Adrian
Training camp settles into a rhythm by the end of the first week.
Connor and I run one-on-ones every day, and between the route corrections and the water breaks, something shifts.
We fall into an easy partnership. We eat lunch together most days, usually with Brooks and McKenna but sometimes just the two of us.
We don’t talk about that morning in my hotel room.
We don’t talk about it, but it’s there in the space between us when we’re standing too close. Connor’s gaze lingers sometimes before he turns away. I keep a careful distance even when every instinct tells me to close it.
Wilson notices the improvement. Mentions it after practice on Thursday, saying we’re both sharper than when we started. Brooks makes a joke about us becoming best friends, and Connor laughs it off. I don’t say anything.
By Friday afternoon, I’m in the recovery room doing an ice bath when Brooks walks in with McKenna trailing behind him.
“We’re going out tonight,” Brooks announces.
I glance up from the cold plunge. “Have fun.”
“No, we’re all going out. You, me, McKenna, Knox. No arguments.”
“I don’t go out during training camp.”
“You went with us to that club in Miami.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
I don’t have a good answer for that, so I just sink deeper into the ice water and close my eyes.
“Come on, Vega,” McKenna says. His voice has that persuasiveness that probably works on most people. “One night. We’ve been grinding all week. Everyone needs a break.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Brooks counters. “You’re wound so tight you’re going to snap. When’s the last time you did something that wasn’t football-related?”
I think about that morning in my hotel room, Connor’s hand wrapped around his cock, the sounds he made. Definitely not football-related.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, which is the closest I’ll get to a yes.
Brooks grins as if he’s already won. “We’re meeting at the bar at the Hilton at nine. Don’t be late.”
They leave before I can argue further. I stay in the ice bath longer than necessary, letting the cold numb everything.
***
I show up at the Hilton bar at nine-fifteen. Not because I changed my mind about going out, but because spending another evening alone in my hotel room scrolling through game film sounded worse than facing this.
The bar is busier than I expected, but I spot Brooks and McKenna immediately. They’re at a corner table with Connor and four women I don’t recognize.
Connor sees me first. A complicated expression crosses his face when our eyes meet, surprise and a flicker of something he covers fast. Then he’s smiling, waving me over.
I weave through the crowd and pull out the empty chair next to McKenna.
“You showed,” Connor says. “Wasn’t sure you would.”
“Apparently.”
One of the women leans forward. She’s striking. Long dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a face that photographs well. “You’re Adrian Vega, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Isla Stone.” She extends her hand across the table, and I shake it briefly. “And this is Madison, Chloe, and Erin.”
I nod at each of them in turn. Madison and Chloe are models, judging by the conversation that follows. Erin is quieter, watching everyone with careful eyes. Isla, though, has that energy of someone used to being the center of attention.
“Connor was just telling us about training camp,” Isla continues, turning her focus back to him. “It sounds brutal.”
“It’s not that bad,” Connor says easily. “Lots of running, lots of making Vega here look slow.”
“You wish,” I shoot back.
He grins at me, and the warmth of it catches me off guard. I turn back to the table before any of it reaches my face.
The conversation flows around me. Brooks is telling a story about a disastrous date he went on last year, and everyone’s laughing. Connor drops a joke here and there, and the table cracks up. He’s good at this, making people feel included and keeping the energy up.
I watch him more than I should. The way he gestures when he talks, the crooked canine tooth that flashes when he laughs. The ease with which he moves through social situations that would make me uncomfortable.
Isla shifts closer to Connor, her shoulder brushing his. “So what position do you play again?”
“Wide receiver.”
“And that’s the one who actually scores, right?”
Connor launches into an explanation, simplifying it without being condescending, using a salt shaker and two glasses to map out routes. Isla watches him with rapt attention, and I notice the way she keeps touching his arm. Light grazes that linger too long.
I take a drink of my whiskey and tell myself it doesn’t matter.
Madison asks me something about the Vipers’ season, and I answer on autopilot. My attention keeps drifting back to Connor and Isla. She’s leaning in now, saying something that makes him laugh. His hand rests on the table between them, and she traces a finger along his knuckles.
McKenna follows my gaze. “You good, man?” he asks quietly.
I look at him. “Fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t push. Brooks is deep in conversation with Chloe, their heads close together. Erin is scrolling through her phone, half-checked out.
The evening continues like that. Drinks, stories, laughter. Connor remains at the center of it all. He doesn’t flirt back, but he doesn’t discourage Isla’s attention either.
At some point Brooks and Chloe slip off together, and not long after, McKenna and Madison do the same. That leaves Connor, Isla, Erin, and me at the table.
“We should take this party somewhere more private,” Isla suggests, her eyes glassy from the wine. “I want to see where the pros stay. Take us back to your room.”
Connor glances at me before answering. “Uh, we’re just over at the Marriott.”
“Perfect. We’ve got wine up in our room. Erin, grab it and meet us there?”
Erin sighs but stands, clearly used to being given orders, and peels off toward the lobby. Isla’s already up and moving toward the exit, and Connor follows after settling the tab. I stand more slowly, debating whether to make an excuse and leave now.
But I follow them anyway. Out of the bar, the short walk from the Hilton to the Marriott, into the elevator. Connor stands across from me, and our eyes meet for a beat before he glances away.
His room is the same layout as mine but messier. Duffel bag open on the floor, clothes draped over the chair, laptop on the desk. The three of us settle in, Connor and Isla on the bed, me on the small couch near the window.
Erin arrives a few minutes later with two bottles of wine, distributes glasses, and drops into the desk chair.
The conversation picks up again, easier now in the smaller space.
Isla dominates most of it, telling stories about influencer drama and brand deals gone wrong.
Connor listens with genuine interest, asking questions.
Erin is quieter but warms up after her second glass of wine. She works in marketing, lives in LA, came out this weekend because Isla insisted. She directs most of her comments toward me, as if she’s sensed I’m the other introvert in the room and we should stick together.
I appreciate it, but I can’t focus on what she’s saying. I keep getting pulled back to Connor and Isla on the bed.
Isla clearly likes him. It’s obvious in the way she angles her body toward his, the way she finds excuses to touch him.
And it bothers me. More than it should. Connor can talk to whoever he wants, do whatever he wants.
But I keep thinking about that morning. The way he looked at me while he touched himself, the sound of my name in his mouth.
“Adrian?” Erin’s voice pulls me back. “Did you hear me?”
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you’re staying in Orange County for the whole training camp or heading back to Miami at some point.”
“Staying here.”
“That must be nice. Getting away from home for a while.”
I make some noncommittal sound and take another drink of wine. My glass is nearly empty. When did that happen?
Isla laughs at something Connor said. She’s leaning closer now, her hand resting on his thigh.
I set my glass down and stand. “I’m calling it a night.”
Everyone looks at me. Erin seems surprised, Isla barely registers it, but Connor’s expression does that complicated thing again.
“Already?” he asks.
“It’s late.”
“It’s barely midnight.”
“I’ve got an early morning.” Practice doesn’t start until eight, same as every day, but it’s the best I’ve got.
Connor doesn’t argue, though. He nods and looks away.
I say brief goodbyes and let myself out. The hallway is quiet except for the hum of an ice machine down the hall. I take the stairs down to the fourth floor instead of waiting for the elevator.
My room feels too quiet after the noise of Connor’s. I drop my key card on the desk and sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted.
Leaving was the right move. Giving Connor space to do whatever he wants. I have no claim on him. No right to feel territorial or jealous or whatever this tight feeling is.
I lie back on the bed fully clothed and stare at the ceiling.
The problem isn’t that I don’t know what I want.
I want Connor. I’ve craved him since that first night at the club in Miami when he sat across from me talking trash, and I couldn’t look away.
It’s not just physical, though I’ve never wanted anyone like this.
I want his attention, his trash talk, the whole stubborn pull of him.
But wanting him and being able to have him are two different things. Connor is straight, as far as I know. That morning was just an experiment for him, a way to get off without much thought behind it. He’s spent the entire week acting like it never happened.
Maybe tonight is good. Maybe he’ll hook up with Isla, and it’ll reset whatever strange tension has been building between us.
The thought should be reassuring. It’s not.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I can see is Connor on that bed with Isla leaning close, the easy tilt of his smile. The image sits heavy in my chest, sour and wrong.
I roll onto my side and punch the pillow into a better shape. This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. Connor Knox is not mine to be jealous over. He’s not mine at all.
But I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me tonight when I walked into that bar. Like he’d been waiting for me, glad I came.
And now I’m lying here wondering if he’s even noticing my absence, or if Isla’s managed to pull his attention away from me.
That’s when someone knocks on the door.