Chapter 3
Two
Unbelievable
Ryan
Seven Months Earlier
I don’t like the way the energy changes when I walk into a public place.
I’m used to it, but I don’t like it.
Okay, fine—I’m a social butterfly—and I do well in those settings, but I don’t feel I should be treated differently than anyone else in the room.
I’m just a guy who happens to be good at football. A guy who loves football and his friends.
That’s it. No more than that.
God knows, my father would like it to be more. No, seriously—God knows—because my father begs him on his knees every night. Begs him to give me grander aspirations. Political aspirations, to be precise. To follow in his footsteps.
Fuck. That.
Wait ‘till dear old dad finds out what kind of begging I do on my knees.
The familiar energy shift hits me as soon as I’m inside the karaoke bar.
Like I said, I’m used to it. Comes with the territory of being the most famous quarterback in America.
My face is on billboards—hell, several people in this karaoke joint are rocking my jersey.
A couple dudes I don’t know near the bar clock me immediately.
“Yo, Butters!”
Hands slap mine as I weave through the crowd, grinning, nodding, playing the part. Gracious. Familiar.
Empty.
I spot my actual friends near the bar. My best bros, Anthony, and my teammate Beau are here. Beau’s wife, Lexi, and Anthony’s other bestie, Jen, are here too.
But there’s a guy with them I don’t recognize.
Dark hair, meticulously styled. Tailored shirt stretching across his biceps and chest, and—hello, tight pants.
Jen sees me first. “Butters!”
She hugs me quick before turning and gesturing to the mystery man filling those pants so deliciously. “Butters, this is Spencer. He’s also an attorney at the firm. Spencer, this is Ryan Buterbaugh, but we call him Butters.”
I turn fully toward him and lose my tongue.
Deep blue eyes. Not soft. Not warm. Sharp.
Assessing. He’s about five-eleven, maybe.
Not super tall, but solid. Compact. His upper body is cleanly defined, but not overly bulky.
The muscles under the fabric of his shirt move with precision; their sole function seems to be to direct your eyes to his narrow waist, and his—
Fuck.
Did someone order a bucket of thighs?
Thick slabs press against denim. Powerful. Dense.
I’ve spent my entire life around elite athletes. I know muscle. That’s a specific build; coiled and loaded for rapid bursts of exertion. If I had to guess, my money’s on gymnast or soccer player at some point in his life.
Jesus, those things look powerful. I bet his thrust game is next level. He shifts on his feet, tight pants doing nothing to hide his sizable bulge. Goddamn, my mouth is watering. I need to get myself in check here. I drag my gaze back up before anyone notices.
“I know who the quarterback for Arizona is,” he says in a dry, unimpressed tone. “I don’t live under a rock. I’m not calling you Butters, though, Ryan.”
Damn, the way he says my name.
“Fair enough. Good to meet you, little guy,” I shoot back… and realize my mistake instantly. The second it leaves my mouth; I catch the spark igniting in those piercing blue eyes.
He scoffs. “There’s nothing little about me. I’d be happy to take you to the men’s room and compare.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck, and all I can do is stare. I’m never without words, but damn, he’s so confident.
Commanding.
My weakness.
Waiting for me to respond, he cocks his head to the side, daring me to take the challenge. Lust builds low in my stomach, immediate and heavy. If I were anyone else—if it wouldn’t risk my career—I’d step closer. I’d lower my voice and tell him I’ve won stiffer competitions.
I’d flirt. Hard.
Instead, I blink like an idiot. He holds my stare. Defiant.
I break our little standoff when I notice Anthony has gone still. He’s white as a ghost. The vibe in our little group has definitely shifted. I follow his line of sight. He’s staring at some guy at the bar.
Jen nudges him. “Hey, are you okay?”
Anthony doesn’t answer. Just points. I glance over just as the guy turns around.
Tattooed. Broad. Intense eyes.
Chance.
“Hey, Beautiful.”
Oh shit.
I watch Anthony ignite with a level of rage that is completely out of character for him.
“No. You don’t get to call me that.” Anthony turns to leave and Chance grabs his arm.
Aw, hell no.
My protective instincts take over.
Anthony let this guy into his heart. Was ready to come out of the closet. And this guy just left him three years ago. No goodbye. No explanation.
I was proud—and a little envious—of Anthony for coming out anyways. For reclaiming his sexuality after everything that happened to him.
But Chance just waltzing in here after three years has me ready to put him through drywall for my bro.
Before I can cause a scene, Jen plants a hand on my chest. “I got this. You and Spencer take him outside. Lexi and Beau are here if I need them.”
My jaw clenches, but I nod and turn to Anthony. “Let’s go get some air, yeah?” He stares at Chance until I grab him by the shoulders and point him toward the door. Spencer follows.
Outside, the October night is cool enough to bring the temperature on this situation down a notch. Anthony paces ahead of us, hands on his hips.
Spencer leans on Jen’s car parked nearby. “Damn, Anthony,” he says, adjusting his perfectly placed dark hair for the twentieth time since I met him fifteen minutes ago. “Who was that tattooed god? And are you sure you can’t fix him?”
I shoot him a look. “Dude. No.”
His lips curl. “Aww, don’t be jealous, ball boy. You’re a smoke show too.”
My pulse jumps. Spencer is attracted to men. I won’t assume how he actually identifies, but that much is evident.
He shifts against the car, crossing his legs. The move situates his thighs so they’re on full display. They’re making a spectacle of themselves.
God. It’s obscene, really. Those things could pin someone in place. My brain unhelpfully supplies images. Me, face down on a bed. Ass-up. Strong hands pushing my head into the pillow. Thighs squeezing my legs.
Fuck.
Shaking that scene from my head, I clear my throat.
“Bro,” I mutter. “Read the room.”
He smirks. “You can read?”
I frown. “Insulting the jock’s intelligence. How original.”
He laughs, devilishly. “Relax, QB1. Just trying to lighten the mood. I’m good in a courtroom, but not at… whatever this is.”
Thankfully, the door opens, a helpful distraction. Except it’s not helpful for my bro, because Chance has exited the bar and he doesn’t look like he’s going to give up trying to talk to Anthony.
“Ant,” Chance says, sounding cautious.
“Don’t,” Anthony seethes.
“I just—”
Anthony’s voice slices through the air. “I said don’t.”
Shit. He sounds pissed.
“Ant,” Chance says again, stepping closer. “Please. Just look at me.”
My fists clench. I always liked Chance, but Anthony is my best friend. I will not hesitate.
Seconds stretch. An uncomfortable silence.
“You get three minutes,” Anthony says, and damn, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound that cold.
Anthony leads him a few feet away to talk more privately. I lean against the car next to Spencer and just watch, making sure Anthony doesn’t need me. Jen exits the bar about a minute later and we all just watch.
Then Anthony starts shoving Chance and I’m up off the car in a flash. Jen grabs me by the shirt and just shakes her head. I trust Jen’s judgment, so I keep myself in check.
A couple minutes later, Anthony walks back over, looks at Jen, and says, “Let’s go.”
Spencer pushes off the car and points at Anthony. “Woo-boy. If anyone ever looks at me the way that man looks at you, I’ll drop to my knees and show them why ten inches is my deep throat record.”
My head snaps toward him so fast I’m pretty sure I pulled something. Scorching and inconvenient heat crawls up my neck. He says it like a joke, but my body doesn’t treat it like one. My cock is hardening, threatening to tent my jeans.
Spencer slides his hands into his pockets, smug. “Calm down, QB1. I don’t do straight. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
That settles heavy in my chest.
If he only knew.
If this were different—if I wasn’t carefully balancing headlines, endorsements, my father—I’d crowd his space and pin him against a car. I’d murmur something filthy in his ear just to see if I could get that steely composure to crack.
Instead, I swallow it all down.
Jen grabs his arm, snickering. “Spence, get in the car.”
Spence—I roll the nickname around in my head.
He turns to go, and I try not to stare at his ass.
Spoiler alert: I’m unsuccessful.
This man’s build was not designed for public safety.
I may prefer to be the one getting dicked, but bottoms deserve a nice, round ass to hold on to, amiright?
I pull my attention back to Anthony. “You okay, PacMan?”
Before he can answer, Lexi’s voice slices across the lot.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Chance?”
We all turn.
She’s shoving at Chance, fury radiating off her.
I exhale sharply. “I better go get Beau from inside. It’s gonna take two of us to hold her back.”
Later—after I’ve gotten Beau out of the bar and physically wrapped an arm around Lexi while she tried to launch herself at Chance—I’m ready for this night to end.
Cars start pulling out one by one. Anthony leaves with Jen and Spencer. Beau wrestles Lexi into the passenger seat of their car. Chance disappears into the night.
I slide into my car and shut the door, sealing myself into silence. Dropping my head back against the leather on my headrest, I drag both hands down my face.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “What a night.”
My pulse is still buzzing.
Adrenaline? Residual anger about Chance, maybe?
No, that’s not what’s got me wound up.
It’s Spencer. Spence.
Deep and dangerous blue eyes. Hair and clothes that scream perfection. A sharp and fast tongue delivering snark with razor precision before retreating back inside a wittier-than-you smirk.
And those legs.
I groan softly.
Compact strength. The kind built to grip. To anchor.
Focus, Buterbaugh.
Spence…
I frown slightly. Did I catch his last name? Shit, I didn’t. How the hell did I not catch his last name? Jen said he’s an attorney at the firm she works at. So, he’s in the group’s orbit.
I’ll probably see him again.
No, I will see that sexy, dapper, seriously intimidating man again.
The thought sends a chill through me. Dark and broody makes my pants tight. I could ask Jen for his number. Not tonight, obviously. Too desperate. Maybe in a few days. Casual text. Hey, what was your friend Spencer’s last name again? Can I have his number?
I could say I need legal advice I don’t want my agent to know about. Yeah. Because that won’t offend Jen. She’d bitch me out for not going to her first.
“Shit,” I mutter.
That won’t work.
Anthony. I’ll just ask Anthony. Simple. Clean. No weird subtext. Hey, what’s Spencer’s deal?
Totally normal. Totally straight. I huff a quiet laugh at my own bullshit.
Right. Because the way I was staring at him tonight? Real subtle, Butters. I frown at the fraud staring back at me in the rearview mirror.
America’s golden boy.
Straight as a curly fry.
Shaking my head, I stab the ignition button with my finger, and the engine roars to life. Pulling out onto the street, visions of suffocating between a pair of meaty thighs assault my brain.