Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Cord
“Welcome back, Mr. Morales. Please let us know if there is anything that you need.”
“We're glad to have you back. It's been a while since your last visit.”
“Over a year,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. The drive from Austin wasn't too long, but with my shoulder brace, it felt like I'd been trapped in that car for hours. That combined with this lingering headache I couldn't shake had me ready for a nap.
When did I become the guy who complains about three-hour drives? During the season, I'd fly cross-country twice a week without thinking about it. Now, a quick road trip had me popping pills and counting miles.
But the moment I stepped into the luxury suite, familiarity hit me hard.
It had been over a year since I'd allowed myself this indulgence, but the memory of those heated nights at The Ranch remained etched in my mind—a different man in my bed each day, sometimes two.
The kind of pleasure that required nothing from me except showing up and spreading my legs.
“Thank you, Gavin.”
Gavin smiled at me, tugging at one of his nipple rings, and my cock twitched. Yeah, it had been a long time. Had I ever been with a man with such shocking red hair? Freckles scattered so freely across his body?
Maybe on this visit he'd like to come up and show me if he was red all over.
After Gavin left, I walked around my suite.
Much like I remembered from my last visit, a small living room area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rest of the resort, a bathroom with a shower even nicer than mine back at the penthouse, and a king-sized bed covered in pillows and a thick crimson comforter that got me hard just imagining what might happen on it this week.
From the fourth floor, I could look down and spot naked companions walking between buildings.
Huh, I'd never visited when the weather was cool like today. What do they do in the winter? I made a mental note to ask someone later.
“Ah, The Ranch,” I said, opening a bedside drawer to find it stocked with dildos, butt plugs, and other toys. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I wondered just how many of these I'd get to try out during my visit.
Probably more than I should, considering the pain meds.
A generous fan had introduced me to this place two years ago, willing to shell out my membership fee in exchange for the 'ultimate fan experience' with Denver's young QB.
Though I had no solid proof, I suspected Ruben played a part in that introduction.
That man always seemed to have his hand in everything.
With a sigh, I turned my attention to unpacking. Athletic wear, jeans, and t-shirts. Nothing fancy. No photo ops or media appearances here. That's what the membership cost bought you. Privacy.
Unlike those team hotels where every bellhop had a camera phone.
Next, I laid out my physical therapy resistance bands. Bridget's words echoed in my head. My therapist hadn't been thrilled when she heard I was leaving Denver for a week, but she'd insisted I continue my therapy regimen.
“Workouts, huh?” I said to the empty room. She'd blush if she knew what kind of workouts awaited me here.
I checked my phone for the time, calculating when I'd need my next dose. Four hours since the last one. I could probably push it to five if I stayed distracted. The pills helped, but they also made everything feel muted. Distant.
But sometimes that was exactly what I needed.
Time to see what kind of trouble I could get into this trip, even with this bum shoulder.
Once that was done, I stepped outside into the cool autumn breeze.
The main building's Spanish Colonial architecture spread out before me, all clay-tiled roofs and stucco walls the color of sun-baked earth.
From the covered walkway, I could see the entire property laid out in the natural hollow of the Hill Country.
The main pool complex dominated the center grounds, its mosaic tiles catching the afternoon light.
Beyond that, smaller buildings dotted the landscape: the spa cluster, what looked like a nightclub, the fitness center.
Flowering vines climbed every wall, and I could hear water features trickling somewhere nearby, mixing with laughter and music drifting from the pool area.
A couple of companions in gauzy white robes walked the stone path below, heading toward one of the private villas I could just make out beneath massive oak trees in the distance.
The whole place had a deliberate layout, intimate spaces tucked into landscaping, everything designed so you could find privacy or company depending on what you needed.
Their wristlets glowed green, meaning they were available to service clients such as myself if I wanted either, or both of them.
The cool weather had shifted the usual atmosphere. Most of the men I passed wore light jackets over their minimal clothing, though a few stubborn souls still went shirtless. Steam rose from the heated pools, creating a hazy effect in the air.
I needed a cold beer and someone built to last the night, and I knew I'd find both over by the main pool. But before I got far, a familiar figure in white strode up to me.
“Cord! You made it.”
Vincent Stone strode toward me in his signature white linen suit, sandy blond hair catching the light, a Stetson tipped back on his head like he'd walked off a movie set.
He clapped me on the back, careful with his touch, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned.
The man had an effortless charm that made everyone feel like his best friend, which probably explained how he and Ibrahim had built this place into what it was.
No doubt he already knew I was coming. Nothing escaped the notice of The Ranch's co-founder.
“Vince, good to see you.” We fell into a simple rhythm, walking together across the grounds toward the pool complex.
I could feel him studying me, cataloging my condition like he did with all his guests.
Vincent was good at his job, keeping everyone satisfied while managing a small army of staff and clients.
We passed one of the massage huts, its door open to reveal plush treatment tables inside. A companion led an older gentleman toward the steam rooms, their voices low and intimate.
“How's business?”
“Booming as always.” He flashed his perfect Ken doll smile. “So, how's the shoulder? Looked nasty on TV. Glad that asshole got what was coming to him, though they should've suspended him all season.”
Here we go. Everyone wanted to talk about the hit. Everyone had an opinion about what the league should have done.
I winced, not wanting to think about football. “I'm here to forget about that for a while. Just relax, work out the kinks.” I rolled my shoulder, feeling the familiar ache. “The doc says I should be back to 100% by next season.”
Lies, but Vincent didn't need to know about the surgery decision hanging over my head.
“Well, you came to the right place.” Vince tapped my good shoulder. “We've got a great yoga instructor here. His classes would be perfect for your recovery. Low impact, helps increase flexibility and range of motion. Maybe even some private therapy.” He winked.
I cocked an eyebrow. Yoga wasn't exactly what I had in mind for recreation.
Just then, a young man jogged up to Vince and whispered in his ear.
“Sorry Cord, duty calls. But do check out the yoga studio.” He nodded toward a building past the main swimming pool, waggled his brows and added in a conspiratorial tone, “You won't regret it. Maybe I'll see you for dinner tonight?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Vince hurried off, leaving me alone in the crisp fall air. I squinted at the yoga studio, skepticism warring with curiosity. What did Vince mean I wouldn't regret it? Knowing Vincent, probably some flexible instructor who looks good in yoga pants.
With a shrug, I headed toward the building. A little stretching couldn't hurt. Maybe yoga had changed since the last time I tried it years ago.
I found myself standing outside the yoga studio, peering through the large window. The room was filled with a handful of men, their bodies twisted into poses under the guidance of one attractive instructor.
Jesus Christ.
Tall, muscular, with blond hair pulled back into a knot, he wore only a pair of tiny blue briefs that barely covered his dick. He flowed from one pose to the next, muscles rippling under tanned skin. Heat washed over me as I watched him bend at the waist, hands reaching toward his toes.
When was the last time I'd had such a visceral reaction to a man?
Get it together, Morales. You're staring through a window like some creep.
As if sensing my gaze, the instructor straightened and looked right at me. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of eyes that were a vivid blue.
My heart stuttered. If this was Vincent's idea of physical therapy, I'd soon be back on the injured list.
After class ended, he approached, hands settling into prayer position at his heart. “Namaste.” He bowed his head. “I'm Dusty.”
“Cord.” I cleared my throat as I looked up at him, taller than me by a couple inches. “Vince said you might help with my shoulder. I've got an injury...”
Smooth. Real professional.
The whole place screamed new-age nonsense: singing bowls scattered around, incense burning in corners, meditation music playing soft in the background. But looking at Dusty made it hard to care about the atmosphere.
“What's got you hurting, handsome?” he asked, moving closer with easy grace. His voice was honey and heat, and I caught the way his eyes traveled over me like he was sketching me in his mind.
He didn't recognize me. The realization hit me like a surprise blitz. No double-take, no stammering about my stats or asking for a selfie. He looked at me like I was just another man.