10. Quarterback Sneak
10
QUARTERBACK SNEAK
Beck
Eighteen minutes later, I’m doing a little bit better than surviving.
Dare I say it? I’m holding my own. This meditation shit works. “Beck, break down for us what you were thinking in that play in the third quarter...” Megan says, diving into a pivotal moment in yesterday’s game.
I meet her gaze and focus solely on answering her question. “We knew going into the game that Dallas has a tough defense. They try to wear you down, so we had to get out hard and fast. ”
Shit. That sounds dirty.
Don’t think about hard and fast sex.
I clear my throat and finish. “And we just tried to play that way.”
Thankfully, Megan throws the next volley to Jason. “Jason, was that your approach against New York?”
“You know, Megan, you can never go wrong with hard or fast,” he says.
I dip my head, a little embarrassed I said those words. But coming from Jason’s mouth, they’re fun.
Still, I might need to allot an hour for guided meditation next week, so I don’t talk about penetration in the end zone.
Megan rubs her palms, her smile turning sneaky. “All right, guys. It’s the two-minute warning. I’d like to finish the show by having the two of you Monday Morning Quarterback each other.”
Whoa. That’s a play I didn’t see coming. Megan obviously left this out of her memo to Ian to get a natural reaction.
“Beck, what tips would you give Jason for his game play?”
Think on your feet, buddy. Like you’re in the pocket. “Well, I was playing against Dallas yesterday, so I didn’t watch his game,” I say. That’s half true.
“In general,” Megan adds, undeterred. “Surely, you know his style of play.”
“Yes, Beck. Tell me how to improve my style,” Jason says with a playful grin. The guy is so damn good at talking.
But with his blue eyes pinning me, it’s hard to think strategy. It’s hard to... think.
I draw a blank as I tug at my shirt. I’m starting to sweat. I steal a glance at the time, hoping I can just let the clock run down.
When a few seconds pass without me saying a word, Jason clears his throat. “I believe Beck was telling me in the green room that he thought my passer rating was his dream, and he hopes to come within spitting distance of it,” Jason says with too much glee.
I roll my eyes, but the jab knocks my brain back into gear. “Ah, I remember now. My advice to Jason McKay is don’t get too cocky in the pocket or you’ll get sacked.”
Megan’s face lights up like bantering guest hosts are a gift from the podcast fairy. “And on that note, join us again next Monday when the city’s two signal-callers break down the game and each other’s performance.”
When Megan stabs the stop recording button, she takes a big breath. “You two were great. The chemistry is just fantastic. That last bit was a chef’s kiss,” she says, then flies past the recording equipment around the desk. “Forgive me. I have to use the little girl’s room.” Before she can jet, she sets a hand on my shoulder and meets my eyes. Her expression goes somber. “I hope this is a better start to a season than last year.”
My throat tightens. “Me too.”
Then she darts off. Jason studies me quizzically as he puts down his headphones. Something seems to slide into place for him as if he’s been working on a puzzle and found the final piece.
“Good show,” I say, so I don’t have the chance to wallow in Megan’s sympathy, though I appreciate her acknowledgment. But I don’t want to dwell too long on how I felt last year at the start of the season.
Empty.
I stand and head to the door.
“Yeah, the show was good, Cafferty,” Jason says as he rises, but there’s an uncharacteristic weight to his voice.
I leave first, and he’s right behind me.
Once I set foot in the hallway, I spot a half dozen people at the elevator banks. I scan for a stairwell to avoid the wait—they’re faster, anyway—and spot one a few feet away. I tip my forehead to it. “I’m going to?—”
“Me too.”
Is he following me? Did I say something wrong?
I push open the door to the stairs. The second it closes with a thunk , Jason says my name.
“Beck.” Full of concern. Intensity. “Got a minute?”
I stop at the first landing, my heart thudding, almost like it’s beating in my hands. He’s going to ask what happened. I’m going to tell him what I wanted to say last week. Now is the chance, so I take it.
I turn around and swallow a knot of emotion. “I?—”
“I didn’t give you a chance last week,” Jason says. His voice wobbles like he’s terrified of what I’m going to say. He walks down to join me on the first landing. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I know you were trying to explain, and I just barreled over you, thinking I knew what was going on with you, and that wasn’t cool.”
I close my eyes, images flickering before me of Griffin, him and me playing with our dogs when we were younger, then him taking me to games in high school when our parents left for Australia, then him teaching me how to cook, how to drive.
How to apply to college.
He taught me everything.
Including how to play my favorite game on earth.
It’s not a secret that my brother died. Megan knew. But you’d only know if you researched me online. Dug deep into stories from more than a year ago. Found the obit on the former college football player—Griffin Cafferty, survived by his parents and a younger brother.
I meet Jason’s guileless eyes and say what’s been on my mind for a year. “My brother was killed last year in a car crash. Two months before I met you. Two months before the season started.” I take a beat, needing air. It’s still hard to say. It still hurts.
But not like the day the police knocked on the door of the house I shared with Griffin in Los Angeles, asked if I was Beck Cafferty, and said, I’m sorry to inform you there’s been an accident.
“I wasn’t in a good place last year,” I add.
Jason steps back. His eyes widen with remorse and sorrow too. He drags a hand along his chin as if he’s processing the pain for himself, then sorting out what it has meant for me. “Beck,” he says, full of sadness. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that’s like, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“Me too. Every day.” I want to say more, but I need to get a handle on the storm of emotions brewing inside me. Most days, I don’t feel this much. Time has healed the biggest part of the wound. But now and then, the wound opens, and I hurt horribly all over again.
Jason’s quiet, patiently waiting as I take a few breaths.
On the last exhale, I look over his shoulder and up the steps.
This conversation requires what privacy I can get. I point to the next landing, then head down to it, Jason following.
I’m not due to meet Ian for ten more minutes. I make use of the time, even though my stomach is churning.
But the way I feel now pales compared to how I felt when my first pro game ended.
When I couldn’t make myself go to Jason’s house.
“That’s what I wanted to explain,” I say quietly, pushing past the hurt. That day, my feelings were too raw. Too unexpected, and I’ve been trying to tell him for a year. “When I was a Mercenary and we played your team, it was my first game starting. I looked into the stands, like I always do, and my brother wasn’t there. I knew that, of course. I didn’t think he’d come back from the dead to go to my game.”
“Beck.” He speaks quietly, like he’s saying you don’t have to make a joke .
But it’s not a joke. There were so many times when I fervently hoped the coroner had misidentified the body.
“I didn’t realize how hard it would be, his not being there. It walloped me like an anvil in the gut. I’d never see him in the stands again. We’d never have dinner. We’d never fish, go camping, or cook together. We’d never talk. I was a mess. I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard after the game.” I stop, needing a moment to let the ache in my throat abate. “That’s why I didn’t show. I was a wreck.”
I stare down at my shoes. I can’t meet Jason’s eyes. I’m sure he’ll think he dodged a bullet with me. He’ll think I’m some broken guy.
“I had no idea,” he says, so somber, so tender, that I do lift my gaze. “I should have looked you up online. I should have tried to understand you.”
Jason looks devastated. For me.
“It’s fine. You didn’t need to research me,” I say, exonerating him.
He parts his lips, blows out a harsh breath, then shakes his head in frustration. “I was an asshole last week. I didn’t give you a chance to say what happened to you and losing your brother has to be so fucking hard.” Jason drags a hand through his hair like he wants to redo that moment. “I just assumed I knew your deal, and I was all wrong. And here you were, going through some serious shit.”
A part of me will always miss Griffin. I’m sure there will always be a part of me that’s hollow too. But I do understand why Jason made assumptions. I said nothing, and he filled my silence with his own story. “I should have said something to you that night. Or the next day. Even in text. But, I just... couldn’t.”
Jason shakes his head adamantly. “No. You’re good. I get it. Because I don’t know what I would do if I lost my brother. He’s my hero.” Then he closes the distance, widens his arms, and offers me a hug.
Ohhh.
That’s a one-eighty.
Do I want a hug from the guy I’m wildly attracted to? I think...yeah... I do. I inch closer, letting him know my answer with my body.
The second his arms wrap around me in a warm embrace, my emotions shift. Or, perhaps, they transpose. The remnants of grief slink away as the past slides out the door. Wanders far, far into the distance.
Jason’s strong arms hold me tight. His chest is flush against mine. He smells so good. Clean and soapy and a little like sunshine. That must be his shampoo, and it goes to my head.
It fries my circuits.
His heart beats against my chest. I press my cheek against his ear. Does he like his earlobe being nibbled on? Does he think about what we might have done at his home that night? Would he want me to have kissed his neck, hard and rough, the way he likes it?
He’s not letting go, so maybe his answer is the same as mine.
Yes.
When he wraps his arms tighter, I’m only in the moment.
“I wanted to go to your house. I wanted to see you again,” I whisper into the cavernous quiet of the stairwell.
Jason makes a shuddery sound, a rumble from deep in his chest. Then slowly lets go, unwinding the embrace step by step until his hands are on my shoulders. He’s an inch or two taller, and he locks eyes with me.
Yes.
I grab his chin, and I crush my lips to his. He doesn’t fuck around either. He kisses me fiercely—a deep, hot kiss that makes my bones buzz. He kisses with a wild sort of need. With hungry moans and sensual sighs. Like we’ve both craved this since we saw each other at the gym last week. Hell, I’ve craved it since I first touched him. Since the night in his kitchen.
My hand slides around to the back of his head, and I drag him closer. Our hard-ons bump, and it’s mind-bendingly good. With a throaty groan, Jason spins us around so he’s pushing me against the concrete wall. He slams his pelvis to mine.
I gasp, breaking the kiss to let loose a deep, needy sigh.
Then, he’s swiveling his hips, rocking them against me.
And wow.
I’ve never experienced anything like this. Never had a kiss where someone tells me so clearly he wants to fuck.
He grinds and presses, confident, determined, moving his hips in a sensual rhythm that will make it impossible for me to think of anything when I’m alone but his body, his hips, his cock.
The hard, throbbing length of him pushing against me.
He never stops kissing me.
He thrusts his tongue into my mouth, and I open for him, sucking on his tongue.
Yes, God, yes.
Everything feels so good. So right. And I want so much more. I want everything I’ve never had, and I want it with him.
It’s so wrong, so risky. We could get caught any second. This would be the scandal of sports scandals. I don’t want negative attention this early in my career, especially with my new team. I should focus on what’s at stake with fans and the Renegades...
And I still can’t break away from Jason.
Except, I have to say something. I wrench my mouth from his, panting desperately. “My team knows I’m bi,” I say. “I told them last night.”
He blinks. Then smiles. “Good for you,” he says, but I can tell he’s trying to keep some excitement in check. Maybe some relief.
I don’t want to dwell on coming out. I want to steal another few seconds of his forbidden touch. I grab his hips again.
“God, why do you have to kiss so good?” I grunt.
His smile goes crooked. “Can’t help it. Your mouth is just sooo...” He stares savagely at me, licking his lips.
Yeah, he doesn’t have to finish that sentence. The rest is etched in his eyes, glimmering with heat.
But he does anyway, sliding a thumb over my top lip, then whispering, “ Fuckable .”
I might come in my pants.
“More,” I croak. It’s the only word I can form when I’m this consumed.
Jason answers my call with a bruising kiss, full of teeth and tongue and the promise of late nights and relentless pleasure. He kisses like he doesn’t play games in bed. Like he craves a raw, passionate connection. His hands slide up my body and then clasp my face hard.
We grind and press.
My breath comes hot and fast as he kisses me even harder.
I should stop. I’ll be whisker-burned and bruised, but I don’t want this incendiary kiss to ever end.
But then I hear a door pushed open nearby. It takes a few seconds for the noise to register, but when it does, I jump away from Jason like I’ve been burned.
The footfalls descend and fade, but they’re a wake-up call.
We’re two high-profile athletes playing on opposing teams in a football-obsessed city. This would be raw meat for the gossip blogs.
“We can’t do this,” I mutter.
Jason nods too. “I know. We’re rivals.”
“And I have to go,” I say, but I can barely move. I don’t want to move. I want to tackle him, pin him down. I want him to tackle me, pin me down.
His eyes are flames, and he stares at me like no one ever has. I’ve never felt this wanted. It’s unreal and addictive.
But I’m going to be late for Ian. “I should go,” I say again.
He tugs at my shirt, gripping the fabric, dragging my mouth to his once more. He brushes his lips over mine in a hot scorch of a kiss. “We’re cool?”
I kiss him back, barely able to think. But when I let go, I answer: “We’re cool.”
But cool isn’t the word I’d use to describe Jason McKay.
More like white-hot.