Chapter 11
“So it’s true what they say in the streets—the lost son has found his way home.”
Noah didn’t have to lift his head; he would have known that deep voice anywhere. Comforting, like a hot shower after an exhausting day, it washed over him, teasing a sigh out of him. Home. After a decade, he was, in fact, really home.
Putting his glass back down onto the counter, he took a deep breath before swiveling around on his barstool.
“Owen,” he said. Or meant to say, since the name was nothing more than a whisper on his parched lips.
For a short moment, he was worried about hallucinating this whole encounter.
To get dragged back to reality by the kick of a steel-capped boot right in his ribs.
But when his dark eyes roamed the other man’s face standing before him, it caught on to little details he had never seen before: small crow-feet around his blue eyes, a hint of gray in his blond beard, and when he smiled, his lips revealed a slightly chipped front tooth.
This wasn’t some figment of his memory because he hadn’t been there for all of these little changes, wouldn’t—no, couldn’t know of them if they weren’t real.
“Owen,” he croaked out again, and when the other man spread his arms wide, just to wrap them around him a moment later, he was sure.
This. Was home.
“Man, what the hell are you reading there?”
Evander’s voice echoes off the tiled walls, and I jump, almost dropping Keeping Noah in the whirlpool.
“Wanna try and give me a heart attack, asshole?” I huff, peeking at the page number before closing the book and placing it on my towel, safely out of reach of the water.
It’s been two days since Linden and I had that talk, and despite my reservations about his plan to use a gay romance novel as a playbook for real-life sex, I’ve dutifully made it through the first couple of chapters.
So far, however, nothing graphic has happened between the two protagonists.
Noah, a former SEAL operator, has just made it back from war to his tiny town in West Virginia, where he’s supposed to take over the family farm after his father’s death.
Throw in his childhood crush, Owen, plus some mystery, and it’s a book I’d have never touched of my own accord.
But even when it hasn’t given me any pointers about the sex, it’s planted another idea.
When we sat down to discuss our situation, Linden mentioned that he had never had a proper first date—one that didn’t start online, which is pretty sad, in my opinion.
And while I can’t give him a real first date, I might be able to recreate one.
“Didn’t know you were so jumpy, Cap,” Evander shoots back, grinning widely as he wades into the pool, followed by Felix and finally, Seb.
I push off from the pool’s edge where I’ve been dangling my legs, sinking in up to my chin, sighing as the warm water engulfs my body.
This always feels heavenly after a long, grueling workout.
Sometimes I still can’t quite believe that I get all of this—and for free!
—just because I’m good at catching and running with an egg-shaped ball.
A fun skill, yes, but nothing groundbreaking.
Shouldn’t we be pampering our future doctors and scientists this way instead?
“Keeping Noah. What are they keeping Noah for? Like, did he break the speed limit? Is it a DUI? And why’s he naked?” Evander interrupts my thoughts, leaning over the edge of the pool to get a look at the cover.
“Hey, don’t get it wet, idiot.” I snort, pushing against his shoulder, though I’m more focused on redirecting his attention from the book than saving it from water damage. It’s obvious that Keeping Noah has already been through a lot.
“Maybe it’s for public indecency then?” Felix suggests just before diving underwater.
“He’s wearing pants.” Seb enters the pool cautiously, his left arm raised.
He got a new tattoo last week, which is currently wrapped to protect it from the chlorine.
His social media followers have been speculating about the design ever since he livestreamed his visit to the tattoo parlor with his brothers.
Unlike them, I already know what’s hidden beneath the foil.
I’ve seen Seb draw the little badger on his tablet and helped him choose among different versions—one grinning and flexing its muscles, another cheeky, with a snapback on its head, a third showing its claws in a feisty pose.
“How long do you have to keep that on?” Evander asks, pointing to the thin foil over Seb’s lower arm once we’re all settled in the pool. I’m glad the attention is shifting from my unusual literature to another topic.
“I’m just wearing it now so it won’t get wet. It’s already a week old.” Seb shrugs, and Felix frowns at that explanation.
“But why didn’t you get it after last season? Isn’t it shitty timing to do that in summer? Now you can’t go for a swim or lie on the beach,” he points out, and Seb sighs.
“Yeah, well. It was the only time where our schedules aligned,” he explains, like he couldn’t have gotten a tattoo without his brothers getting one at the same time and a full crew filming it.
But then it probably wouldn’t have gotten as much attention.
The internet eagerly eats up every crumb the three brothers toss at it, but nothing sends it into a frenzy like the full power of the Davenport-Hearst football legacy showing up together.
“You just wait another year until we all get drafted, and then you’ll understand.” Evander elbows Felix like he’s a seasoned soldier in the media circus following the lives of pro athletes.
“Loving the confidence, Young,” I murmur just as Felix says, “Big ‘if’ in that sentence, man.”
“What?! You gotta be kidding, man!” Evander huffs.
“You’re one of the best wide receivers out there.
Second-round draft material, easy! There’s no if.
” Evander crosses the small distance to grab Felix by the shoulders to shake some literal sense into him.
“Why are you talking like you’ve already lost? ”
Felix snorts and sprays him with a handful of water.
“I’m not talking like I’ve lost. I just know there are a hundred guys who want it more than me.
All in all, I’m more like a late third- or fourth-round pick,” he hedges, shooting Seb a long glance.
“Not all of us have football encoded into our genes, man. God didn’t kiss my hands good luck before sending me out here. ”
“God didn’t kiss my hands, either,” Seb whispers, but it’s so low that I can only read the words off his lips.
I wonder, and not for the first time, if the others have caught on to it—how he often runs late but stays long after everyone else is gone.
How Seb is already dissecting last season's tape, breaking down his old plays frame by frame.
How careful he is to avoid trans fats and sugar, skipping the burgers, the ice cream, the pizza.
“I’ll never be an elite player, man, and I’m fine with that.
I’ll give it a shot, sure, but I won’t make myself miserable by always fearing the next cut and getting traded around every year.
Move from one shithole to the next just to get booed by another set of fans?
Nah, thank you. If this won’t work out, I might go live with my dad for a while.
Maybe get my master’s degree in Germany. ”
“Germany.” Evander scrunches up his nose, but the next second, his face lights up again. “Oh, but we’ll come and visit you for Oktoberfest then!”
Felix rolls his eyes, then splashes Evander with another handful of water.
“Dude, I told you a thousand times: my dad lives in Dortmund.”
“So? Doesn’t Dortmund do Oktoberfest?” Evander laughs just before Felix jumps onto his back, trying to push him underwater. I roll my eyes at them, and Seb chuckles, both of us trying to keep out of their way while they wrestle.
I settle back against the tiles, replaying Felix’s words, wondering how it must feel to have a choice—to make decisions based on what you want, instead of what you can afford. And just as our gazes meet again, I imagine my best friend must ask himself the same question.
“Shouldn’t have had that last glass of whiskey,” Noah mumbled when they finally made their way through the dark parking lot toward his truck, Owen’s arm wrapped around his waist to steady his gait.
It was funny, he thought, how protected he felt with the other man by his side, even when he’d started to tower over him by ninth grade.
“And here I thought you’d’ve finally learned to hold your liquor.” Owen’s chuckle was low and rough, mixing perfectly with the slow country tunes coming out of the bar whenever another guest was passing through the big swing doors. “But I guess some things never change.”
Noah could hear the relief in those words, vibrating along with the question none of them had dared to ask over the past hours—what had changed then?
It had been there, of course, silently slipping into every one of Noah’s laughs, which still came as easily as ever but not without a strain around his mouth and a hardness in his dark eyes.
It had been in their touches, too—in the bump of their knees, the brush of their elbows.
“Lots of things changed,” Noah rasped out, just when Owen leaned him against the door of his truck. He didn’t like how his words slurred together, making it obvious how his head was spinning. He needed to be clear for this.
“I know.” Owen sighed. His hands were wandering over Noah’s sides, probably in search of the car keys.
He hadn’t asked for permission to touch him, and Noah was glad for that, or he wouldn’t have had the courage to reach out and grab the lapels of his jacket.
The denim was worn soft, and Noah briefly wondered if this was the same jacket Owen had had back in high school, the one he had put around his shoulders more than once.
Blinking himself back to reality, he shook his head, trying to disentangle the past from the present.
“Lots of things changed,” he repeated, urgently now, willing Owen to really hear and understand, both hands fisting his jacket as he drew him closer. Their lips were only inches apart, so close that he could hear the other man’s breath catch in his throat, feel it ghost over his heated skin.
“But there’s one thing that hasn’t.”
It was Owen who bridged the gap between them, pressing his lips against Noah’s in a kiss that tasted mostly of whiskey but also of desperation.
The vibration of my phone jerks me out of that dark parking lot, pulling me away from Noah and Owen to allow them the privacy of their fictional kiss while I feel around for something that could double as a bookmark.
I decide on a capped pencil from my nightstand and wedge it between the pages before putting the paperback away.
After soaking in the whirlpool for far too long and then throwing together a quick dinner, my eyes are already drooping.
But they snap open the next second when, instead of Seb’s or Mia’s names, there’s a Telegram notification from my dad—who’s, in fact, my only contact on that app.
Everyone says December is the month for sure
We’ve managed to get a hold of an inside source
We should stock up some more before that
I’m thinking about another radiator. Just in case!
I stare for a moment, my brain needing the extra second to catch up. Not because this is a surprise, but because I desperately want to ignore it all—or, alternatively, throw my phone against the wall.
Another radiator, I type, because you only have a dozen already!
I wish a dozen would be an exaggeration, but it’s the exact number.
I know this because I’ve helped pay for at least half of them over the years.
Of course, I neither send this message nor my next draft.
But it’s satisfying to at least put the words down.
Nothing is going to happen in December. And: You’re full of shit!
I take a deep breath and put one arm over my eyes. I know from experience that nothing I want to say would change anything about my father’s desires or fears. I just wish he wouldn’t bring this up now. We’re only halfway through June, and my scholarship is on pause until the next semester.
I allow myself another minute before carefully peeking at my screen. There’s another message preview with a product link, which I ignore. I’m sure this won’t be the last I’ve heard of that thirteenth radiator or the approaching apocalypse, but I don’t have the nerve to deal with either today.
I reach for Keeping Noah again, but this time I struggle to sink back into the story.
As Owen pushes Noah up against the door of his truck to ravage his mouth and stick his hand into his pants, my mind keeps wandering back to my situation and how this will translate to it.
It’s not like I can get Linden drunk on whisky, then grope him in a—
My thoughts come to an abrupt halt. I hesitate a mere second, then once more abandon the book in favor of my phone.
Badger’s Den
What?
That’s the place we’ll meet tomorrow night. 9 p.m.
Okay? Why? Everyone will be out tomorrow, so we’ll have the house to ourselves
Can’t grope you in the driveway.
WHAT?!!!
Trust me.