s no way he’s playing some sort of weird game, right? See who folds first?
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Surfer Boy,” I whisper, and there’s no missing the threat in my voice. Don’t challenge me to a game of gay chicken. The bisexual man doesn’t lose that game.
A fire of blue sparks to life in his eyes. In the next moment, my world is spinning and the backs of my thighs slam into the pool table. A wall of lithe, hard muscle covers every inch of me. His lips are hot on mine, and he sinks back into my mouth before my brain has caught up with my body.
His tongue rolls over mine in a seductive slide.
Fuck, the man can kiss. He’s intentional with his tongue, the way he curls it around mine.
Some people just thrust it in there like a jackhammer, no finesse.
Surfer Boy? All finesse. It’s like a sensual dance, the way he licks into me.
It has much filthier images of what he could be doing with that tongue popping into my brain.
I grab onto his ass and pull him tighter against me. I’m hard at this point, and I know he can tell. Another test. Will the maybe-not-so-straight boy go running now that things are getting serious? He rocks into me. And I don’t miss his hard length grinding against my thigh.
No. No, of course not. I growl, both because—I mean, hot—but also, what the fucking hell? Kissing a teammate was not on my bingo card for the night. Where is this going? Why is this happening? Then a thought trickles through my brain.
I grip his jaw and halt him. He leans back, heavy-lidded gaze catching on mine.
“How much did you have to drink?”
My gut squirms. Some really horrible thoughts are spinning through my mind right now. Like he’s had too much to drink, doesn’t know what he’s doing, and we all know where that leads. The queer guy gets blamed for taking advantage. Pointed to as the villain. Predator.
“Two,” he says breathlessly. Then his eyes sharpen, and his brows crash together. “I’m not drunk, Jed. I’m fully aware of what’s going on here.”
Jed.
Not Stone. Not Pebs. Fuck, not even Grumpy Wumpy.
Jed.
That single word slams into my chest. A pitch I didn’t even see coming. I don’t understand why my name falling from his lips knocks me so far off center. I let out a slow breath. Breathe it out, Jed. Slowly, my world clicks back into place.
I trace his solemn features. No smile now.
He seems to be telling the truth, and I don’t remember him throwing back drinks excessively, so the two checks out.
I just…it would almost be easier to believe if he were drunk.
I don’t understand how this is happening right now.
All I know is with all the blood in my dick I can’t think straight. I need air, space.
“We’re leaving.”
I turn and make for the bar to close out my tab. Michaels hurries after me silently. Once the car doors close, he opens his mouth, but I lift a hand.
“No words. Not right now.”
His mouth snaps shut, and he pretends to zip his lips—because of course Surfer Boy does.
I need to take this ride to let my blood cool.
To think. It would be a lot easier to do if I weren’t so insanely attracted to the man next to me that he turns my brain to mush.
From day one, I’ve worked hard to suppress my attraction.
He’s wearing an off-limits sign that’s so loud and so bright, it could compete with the neon lights back at Cox and Company.
But is he really? Would one night be so bad?
Yes. Yes, it really would. What the fuck am I thinking? I’m not. My dick is. It would totally fuck the team if we slept together. He’d never even kissed a man before tonight. What if he freaks out?
What if he doesn’t, my mind taunts. You’d be his first. Oh, my dick likes that.
I am not getting anywhere with the conversation I’m having in my head.
Pro-con list time.
Cons: It could go very badly. He freaks out mid hook up.
Or it’s just bad sex. All of which would lead to an extremely awkward tomorrow.
Make our game even worse. He could catch feelings, and then I’d be stuck in a shitty spot.
I don’t do feelings, and we can’t exactly hide from each other being teammates.
The organization could find out. Granted, the chance of that is probably slim-to-none if this is a one and done thing.
Still, a risk. What if our vibes are different in the locker room after?
Olander and Dev could pick up on it. I can handle their shit, but can Michaels? He could end up outed.
Okay. That’s a lot of bad shit. Time for the pros.
Pros: Shared orgasms with a hot guy.
I rattle my brain for more. I come up empty.
A brick of disappointment sinks in my gut.
I already knew what the right choice was.
I glance over at Michaels. He’s staring straight out of the windshield.
I can’t read him. I quickly turn my attention back to the road.
I want what he’s offering—whatever that ends up being.
But it doesn’t matter. Now that there’s blood fueling my brain again, something very unfortunate has returned.
Logic. Whatever could happen between us would be a horrible idea.
I’ve always known that. But it was a hell of a lot easier to accept when he wasn’t an option.
I pull into the parking garage of my apartment and round the building until I get to my spot. Shane’s obnoxious-orange Jeep is a few spaces down in one of the visitor spots. Perfect. Time to send Mr. Sunshine and Smiles home.
I hop out without a word and walk over to his car, leaving plenty of space for him to get inside. He watches me as he approaches, then leans against his driver’s side door.
“Go home, Michaels,” I murmur. “This isn’t a game you want to play. We did what Coach wanted. We got to know each other a little better, and you’re not half as bad as I thought you were.” I inject some teasing into my tone.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares unsmiling with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Hopefully it’ll help us get out of our funk. This night needs to end here.”
It takes everything in me not to shift on my feet. It’s…unnerving…a serious Shane Michaels. A silent Shane Michaels.
When it seems clear he’s not going to say anything, I turn and head for my apartment. It doesn’t matter that I want him to follow me, that I want to invite him upstairs.
I know the sex would be hot-as-fuck, and my dick is trying to remind me of the fact. But you don’t have sex with a teammate, regardless of how hot it’d be.
“Jed.”
My name echoes through the parking garage. I slowly turn to face Michaels.
“Do you want the night to end here?”
I open my mouth; the yes is right there. But it won’t come.
I snap my mouth closed and spin on my heel, his “That’s what I thought,” chasing me up the stairs.