Prologue #2
He put his hand over his mom’s, and God, this was really going to happen, wasn’t it? Maybe not next week or next month, but at some point, there was no way they wouldn’t end up playing happy family.
Maybe in time, he wouldn’t feel that flare of attraction when he looked over at Trevor.
He’d thought that Trevor smiling at him had meant it was reciprocated, but now, he reframed every non-interaction they’d ever had in his head.
Of course, Trevor had known who he was. He’d been smiling at him not because he thought Lane was hot too and wanted to sneak off behind the bleachers, but because his dad was dating Lane’s mom, and he thought eventually they’d end up brothers.
Stepbrothers, sure, but still brothers in the eyes of anyone who’d care.
Triple fuckety fuck.
The meal dragged on, interminably, and even though Trevor kept trying to catch his gaze, to share a commiserating glance, Lane wouldn’t do it.
He couldn’t do it.
He needed time to readjust his thinking. To force his brain—and his dick—into this new normal. To remind himself, however he could, that he and Trevor would not only not be fucking someday, they’d actually be related.
By marriage, sure, but that was enough.
And his mom was so goddamned happy, so clearly and obviously in love, Lane didn’t have the heart to tell her, if there even was anything to tell.
He wasn’t even in love with Trevor; he’d just made his heart beat a little faster a handful of times.
A few stray fantasies. In the greater scheme of things, that was nothing, and he would get over it.
Thank God at least he’d be gone next year, in California, and he’d get the time and space to totally reorientate himself into this new normal.
There’d be plenty of guys at USC. So many that when he came home next, he was sure that Trevor wouldn’t even register.
But for right now, his dick hadn’t gotten the memo, and when his mom suggested that Lane drive the both of them home, while she and Dr. Thompson went to a movie, everything inside him froze up.
He should protest—maybe even point out how much of a setup this was—but what could he even say?
Sorry, I don’t wanna be alone with him, because even if he’s not interested, I still want to rip his clothes off and suck his dick?
“Sure,” Lane said, even as Trevor smiled big, clearly pleased.
“Sounds like a great way for us to get to know each other better,” Trevor said.
Lane did not roll his eyes. Mostly, anyway.
A few minutes later, Trevor was sitting in the front seat of the old model CRV that his mom had bought used a few years back. It was not the doctor’s brand-new BMW, that was sure, and Lane had braced himself for Trevor to say something, or act like the vehicle was beneath him.
But of course he didn’t.
He wasn’t going to make it that easy on Lane, even inadvertently.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Lane pulled out of the parking lot.
He knew where the doctor lived, because when his mom had started dating him, Lane had embarrassingly googled him and then driven by his house, like he could figure out just by the exterior if the guy was a serial killer.
Positive: he didn’t seem to be.
Negative: his son was the hot guy Lane had spent the last two months ogling in the weight room.
“So,” Trevor said, chuckling a little self-consciously under his breath, “you didn’t know I was Tom’s son.”
“I—” Lane broke off. “No.”
“Yeah, you looked surprised,” Trevor said wryly.
Lane hoped that Trevor never knew why Lane had been so surprised. It was humiliating enough to feel this way. It would be untenable for anyone else to know about it. Especially the object of his stupid, ill-fated boner.
The tension of it made him snippy. Bitchy, his best friend Rachel would have told him. “Maybe you could’ve said something before.”
But Trevor just shrugged. “I wasn’t sure it was serious and you’re also . . .” He paused, gazing over at Lane in that hero-worship way it felt like three-quarters of the football team possessed. “You’re also Lane Robinson.”
“And?”
Trevor flushed, and Lane had to remind his uncooperative libido again that it wasn’t because he was attracted to him, but instead because Trevor just liked the way Lane played football.
That shouldn’t be disappointing—it was the reality, and he should get accustomed to it—but it still fucking stung.
“And well, you’re fucking amazing.”
“Thanks,” Lane said dryly. He didn’t need Trevor to tell him that, even if it was nice to hear.
The scholarship offers that had poured in, and the full ride he’d gotten to USC had been huge.
Not that he’d needed the extra confidence boost. He’d set all kinds of records his senior year, some of which he sort of privately hoped might never be broken.
A legacy for other queer kids to look at and say, hell yes we can.
“Funny story,” Trevor said, “but I’m actually a tight end too. Well, I was a wide receiver, back at my old school, but the coach here wants me to move to tight end next season.”
“Oh?” Lane told himself he didn’t feel any type of way about that, but it was a lie.
His gaze flicked over to Trevor, even as he told himself to keep his eyes to himself—because, of fucking course, when had that ever worked—and the guy was looking over at him like he was God’s greatest gift to tight ends.
And Lane suddenly understood exactly why Coach wanted to transition Trevor to tight end.
“You’re gonna have to get bigger, to block,” Lane said gruffly.
He fucking hated the idea of being replaced. And being replaced by Trevor? Worse.
The most ironic part of this was that before this moment, Lane had been perfectly okay, even happy, at the thought of going to USC.
He was so ready to leave high school and its petty dramas and stupid boys behind.
Ready to expand his universe outside this small suburbanite community an hour outside Phoenix.
“Don’t have to be as big as you, but yeah. Still growing. Bulking up.”
He’d just said he wanted the guy to get bigger, but Lane felt a pulse of something. Disappointment? Regret? Bitterness? Trevor shouldn’t have to remake himself in Lane’s image. He shouldn’t even want to.
But here he was, hanging on to Lane’s every word, like just the act of listening to him was going to make him gain muscle mass and grow three to five inches in the next two years.
“Size is good and all, but yeah, learn how to block. Learn how to catch, even if it’s contested. You don’t have to be the biggest guy out there to kill it at the position,” Lane said.
Trevor looked confused, and yeah, that was fair.
What the fuck was he even doing? He wanted to roll his eyes at his own goddamn self. Why was he being so fucking stupid?
’Cause you have a horny crush on your straight soon-to-be stepbro. It wasn’t like the answer to that question made him feel any better.
“Okay,” Trevor said cautiously. “Any other advice?”
“Listen to Coach—he knows what he’s saying,” Lane said.
Trevor nodded eagerly. “I wouldn’t do anything else.”
Lane pulled into Trevor’s driveway, and Trevor looked surprised. “You know where I live?”
Shit. He should have been asking directions this whole time instead of just driving here.
Trevor frowned then. “What do you really think of this?”
Lane had been on the fence before the Trevor revelation.
Torn, by how happy and settled Delia had been in the last few months since meeting the doctor. But then there was his petty, childish resentment that had kept cropping up. Then there was the issue of Trevor, which Lane wasn’t going to touch, especially with him, with a ten-foot pole.
“Uh.” Lane hesitated.
“I know, it seems fast.” Trevor shrugged awkwardly. Suddenly, he seemed less like a hot guy and more like a gawky sixteen-year-old. Joke was on Lane, because that didn’t make him like him less, only make him want to talk to him more.
He shoved that thought aside, too.
“Yeah,” Lane agreed. “And I’m sure you worried that my mom is just out for your dad’s money.”
Trevor’s jaw dropped.
“It’s okay,” Lane said as casually as he could, even though this whole conversation was suddenly littered with mines, “I get it. I would’ve thought it too. I thought your dad might be a serial killer trolling for new victims. That’s how I know where you live.”
Trevor huffed out a nervous laugh. “He’s not, you know.”
“I figured that out,” Lane said dryly.
“But yeah. I did think—then I met her. And yeah. She’s not a gold digger.”
“Nope,” Lane agreed.
Trevor’s eyes glowed, such a soft, sweet brown. Lane wanted to eat him up, even though he was off-limits in about a hundred ways. It’s okay, he told his body—more like his uncooperative dick—there’ll be other hot guys. So many hot guys at college. And none of them will be off-limits.
“I really like her, you know. And my dad’s a good guy. I think . . . I think they both deserve to be happy, don’t you?”
He was so softly, sweetly earnest it kinda killed Lane. Before now, he wouldn’t have said that was something he even liked in a guy. But now he wanted to bite his collarbone and see if he tasted like strawberry ice cream.
“Can’t disagree,” Lane said.
“And I guess that means we’ll be . . .” Trevor gestured between them.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, Lane internally begged.
“Brothers,” Trevor finished. Of course he’d said it anyway.
“Right,” Lane said weakly.
“And I’m sure you won’t be around much, anyway,” Trevor continued.
Lane nearly said, yeah, I’m gonna make sure of it, but he didn’t.
Besides, it wasn’t Trevor’s fault that Lane found him bitable, lickable, or whatever, and surely, after a semester in college, focusing on football and on getting laid, he’d be able to come back to Arizona and not feel like this still.
“Probably not,” Lane agreed.
“You wanna come in? Watch a movie or something?” Trevor asked, and he sounded hopeful, like even though Lane was going to college in a few months, they could still form some kind of relationship.
Lane had to snip that thought right off, before Trevor got any more ideas.