Chapter Eleven
Lucas
The next Sunday, I find myself doing the last thing I should be doing—or hell, even wanting to do—I watch football. The Pulse are in Denver, and as much as I don’t want to care, I’m curious how Hunter will play.
We haven’t seen each other since Tuesday, but we’ve been texting nearly every day.
Sometimes he’ll send a random message first, other times it’s me, and then we…
continue. I’m tired of second-guessing what we’re doing and why, tired of berating myself for it daily, so now I’m ignoring any questions and guilt and doing my best to pretend those things don’t exist.
The first carry of the game is a handoff to Hunter, who works his way around multiple defenders, then barrels through a few of them, before getting tackled, but having picked up fifteen yards. I sit up straighter, my gaze firmly on the screen. That was a good play, a good way to start the game.
The next play, their quarterback fakes a pass, but again hands off to Hunter for a gain of twelve.
This is the best start he’s had this season.
I don’t want to get my hopes up that things are about to take a turn for the better based on him playing well for two plays, but my pulse is beating faster, my stomach anxious about football—something that never happens unless it’s dread from when my dad used to make me play when I was little.
The third play is a bust and they lose two yards, but then they’re at the line, the center snapping the ball to their QB, and Hunter shoots down the side of the field like a rocket.
He’s one of those running backs who’s not only super fucking fast, but he’s also incredibly strong, so he’s good at passing plays as well as fighting his way through the defense for a running play.
As soon as the ball leaves their QB’s hand, I know he’s aiming for Hunter, and Hunter turns at just the right time.
There’s no one by him—he’s too fast—and the pass is perfect, falling straight into his arms. A second later, he’s gunning for the end zone.
He’s almost there when a defensive player from Denver comes out of nowhere, but Hunter seems to feel it before he sees it.
My dad has always talked about Hunter’s senses when it comes to the game, and while I hate to agree with my dad on anything, he’s right about this.
Hunter spins around the guy, then dives over the line, rolling, then jumping to his feet.
He throws the football to the ground, then lifts his arms, flexing his muscles before transitioning into a dance.
It’s fucking ridiculous, ridiculous and stupid, but then I’m on my feet too, arms in the air, heart in my throat, and being ridiculous and stupid myself.
But fuck, I know how much he needed this.
I feel the weight on him, threatening to pull him under, every time I see him or talk to him.
Hunter is drowning without the game being to him what it’s always been, without excelling, and as much as I hate the game, I don’t hate him, and I want him to have that.
Once they’re done celebrating their touchdown on the first run of the game, the Pulse kicker comes out, nailing the extra point too. 7–0. Let’s do this!
*
Me: 123 rushing yards. Always gotta be an overachiever.
It’s a risk sending a football text to Hunter because that’s mostly something we try to avoid. Still, I’m proud of him, want him to know I’m proud of him. He’s got to be flying high right now.
Hunter: You watched my game!
Me: That’s what you got out of what I said?
Hunter: Well, I know I’m good, so that doesn’t come as a surprise. You watching me play, though…
Me: I take it back. I’ll never watch again. I didn’t realize Cocky Hunter had returned.
But without wanting to, I’m smiling. No one deserves this more than him.
I needed this, he texts, and this time, I know he’s revealing more of the real Hunter. The one who struggles every damn day now, even when he doesn’t show it to the world. Because he lost Ellis, the man he loves, and then the fun of this game.
Me: I know. I’m happy for you. I might not like football, but I do like you (kinda), so I’m always cheering for you.
Hunter: You only like me kinda? Now I’m sad.
Okay, so this slightly flirty texting has been happening more and more, and I’m not sure how to feel about it. For all I know, Hunter doesn’t realize he’s doing it, and I sure as shit shouldn’t acknowledge the fact that he’s doing it.
Me: I can make it up to you…
I’ll let him take that however he wants. This is all just for fun.
Hunter: Do you have plans on Tuesday?
Me: I do now.
Hunter: I gotta go. Talk soon?
For a reason I don’t want to contemplate, I feel out of breath, like his words had the power to reach into my lungs and pull it out.
Even with the question mark at the end, it feels like this obvious thing, like of course we’ll talk later.
Why wouldn’t we? This is something we do now.
Hunter and I talk, and clearly, we hang out more than just once because we’ve been doing it.
Me: Yeah. Talk soon.
What I should do right now is get on an app, find a hookup, and fuck all thoughts of Hunter King out of my mind. Woman? Man? I don’t much care, as long as they’re not him.
But it won’t work. It’ll never work. Otherwise, he would have left my mind a long time ago, there would have never been a place in my brain for him, but there is. There always has been.
So, even though I’m horny and haven’t had sex with anyone since I started talking to Hunter, I don’t get on the apps. Instead, I go to the gallery and try to distract myself there.
Isla can tell something’s up, but she doesn’t badger me. She knows when I’m open to that, and I don’t doubt that something about my energy today says I’m not.
How can I be when still, after all these years, I want someone who will never belong to me? Someone who should never belong to me…
*
That night, alone in bed, my dick hard and hungry for action, I reach into my nightstand and grab my lube.
I slick up my hand and grab my cock, stroking with my right and using my left to play with my balls.
I could pretend I’m not thinking about Hunter, about his too-blue eyes and soft brown hair.
About the bow shape of his mouth. About what his pink tongue looks like when it traces his lips, or the rich sound of his laughter.
The hot squeeze of my hand and the quick movements along my shaft aren’t enough, but they’ll have to do.
I fuck into my hand, close my eyes, groan in this empty room, and wonder how he likes to be touched.
Does he like his nuts played with? How sensitive is his head? Is Hunter a top? Bottom? Vers like me?
“Fuck,” I groan, imagining it, having his dick in my mouth, feeling his hot, hard length against my tongue.
Feeling my hole clench for him, thinking about him filling me or how my dick would twitch at the thought of being inside him.
I speed up my strokes. I’m leaking like crazy, precum sliding down my shaft and joining the lube as I jerk myself.
Fuck, Hunter had felt so good against me on that tree. He smelled so fucking good too. His hands trembled, his breath caught, and I swear, for a second before I pulled away, I thought he’d kiss me.
It’s that memory that has my back bowing off the bed, my whole body shaking, light dancing before my eyes as I lose myself to the pleasure. My balls draw up tight, cum spurting from my cock in short bursts and landing on my stomach and chest.
As soon as I’m wrung dry, I collapse against the bed, breathing heavily, but not sated. That’s what happens when you want someone so much for so long—you’re always chasing a feeling you’ll never have, and nothing else is ever enough.