The Blueprint, page 11
It was like someone else’s hand was in his boxers, pulling his leaking dick free of the damp fabric. He jerked and groaned and arched his hips into my touch as I stroked his dick slowly, not wanting him to get too worked up too soon. I wanted to take my time. I wanted it to last, so I let him slide out of my hand, and his dick slapped against his stomach.
He groaned again and moved restlessly. “Don’t stop.”
There was a better chance of it snowing right there in my bedroom. I reached over to the nightstand and pawed through the debris and junk until I found a half-used bottle of Aveeno. It wasn’t a very thick lotion for what I had in mind, but it was unscented and would do the trick. I squirted out some in my palm, took him in hand again, and reveled in the way his whole body shivered when my skin came in contact with his. When my fingers crested over the head again, he jerked so hard I almost lost my grip.
“God,” he murmured. “Don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this.”
I didn’t know why I was even surprised. His response was vintage Blue—everything he did, he did with full-blown enthusiasm. I didn’t know why sex would be any different. He rocked his head back and forth on the pillow as he spread his legs as far as they went, still constricted by his boxers around his thighs. “Gimme… gimme more.”
I bit back completely inappropriate laughter. There would be time later to tease him about sounding like an opening set in Britney’s Vegas show.
Fluid was leaking from his tip, and I swirled my thumb around in it, mixing it with the lotion and making the glide of my hand even smoother. I swore silently. Just that quickly I regretted using the Aveeno. I wanted to put my mouth on him, wanted to lick his balls and feel the weight of them on my tongue. But I didn’t want lotion to coat my mouth like candlewax.
He writhed under my expert touch, and even though I hadn’t touched myself, I felt close. “Fuck, Blue.” I sped up my strokes. “I want to suck you.”
His back bowed as my words alone sent him over the edge and he swore out loud. The first spurt caught me on the chin, and I jerked back instinctively. He put his hand over mine with another muttered curse and gripped almost too firmly as he came all over our joined hands. I watched him twitch and jerk with his eyes shut tight. He finally subsided with a sigh, and his hand went still and then fell away from mine almost in slow motion.
I looked up at his face to see if he realized that the world had burned down around our ears, but his eyes were still closed. Then I heard soft, telltale huffs of breath and realized that he’d fallen asleep. I didn’t know whether to be put out or relieved.
I rifled through the nightstand drawer again until I found some wipes. I struggled with the package one-handed until I freed a few. Then I cleaned us both off and yanked up his boxers—not gently either—and let the waistband go with a snap. He didn’t even seem to notice as he snuggled into his pillow.
I pulled the covers up over his shoulders and flicked off the bedside lamp. Usually I wouldn’t hesitate to fall right into the same bed with him, but I didn’t think that would be the best idea. Instead I headed to the guest room, left the door cracked a little, and curled up in bed.
Sleep was at worst impossible and at best elusive. I wondered if he’d be embarrassed, or if he’d even remember at all.
I didn’t know which I preferred.
Chapter 12
Blue
THE OUTLAWS’ practice facility was state-of-the-art. The perfect place to put my body through vertical jumps and lateral squats and run through those stupid fucking tires and anything and everything Coach could think of to torture us with. I usually felt refreshed—in pain, yes, but refreshed. Nothing made me feel better than pushing my body to its limits.
Except that morning.
That could have something to do with me getting drunker than a skunk the night before. Maybe. I chose not to speculate. All I knew was that I woke up in an actual cold sweat. I was pretty sure vodka oozed from my pores.
Hangovers were no longer cute at my age. Not that thirty was old, but football had managed to simultaneously age my body and make me younger. It was a strange sort of physiology—I had the heart of a twenty-year-old and the knees of a sixty-year-old. With all that alcohol sloshing around in my system, I might as well have been in my dotage.
In my college days, I’d wake up after getting lit the night before, usually someplace I wasn’t supposed to be. I’d put on a hoodie and some shades and go for a late breakfast with friends. We’d sit in some sticky booth in a crappy diner looking like hungover rock stars, let all that greasy food soak up the alcohol, and try to piece together where we’d been the night before. It was irresponsible. Fun.
It wasn’t fun to be hungover, struggle into a uniform that weighed fifteen fucking pounds, and try to look as though I weren’t dying of some incurable disease. At least I got to wear workout gear. Later in the afternoon, I’d have to add practice pads and my helmet. I wasn’t looking forward to it.
My trainer slapped me on the back, and I swiped at my face with a small towel. Ivanovich seemed to be finishing up at the same time. He grimaced. “Weights next?”
I tucked my towel in my shorts. “Do I have a choice?”
He lifted an eyebrow but didn’t say anything else as we headed toward the weight room. Yeah, I was in a pissy mood. What of it? It didn’t matter if I wanted to or not. Weight lifting was a must. I could almost hear Coach in my head. Football is a game of strength—building it, keeping it, using it. And the best way for you to build strength is by lifting a fuckton of weights.
I adjusted the weights, lay back on the bench, and settled in as Ivanovich got in place near my head. He ghosted his hands over the bar as I slowly lifted the weights and started my reps. My measured and even movements started a slow, sweet burn in my muscles. I hated it. I craved it.
Another player took the bench next to mine, and I glanced over to find Wilson. I rolled my eyes. He was a showboat on and off the field, and he couldn’t lift weights without—
“Ahhhh,” Wilson yelled as he brought the weights up. “Yeah, baby. Let’s go!”
Christ. I concentrated on my own workout. “Six,” I muttered and brought the set up again.
“Push it, baby. Push it!”
“Seven,” I said through gritted teeth. I didn’t know the psychological breakdown of a man who called himself baby, and I didn’t want to.
Before long I got into the groove of things, and Wilson became background noise. I had a lot of things to be pleased about. I’d had a good workout, and Coach Maxwell was satisfied. By then I was halfway through my reps with three fifty-pound plates on each side. I was drenched in sweat, but it felt good.
“Eight,” I said with a grunt.
“Bring it up. Bring it up,” Ivanovich barked.
I brought it the fuck up, and the weights clanged with a satisfying ring. “Nine.”
“Rock it out, Blue.” I didn’t know who passed, but he was wearing team sweats. I grunted in reply.
My mind wandered as repetition took over, and I thought about what I would do when I was done. I wasn’t sure going to Kelly’s was even in the cards anymore. Even if he forgave my drunken pass, I wasn’t sure I could live through the awkwardness.
It had been hard to get a read on him that morning.
When I finally opened my bleary eyes, half-on and half-off the bed, he greeted me with a cold washcloth, determined cheer, and a face red as beets. I did my part by pretending not to remember much of what happened. It wasn’t that difficult, especially in the wake of my hangover while I was still sweating alcohol like bullets. I drew the line at avoiding one another completely, though. He tried to usher me out the door, but I dragged him out for breakfast instead.
As he played around with a bagel and some orange juice, I shoveled down a mammoth-sized breakfast to make sure I had the right amount of protein I’d need for the day. It was awkward, yeah, but I finished every bite and waited until he did too. Family could be awkward, but you stayed. I needed him to understand that. Things got difficult and hard, but you didn’t just leave.
I had to admit it was kind of cute the way he blushed every time he looked at my mouth. I had a hard time looking away from his too. I’d never had a kiss like that before. And the hand job that followed? Jesus. Part of it was fuzzy, but if I thought hard enough, I could almost feel his hand working me—strong, sure, confident—almost as though he were trying to coax the jizz out of my dick. Like he wanted to taste it.
I couldn’t remember all of it, and it fucking killed me. I wanted to remember all of what made his face turn that dusky rose color every time I so much as caught his eye. That frustrating, elusive memory made me nervous too. I was pretty sure I’d never come that hard in my life. So either he was really, really skilled, or it was the fact that it was Kelly that did it for me.
I hadn’t even had a chance to help him with his hard-on before I fell asleep like a great big snoring lug, but I would’ve. I wasn’t a selfish douche, even though I had no idea what I was doing in terms of another man’s anatomy. He was my best friend, and sexual reciprocity wasn’t gross. But shouldn’t that make me horny too? If I were really into guys?
Fuck, Blue. I really want to suck you.
Thinking about Kelly’s words while I wore loose athletic shorts was not a good idea. But shouldn’t I want to go down on him too? Shouldn’t helping him rub one out give me wood? Instead it just made me unsettled and really, really nervous.
His words all those weeks earlier floated through my mind. I like someone who can take a dick too. My ass clenched almost involuntarily. Fuck. That. I shook my head. I couldn’t even picture it.
I readjusted my grip and brought the bar up again. I was glad I was wearing gloves because my thoughts had me in sweaty-palm territory. Big man lifting big weights yet afraid of a single little word. I guess size alone wasn’t what made words powerful.
Gay.
I wasn’t gay or bisexual. It was just that simple.
I was a little ashamed of myself, actually. I always thought I was beyond labels, but I didn’t want to slap one on myself. That didn’t mean I wanted to think about Kelly with other people, though—other people who happened to wear an Outlaws uniform who shall remain nameless.
I didn’t look forward to running drills, mostly because I wanted to tear someone’s fucking head off. And even though there was no feasible reason for me to tackle McAdams, I wanted a piece of him so bad I could taste it.
“Ahhh,” Wilson shouted next to me. He practically tossed the weights back in the holder. Then he pushed off the bench and wiped his face with a rag. “I’m pumped, baby. Yeah!”
Sweet Jesus. I waited for him to get out of hearing range, and then I quietly mimicked his whoop. Ivanovich snickered. “Show’s over, and someone finally turned the microphone off. Get back to work.”
Fourteen. Fourteen and a half. Fourteen and three quarters. Ivanovich’s face appeared in my line of sight as I struggled. He looked vaguely amused. Sadistic fucker. I reached deep, and despite my disgruntled attitude in general, it felt good. My body was a machine, my machine, and it was going to do what I wanted.
I brought it up high enough to pass the bar, and Ivanovich grabbed it. “Fifteen. Finally.” He set the heavy weights on the rack as though they weighed nothing. “Nice.”
“Two more reps.” I sat up and wiped the sweat off my face. I don’t know why I bothered, since my tank was soaked. “Thanks for spotting me.”
“Don’t mention it.” He grinned. “No, really, don’t mention it. These kids can get one of the trainers if they need spotting.”
I stood and wiped down the bench. I did a sloppy job, but I knew he wouldn’t care. Then I waited and rested my arms on the bar as he got in place. He yammered on as he lifted, something about his wife and kids and… I don’t know, Disney World or something. My mind was just so scattered that it was hard to keep track.
The music stopped in the weight room as Big Diesel took someone’s phone out of the speaker dock and stuck his own in. “Anyone mind if I change this?” he asked the room at large, a touch belatedly. There were several groans as he put on some of that alternative shit that he couldn’t seem to live without.
“Turn that shit off,” someone yelled.
“My ears. Dear God, my ears.”
“Your music sucks,” I added helpfully.
“This is my fucking workout mix.” He grinned. “I’ll make it up to y’all at my party.”
I rolled my eyes. Whatever. I had bigger problems than listening to a bunch of electric guitars that sounded slightly out of tune.
“Are you even going to that party?”
I looked down at Ivanovich. “I wasn’t planning on it. I’ll probably just hang out with Kelly.” Hopefully. If he’d still look at me by then.
“Why don’t you just bring him?”
So he could pick up where he left off with McAdams? My jaw could’ve been chiseled in granite. “I don’t know if he even wants to go. Why?”
“Doesn’t he usually?” Ivanovich barely grunted as he hefted the weights again. Probably should’ve added another twenty for him so I could watch him struggle. “Are you guys doing okay?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because your face looks like you’ve swallowed something sour?”
I scowled even more. “We’re fine,” I said shortly. “I’m fine. Kelly’s fine. The world is fine. And you mind not talking about us like we’re a married couple?”
“Fine. Whatever.” He paused. “You’re sure you guys are doing okay?”
“You gonna lift weights or talk all day?”
“I’m not straining like you.” He smirked and lifted again. “I can do both.”
I rolled my eyes.
We switched a couple times for a few more reps, and I let him take the last set before we headed to the practice field. The gym doors opened and let in some much-needed light and fresh air. I glanced over at the three guys who ambled, all clad in workout gear, and my head froze midnod. McAdams. He laughed at something one of the other guys said as he shrugged out of his hoodie.
I frowned and tried to look at him like Kelly might. He was nice-looking, if you were into that. Ripped? Check. Then again, when working out was part of your job, you tended to look like you were built like a brick shithouse. We had some guys close to four hundred pounds, but they were all muscle. Coach thought that big didn’t mean sloppy guts and back-fat rolls. We had Friday weigh-ins and big fines if we got careless and gained that week. So McAdams didn’t get any prizes for keeping it tight. He was supposed to be built like that.
Ivanovich growled at me. “Are you gonna notice if this thing falls on my head or keep daydreaming?”
“Sorry, E.” I tried to look more engaged. Only… my eyes swerved back to McAdams again.
He was wearing typical workout gear—Nike shorts and a red tank so tight I was surprised he could breathe. The neon-green soles of his Nikes flashed as he walked, and his socks also had the little swooshes on them.
His brownish-blondish hair was cut short, maybe an inch long. He had brown eyes, and he was clean-shaven. I continued to stare as he put in his earbuds and hopped on the treadmill. He looked down at his phone as he walked, and the strong muscles in his calves worked. He was just a regular, nicely built guy. Nothing special.
As though he could feel my regard, he suddenly looked up. He met my eyes and looked startled to find me staring like someone was paying me by the hour. The sunlight hit him just then, and I realized his eyes weren’t just brown. They were a kind of caramel color, like, like… warm honey or something.
He was… kind of attractive. Okay, really attractive. Hot, even. Fuck. Since when did I start noticing guys that way? I stared harder and tried to picture him with Kelly. Kissing Kelly. Fucking Kelly? Or was it the other way around?
He raised one hand in a hesitant wave and then dropped it. He narrowed his eyes at whatever he found in my expression, and we had a moment of unspoken communication. I knew. I knew. And I wasn’t okay with it. His mouth firmed, and he looked away.
Done with his warm-up and evidently happy with whatever playlist he cued up, he hit a few buttons on the treadmill and started to jog lightly. I knew from experience that the jog would segue into a run in another five minutes. He didn’t look my way again.
“Let’s go,” I barked at Ivanovich, who had started to lag a bit. I couldn’t keep count because I’d lost it somewhere around the time McAdams came in. “Pull it up, E.”
Ivanovich grunted. “I got this.”
There was no way to let McAdams know I didn’t care if he was gay. I just wasn’t okay with him being with Kelly. He wasn’t good enough for Kel, and I didn’t care if he was a hot superstar football player or not.
A lot of them were unstable, aggressive on and off the field, and entitled. I didn’t know McAdams well enough to say he was like that—before then he’d merely been the thorn in my side, the rookie who was gunning for my spot. But I knew how it felt to be a first-draft pick on an NFL team. You had a lot of people kissing your ass for no reason at all.
Not to mention a lot of ballplayers were notorious cheaters. They were on the road a lot and had a lot of road bunnies who would do anything if you asked nicely enough or if you looked at them twice. The same guys who pulled a train on some groupie were the same guys who proudly paraded their wives and kids around on family days at the facility.
That might be okay for some, but it wasn’t good enough for my best friend.
Ivanovich let out a yell as he brought the weights up for the last time. I grabbed the weights, racked them, and gave Ivanovich a fist bump. “Good job. If you were seventy.” I pretended to think about it. “Nah, that’s disrespectful to my grandma. Seventy and missing a limb.”
“Fuck you, Blue.” He swiped a towel over his face. “You ready to run these drills? Show these kids what’s up?”
My gaze snapped back to him, and I realized I’d been staring at McAdams again. It wasn’t that I didn’t want Kelly with Andrew. I didn’t want him with anyone. I wasn’t interested in having Kelly physically, but I wanted every part of his waking thoughts. And that was selfish as fuck.
