Bet on Me (The Love's a Gamble Series Book 1)

by Saxon James

  “Yeah, man, that’d be awesome.”

  He has no idea. He’s huge and good-looking and straight. White and rich. The world is basically made for him, and yeah, I’ve got my fair share of privilege, no doubt about it. But after what happened with Liam, I wonder if maybe it wouldn’t have been better to never have played ball in the first place. I love the opportunities, and the travel, and the money. Heck, I love the game and the fans too. But it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that I can’t have it all.

  Honestly, having Elliot to talk to this week has been a life line. It’s nice to have someone with no bias listen to my shit. And it’s nice to listen to his too. Though I really could do without knowing when he’s going out. I don’t need to picture him getting laid.

  It’s been months since I saw any action and at this point, I’m nearly desperate for a hookup. It seems like my best options are heading to a dark club for an anonymous quickie or taking Elliot up on his offer. Both of those things risk my secret getting out, though.

  “Alright, kill, marry, fuck—Jennifer Lawrence, Scarlett Johansson, and that hot Cobra’s cheerleader who’s always eye-fucking the hell out of you.”

  My stomach twists at his question. It isn’t the first time he’s given me one of these, and it’s always so much effort trying to figure out what the right answer is.

  So I cop out. I close my eyes and start to deepen my breathing, letting out the occasional soft snore. It’s not ideal, and I have to keep it going for longer than is comfortable, but eventually Zane falls asleep, and I’m left in the dark with my thoughts.

  ***

  The stadium is fucking insane. If there’s one thing I love about this job it’s running out with my team to a deafening roar of support. We have one win and one loss under our belts and I’m determined to add another win tonight. We beat the Bombers in the preseason, but I’m conscious not to let myself get carried away with that.

  The first half is close, way too close, and as I’m slammed to the ground for what feels like the hundredth time, I get up a little slower, begging for the halftime buzzer. My uniform is drenched in sweat, the shoulder pads are uncomfortable, and I’m desperate to take my helmet off and wipe the sweat from my eyes.

  We get in a few more yards, and on the fourth play, our quarterback, O’Brien, goes for a trick play, and hands the ball off to me. I dodge the first defenseman who comes at me and sidestep the next. The halftime buzzer sounds as I’m slammed from the side and driven into the ground. A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, and I barely hold back my gasp as the opposing player jumps up.

  “Fuck,” I pant, curling over a little from the pain, before clenching my teeth and brushing it off. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve had a little bump. It’ll be fine. Coach doesn’t need to know a thing.

  I follow my teammates down to the locker rooms, and it’s a rush as we break off to change our uniforms or stretch out tight muscles. I head into the bathroom to take a piss, then join O’Brien and Edgerton, the other receiver, who are having a discussion about changing up some of our plays.

  Michals turns up the Bluetooth speakers in his locker and some heavy bass shit echoes between the metal lockers and cement walls. I bounce on my toes, ignoring the ache in my shoulder, and stretch out my arms, trying to keep my muscles loose. A trainer calls out the three-minute mark as Coach comes in and spits plays at us like nobody’s business, then it’s time to head back out.

  The next quarter we go touchdown for touchdown, and the never changing gap is wearing on us all.

  By the time we go into the final quarter, I need extra motivation. The adrenaline hit I get with each game is starting to ease, and my muscles are sending me a great big fuck you. And that’s when an idea hits me.

  If we win, I’m going to arrange to meet up with Elliot.

  If we lose, that’s my sign to back the hell away.

  Though honestly, I’m not sure I’ll follow through with either, but telling myself I will keeps my head in the game. I’m way too scared of being outed to follow through, but I’m also pretty fucking desperate to stick my dick in something.

  I shake the thoughts away, pulling my helmet back down and making it to my position.

  Play passes so fast all I think of is the ball. Running. Not getting tackled. We make ground then lose it again, but the guys are getting riled, digging deep and pulling out everything they have. We’re early in the season, but we can’t afford a loss.

  O’Brien is yelling out calls as I retake position. I pull in a long, slow breath attempting to forget the pressure of what could be our last play. We’ve only got a few minutes left on the clock with two points to make up, and I can’t afford to make a single mistake.

  The play starts. After the snap, O’Brien immediately makes a long pass out to Edgerton who’s tackled right away. The same thing happens on the second and third down, until we’ve barely gained three yards. It’s disgraceful. The half back is getting set up to run, but I can tell the defense is already prepared for it. “Yo, O’Brien!”

  For a second, I think he hasn’t heard me—he’s definitely pretending not to have. But he’s sizing up the defense, and at the last moment I catch it, a tiny nod. This is it.

  The ball snaps back and I run, pushing myself faster than I have in a long time. He passes, and I choke back my nerves, picking up the pace. I throw my hands out at the last possible moment, and the ball thuds into my arms before I pull it back to my chest. I’ve barely taken another step when an opposing player slams into me. His shoulder hits my chest and drives up into my throat before I’m thrown to the ground. I land hard and cough from the impact, but O’Brien pulls me to my feet and slaps my shoulder in triumph.

  “Another four!” he shouts, and thank god we’ve made the ten yards.

  The last minute of the game is a mess of passes and running and catching, until our center hikes the ball back to O’Brien, he sidesteps a defensive player, and runs right into the end zone.

  “Fuck yes!” I shout, pounding my fists into my chest a second before Zane jumps on me. The noise from the crowd is deafening.

  I start to laugh and Zane joins in. No matter how many times we win, I will never, never get over this feeling—like my chest is inflating to a million times its size. The memory of the deal I made with myself tries to creep in, but I brush it away. I’ll deal with it later.

  Right now, we’re celebrating.

  The team heads out for drinks, and we take over a huge area in the bar like usual. I pound back shot after shot high on our win. It all goes straight to my head. And it’s not like I’m complaining, but the more I drink, the looser I get with my words. Like I have no damn control.

  Elliot hasn’t messaged me all day. He barely messaged me at all yesterday too, and I don’t like the feeling he’s pulling away. I want a hookup. But mostly, I want to hook up with him.

  I know I shouldn’t message him when I can’t even see straight, but I pull out my cell, blinking down at the bright screen. Pulling up his number, I start typing.

  Me: What are you doing? I’m out with the team, getting wasted and thinking about you.

  I contemplated writing “thinking about your ass” but thought that was going a little too far. I’m about to shove my cell back into my pocket when his reply comes through.

  A Friend: Team? I thought you were away for work?

  My eyes widen, probably comically from the feel of them. How the hell do I get out of this? I’ve told him I do something with sports but never gave him any details. Then again, if I’m going to tell him who I am, he’s going to figure that part out anyway.

  Me: My work team. We’re getting a drink after work.

  My heart is beating stupidly fast because there’s no way he’ll buy that answer.

  A Friend: Call me when you’re done drinking yourself stupid.

  That’s it. Nothing else to give me any hint as to what he’s thinking, but whatever it is, he doesn’t want t
o chat about it over text. Is he pissed I’m out? Is that a tone I detect in his bullshit message?

  Me: Why? Are you out fucking someone?

  A Friend: Not your business if I am.

  I’m about to send him a rambling, incoherent response when another shot is slammed down in front of me. It’s the distraction I need, but the next one isn’t. And neither is the one after that.

  By the time we stumble out of the bar, I’ve got a stage-five jersey chaser on one side, and Zane trying to help me walk on the other. We wave down a cab, and I fall into the backseat. The girl climbs in after me, immediately throwing one leg over mine and turning in to kiss my neck. I have no idea how we got to this point, but the alcohol wears off enough for me to throw open the door I’m leaning against.

  “Nope,” I say, falling out of the cab and almost eating gravel. “Not interested in that.” I slam the door, and a minute later, the cab pulls away. Guess she wasn’t picky about whether she left with me or Zane, and thank god for that.

  The street swims a little, and I pull my cap down farther over my eyes. There’s still a ton of people out, and I can barely make out which way is forward. I throw out my arm to hail a cab, but the driver ignores me.

  So does the next, but finally a third one slows and pulls over. I climb in and hesitate a second before giving the hotel name. I know I’m supposed to call Elliot, but I’m not in any state to talk to anyone right now. Squinting at the bright screen, I type out a message, and after reading it approximately thirty times, I finally hit send.

  If Zane and that chick are fucking, I’ll have to find another room to stay in.

  Thankfully when I get back, there’s no sock on the door and no telltale grunts coming from the room. Either they’ve gone back to her place or on to another bar. I honestly don’t give a shit. I also don’t give a shit that Zane’s bed is closest, so naturally, it’s the one I fall face first onto.

  I’m out before I even get a chance to kick off my shoes.

  Chapter Six

  Work the next day is intense. The Sharks won a game everyone assumed they’d lose, so now my clients are placing last minute bets on the Monday night games to try to recoup some of their losses. That one game made my boss a heap of money, but my clients are ready to murder me. I have to keep reminding them, over and over, that it’s all a part of the business. You win some, you lose some. It doesn’t help.

  I stifle a massive yawn. I’d stayed up later than I’d ever admit, waiting for T to call, and after I’d gotten a drunken text that I couldn’t make sense of, the disappointment kept me up later. I smile softly, remembering our last conversation. If he had called there’s a good chance I would have stayed up until an unreasonable hour. Whenever we talk, I find it almost impossible to hang up.

  I’m sorting through numbers for the Statesmen’s game tonight when my phone rings. I consider ignoring it, but it’s my personal one, and I have a good feeling it’s either Rainer calling to make plans for tonight, or T calling to… who knows?

  I stretch my arms out, almost touching either side of my dingy little office, before grabbing the phone and answering it. I don’t need to check the display to know it’s T, because if it was Rainer, he would have launched straight into it. Instead, all I’m met with is silence.

  “Usually the person who makes the call speaks first.” I keep my voice even, although I want to give him shit for not calling last night. Rationally, I know that’s not fair. He doesn’t owe me anything.

  T’s groan drowns out my annoyance. “I think I’m dying.”

  “Okay, before I give you my automatic response, you’re being melodramatic, right?”

  “No. Really. Help me, Elliot.”

  I stifle a laugh because that’s a hungover tone if ever I heard one. “Are you dying from alcohol poisoning?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then no thanks. I’ll sit this one out.”

  He doesn’t respond at first, and I check my screen to make sure the call’s still connected.

  “T?”

  He sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I was gonna make up some excuse, but really I got blackout drunk and passed out as soon as I got back to the hotel.”

  “Alone?” I try to throw some teasing into my voice, like I would if he were Rainer, but it’s hard not to get sulky when I want to be the one going to bed with him.

  Silence again. And yeah, I kind of can’t believe I even asked, but I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess. If I didn’t ask, I would have dwelled on it all day.

  T chuckles. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Definitely alone.”

  And god help me, my anger is swiftly replaced by relief. This little back and forth we’ve got going on is ridiculous. The more we talk and the longer I go without seeing him, the more I want to say fuck it all and drive out to Philly.

  He clears his throat. “So today’s Monday.”

  It only takes me a second to work out what he’s talking about. “Yeah, so it is.”

  A rough sound comes down the line, like he’s rubbing at course stubble, and immediately I’m thinking of what that stubble would feel like on my neck, my thighs, my ass…

  And that’s enough of that. I press down on my crotch before it can react, willing my dick to behave. I’m at work for fuck’s sake. “Thought anymore about tomorrow?”

  T sighs. “Maybe…” He doesn’t finish that thought, and my eyebrows pull up at the hesitation in his tone.

  “Maybe?” I prompt.

  “Umm…” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll be back in Philly in three hours. I thought… maybe…”

  Nothing. “There’s that word again.”

  “Maybe I could come see you?” he suggests in a rush.

  My cock twitches to life, and again, I have to tell it to behave. “That’s a lot of travel for one day.”

  “If you don’t want me to come, just say it.”

  I want him to. I’m almost fucking begging for it. But I already asked one dumbass question on this call, and I’m not making the same mistake again. I’ll play it cool because that’s who I am. No matter how T might have me all twisted.

  “Oh, I want you to, but you remember what I said?”

  T scoffs. “How the fuck could I forget?”

  It’s lucky he can’t see my grin.

  “You made me a promise I’m cashing in on,” he growls, and I have to close my eyes for a second against the surge of lust his words send through me.

  “I don’t really know if heartbroken is my type, though.” I’m treading carefully, trying to test out where his head is. The last thing I want is for hot sex to turn into a sob fest.

  “Hmm… what is your type then?”

  Deflecting. I’m not sure I like that response. “Depends on the mood I’m in.”

  “Which means?”

  “Think about it, big guy.”

  Even though he’s silent, the exact moment it hits him is obvious. “Huh,” he says on a breath. “So what kind of mood are you in today?”

  I weigh my options. Do I go out and try my luck? I’ve never had much of an issue finding someone to hook up with. But someone who looks like T? That’s a little more difficult to manage.

  And tonight, I’m definitely in the mood for…

  “I’ll follow your lead.”

  He chuckles, all rough and sexy. “You might regret that.”

  “I’m confident I won’t.”

  He laughs again, and the sound is hot as hell. I’ve always been attracted to a guy with a sense of humor.

  “You realize if you come over, you’re going to have to tell me your name?” I point out.

  He hums. “Funny, I got the impression you were down for anonymous hookups.”

  “Are you calling me easy?”

  “Not at all.”

  I cock an unimpressed eyebrow he can’t see. “Sounded that way. But I’ll have you know, I always ask for names first.” I pause. “I need to know what to s
cream out, after all.”

  T groans, and there’s suddenly a lot of noise on the other end. “Fuck, we’re heading out. But… tonight?”

  “Yes.” I don’t even try to play hard to get. “I’ll be home at eight.” Fuck watching the game.

  “Text me your address,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’m the very definition of “thinking with your dick” as I get home, quickly shower, and scrub every part of my body I can reach, ignoring the way every muscle aches. I change and jump into the car without pausing to think any of this through.

  If I pause, even for a moment, I might chicken out, and I want this too bad to let that happen.

  There’s no denying Elliot is a sexy motherfucker, but if I’m honest, that’s not enough to get me to risk so much. Every conversation we have makes me that much more confident he’d never out me, but as much as I believe that, there’s always a chance. There’s always a chance he’ll be the guy who runs to the press and exposes the one thing I’ve given everything to hide.

  Am I stupid for trusting him? Maybe. So why does it come so easily? Why is it every time we chat, I can’t keep the dumb smile off my face and can’t stop thinking about the conversation hours later?

  My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I head up the freeway toward New Jersey. I’m still an hour away, which means I have a whole hour left to change my mind. But then I picture Elliot’s lips and long eyelashes and my cock twitches at the thought of finally seeing him face to face. He looks lean and tall, and I can’t wait to see him close up for myself. But mostly, I want to hold him and feel his skin against my skin.

  Groaning, I adjust myself as I change lanes, and when I reset the cruise control, my phone starts to ring. I hit answer on my steering wheel, assuming it’ll be Elliot, but instead, Liam’s name flashes up on the console.