Rookie Move (Playing for Keeps #1)(41)

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” I wrapped an arm around Houston, tugged him close, and kissed his temple.

“Gross. You’ve had your lips on my brother. Don’t touch me with those things.”

We both laughed before the weight of the situation made the air thicken until it threatened to suffocate me.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? You don’t want the media going crazy, but I think that would happen on a hell of a smaller scale if they just found out you like guys than it will if they discover two NFL players, on the same team, are sleeping together.”

It being me, that would likely make it an even bigger deal. Sometimes I felt like the media was waiting for me to screw up, waiting for me to show I was like my father.

But walking out on his own team, fighting with coaches, the DUIs, and getting caught snorting coke off a hooker at a party, that was all different from having mutual sex with your teammate…or it should be. I forced those thoughts away. “How would they find out? Only me, you, and G know. None of us will tell anyone.” But that probably meant sucking his cock in the supply closet shouldn’t happen again.

He paused, looked at me in a way I’d never seen Houston look at me before—all seriousness and sharp with a warning. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“It’s not like that. We’re on the same page. It’s just some orgasms between friends.”

He gave me the finger. “You’re gonna keep being TMI about this, aren’t you?”

“Would I be me if I didn’t?”

Houston sighed. “I guess not. I just…you know what you’re doing, right? I’m trusting you, Ramsey, with Garrett and with his career.”

“I know. It won’t get fucked up. We’re not going to let this get out of hand.”

Houston nodded, picked up his drink from the coffee table, and swigged some down. “I still can’t believe you’re having sex with Garrett.”

“Apparently, I give great head.”

He jumped on me, and we wrestled around until Houston jerked back. “Ouch. Fuck.”

“Your knee? You good?”

“Yeah.” He pushed off me, his brows pulled together in what looked like frustration.

I hated this for him, hated that Houston had lost something he loved so much.





12





GARRETT





The game was way too fucking close for my liking. Too close for anyone’s, judging by the solemn expressions on my teammates’ faces. But then we’d known it would be. The films had been right, Coach had been right, Ramsey had been right. LA had moves and players that made lightning look slow. Especially fucking Whitt.

But I’d prepared for this. I was ready for this.

Every muscle in my body was fired up and soaked in adrenaline as Ramsey called the play.

As soon as Tucker snapped the ball, I was gone.

The stands around me vanished. My family, Houston, the bright lights beating down on the field were all reduced to a vague glow in my periphery. My world became the pump of my legs, the position of the defense as I took off down field, running a play I now knew like the back of my hand.

I broke left and twisted around, the ball arcing toward me like a dark bullet, exactly how it was supposed to, exactly how we’d practiced. Fucking beautiful. The second it barreled into my grasp, one layer of tension peeled off, leaving another behind.

But I had this. I fucking had it.

I raced toward the end zone, seeing the touchdown in my mind’s eye, the interviews afterward. I could almost feel the clap of Ramsey’s hand on my shoulder, Houston’s, my parents’.

Yard lines sped by in a blur. My heart threatened to explode, filling my ears with the rush of blood, mingling with the roar of the crowd as the end zone loomed.

And then it was all gone.

A hard thump to my side threw me off-balance. I careened around, stumbling backward, my hands suddenly way too empty, just in time to see Whitt dive on the ball and smother it with his body.

A roar went up from the crowd as Whitt was helped up. He punched a victorious fist in the air that might as well have landed in my gut.

I’d fucking fumbled the ball mere yards from the end zone. No touchdown. No glory. Not a damn thing except humiliation and defeat that settled over me like a lead blanket.

“Shake it off.” Cross knocked me in the shoulder as I gasped for air. “C’mon.”

I trotted after him, still trying to get my bearings over what had gone down and how badly I’d just fucked up.

“We’ve still got time,” Ramsey said as we walked off the field.

But we never fully recovered.

We lost by six points they wouldn’t have gotten if I hadn’t fumbled.

The walk back to the locker room felt like one of the longest in my life. Conversation buzzed around me, but I barely made out the words until my name cut through the air, and I glanced up in the midst of yanking off my cleats.

“Hey, maybe next time you want to make a fumble like that, you could just hand it over to the other team. Save everyone some energy.”

I wanted to punch Nance in the face, but he was right. I’d seen the playback, and no doubt everyone else watching had. It would be all over highlight reels for the next week.