by Leigh Lennon
A hysterical howl leaves my lips. “Yeah, you’re jolly, and I’m Santa Clause, sis.” She playfully slugs my arm. “I need to talk to you about something since you’re in a good mood,” I say.
A text chirps from her phone, and her attention is focused on the new message, which makes her chuckle. “Yeah, Ry, what’s up?”
“After the season is over, Crush is coming out, and we’re going to move in together. I mean, we’re together as often as we can get, and, we don’t have to hide around Brooklyn.”
“Oh, I see,” she responds, and it’s not what I’m expecting. “So this will be the end of February. I’m sure I can find an apartment by then. I mean, I’ve been sort of overstaying my invite.”
It takes a second to process. “Sis, I’m not asking you to move out. I’m moving in with Crush, for now. As a matter of fact, I’ve barely lived there six months. I’d lose money if I sold. So, you’d do me a huge favor by staying there for another year until I can sell it.” This is a lie. I wouldn’t make money, but I wouldn’t lose money either. I want my proud and stubborn of a mule sister to have a reason to stay where I know she’s safe.
“Do you think I’m falling for this, Ry?”
One side of my lip curls, and I narrow my eyes on her for a split second. “I don’t care if you believe me. I want you to stay in my house until it’s a good time to sell, so don’t be the willful four-year-old you tend to be when you think someone is offering you a handout. Do me a fucking favor, and stay in my house.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, and I’ll have a fight on my hands. “Okay, Ry. I can help you out by staying in your fancy as fuck home. But I won’t like it.”
She’ll like it. She’ll love it because she’s told me on many occasions how she loves my house.
“Thanks, Kels. You’re a lifesaver.”
“By the way.” Her hand on my arm is comforting. “Congratulations. I’ve never seen you happier in my life.”
“Yeah, me, too, sis, me, too.”
“By the way, what are the sleeping arrangements? Surely, Brooklyn can’t know, so…”
A lot has changed since our first conversation about sleeping arrangements. “We had these plans. The girls in the loft, his brothers on the couch, you in Brooklyn’s room. His parents in the spare room and,” I begin with air quotes, “I was supposed to be sleeping on an air mattress.”
“And what has changed?”
“Ah, funny you ask. Crush woke up the next morning with this brilliant plan. In the loft, there’s plenty of room for a small bedroom, plus a bunk room. He was on the phone at six a.m. with a general contractor, guaranteeing a ten thousand dollar bonus if it was completed in a week.”
Sarcasm drips from her lips. “Y’all have too much fucking money, so now where are you sleeping?”
Back to my air quotes, I answer, “Oh, yeah, I’m on the pullout couch. You and his parents still have the same sleeping arrangements. The girls have a fun open bunk room in the loft, and his brothers are in the new small private room with bunk beds, near the girls.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.” Her tone is playful, but she’s sneaky as hell, and for this reason, I know she’s lying.
“We can’t watch Die Hard tonight,” Kimberly begins, as all the adults gather in the kitchen around the liquor. My sister has made herself at home on her fourth dirty martini, as Sawyer keeps them coming for all the women, which only consist of Kimberly and Kelsey.
“Ah, Mom, you’re such a party pooper. We watched that shit all the time, younger than all the giggling girls,” Jesse croons, standing between Sawyer and Kelsey.
“Yeah, maybe I love my granddaughters more than you, son.”
“Ah, that hurts,” Jesse returns, and I lean back, placing myself on Crush’s lap. We have to be careful, but fuck, I can’t not touch him.
“I love you, pretty boy,” he whispers behind my ear.
I turn my head to him, the words on the tip of my tongue as he covers his mouth with mine.
The house is quiet after the four very excited little girls are finally in bed. And everyone is in their perspective rooms. I have the pullout couch made for appearance sakes, as I wait for a sign that everyone, especially little girls that shouldn’t have to keep secrets from their mama, are asleep.
I take it as my cue to get my ass in bed with my man. Giving it a small little knock, I open the door, only to lock it behind me. I fling myself in bed, fully clothed, attacking Crush.
“Whoa, pretty boy. You’re needy, aren’t you?”
“What sort of fucking question is that? I’m needy for you the second I’m unable to touch you,” I say.
He leans forward, opening the drawer to his nightstand. “I want to give this to you by ourselves.”
I look around for my bag. “Oh, shit, I left my bag in the living room. Let me go get it.”
His strong arms hold me in place. “No, open this first,” Crush insists.
He places the square package, no larger than a couple of inches, on my lap. “By the way, you’re the hardest person to buy for,” he adds.
I’ve been told this on many occasions by Kelsey because I’m a minimalist and anything I want, I buy myself.
I tear at the wrapping to the box, and open it to a sleek and stunning watch—a Rolex on further inspection, and my mouth gapes at the beauty in my hand, which fits my style to a T. “
I know it looks pretty impersonal, but there’s a meaning to it,” Crush mentions.
“Babe, this is a Rolex. Nothing is impersonal about it.” I pull it from the case. “I love it.” I flip the watch around and look at the inscription.
To remind you that this is our time, to take what is ours—that’s us. ~BC
His initials of what I call him seal the deal for me, with his present, and tears gather at the edge of my eyes. “Fuck, babe, I love it, I love it so much.”
I’m on my knees, pulling him toward me, my hand working toward his pants, loosening his belt.
“Ahem, did you say you had something for me?” he begins, and as I swing my gaze to his pants, I chuckle.
“Yeah, but it looks like you have another present for me, too,” I tease.
“Ah, that’s cheesy at best, but let me tell you, my package can wait. It’s not going anywhere,” Crush counters.
At the door, I peek through, attempting to be stealthy. Reaching for my bag, I hear a small knock on one of the bedrooms along with giggles. I won’t be listening to Crush’s parents have sex tonight. I pull my bag to hurry back to the room, and the all-too-familiar sound of Kelsey’s voice floats into the living room.
“Did anyone see you?” Her tone isn’t one I’ve ever heard, nor do I ever want to hear it again. It’s seduction, this part I know, but who in the world is she talking to in a pitch that accompanies what I assume is the preamble to sex? I’ll need to burn my ears to get it out of my mind.
“Nah, sugar, your brother is in with mine, all the girls look like angels waiting for Santa Claus, and Sawyer is none the wiser, sawing logs in his sleep.”
I continue to listen as though I can’t figure out who this is. “Good, because two months is way too long to go without your dick in me, Jess.”
This is my own fault. If you eavesdrop, you get more than your mind ever needs to know. I push into the room, shutting the door lightly behind me at the idea of Jesse with my sister.
“Baby, what happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Um, later.” I don’t want to ruin his gift with this news.
I crawl onto the bed, putting our siblings’ whatever it is out of my mind.
His present is in a similar size box. “Did you get me a watch, too?” Crush asks.
“No, and believe me, this isn’t as nice, but…”
He places his index finger at my mouth. “Shut the hell up. I already love it.”
He rips at his paper, like he’s Brooklyn, and pulls the box back to a black Byzantine chain necklace. Attache
d to it is a round sterling silver emblem, of an infinity symbol, with both Brooklyn’s and my birthstones catty-corner from one another.
“I didn’t want anything gaudy, but you’ll be able to carry Brooklyn and myself near your heart, always.” He pushes near me, and I place it around his neck. “And,” I continue, “when we grow our family, we’ll add their birthstones, too.”
He pushes me down, kissing me, only pulling back for a second, his eyes locked on mine. “Okay, now tell me what got you so freaked out before? Please tell me my parents weren’t having sexy times.”
I purse my lips together, more thoughts I have to push out of my mind, thanks to my boyfriend. “Oh, shit, please don’t ever call it that again.”
This causes us both to break out in hysterics.
“So what was it?” Crush queries.
I take in a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure your baby brother and my little sister are fucking.”
His face turns ashen as mine had to have been. “Um, way to ruin the mood, dude.”
“I’m not letting them take away our Christmas Eve sex, big country.”
He pushes me down against the bed, pinning me. “So, that’s what we’re calling it?” he probes.
“I don’t care what we call it as long as you fuck me.”
29
Crush
Our bond is stronger than ever since Christmas—being on the cusp of announcing our love to the whole world.
This last game clinches our chances for the playoffs. I’m sitting in my own little world, listening to some of the rat pack, pushing everything from my mind. Even the future I have with Ryder isn’t on my forefront. What am I saying, of course it is. It will forever be.
My attention averts to Ry, his eyes closed, as they always are, and I know he’s working out plays in his own mind. It puts a smile on my face. Not only do I get to plan my future with Ry but we’re also on the same team. Our futures are linked in more ways than just one.
“Colton,” a familiar voice calls out to me, and my eyes avert from the stare on my man to Keegan O’Healy. “You need anything from me? Anything particular from my men?”
A smirk forms on my face, and I have a witty comeback on the tip of my tongue when his words hit me. Keegan is as serious as he can be. But, yeah, I do need something from one of his wide receivers every day of my life.
“Nah, Coach, I’m good. I’m comfortable out there with all your men.” He lifts one eyebrow higher than the other, his lips turning into a small grin.
“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” An almost manly giggle leaves his mouth when he turns from me, but he’s right about one thing—I’m more than comfortable with Ry a part of my life.
The men begin forming around the coach as he enters the room, and meditation time is cut short. “Crush,” our coach begins, “you’re our leader. These men will follow you anywhere. Do you have anything you want to say?”
I stand on one of the benches as I always do when I address everyone. “Yeah,” I start. “This game is everything for us. I’ve never been so proud of you. We’ve come together this year as a team, and it shows in our game, in our record. Let’s go out there and ensure a bye for the first week of the playoffs, and to the rest of the football nation that we’re a fucking force to be reckoned with.”
Everyone erupts in cheers, and as we line up to leave the locker room for the field, the coach pats me on the back. “Your pep talk was exactly what was needed, son.”
My eyes connect with Ry’s, and he’s at the end of the pack, but I don’t miss the little wink he imparts my way. Somehow, he knows it’s the encouragement I need to get through the game.
With just three minutes left in the fourth quarter, they just fucking scored on us. The defense is playing as if they’re just learning the game for the first time. I’m waiting for our team to receive the ball, and I’m antsy as we’re down six points. Ry approaches me from the side. “We got this, Christopher.”
When he uses my first name, it gets my attention. It’s his way of calling me babe without actually calling me babe.
“Yeah, we sure do, PB.” Though we should have never been put in this position. I guess, if they were going to score, at least we have time left on the clock to come back.
The offensive coordinator calls plays through my helmet, and though I’m not always in agreement with them, anytime I tend to give the ball to Solomon, Dallas, or Ry, they get the job done.
“Big Guy,” I call to Solomon because he’s a huge motherfucker of a running back. “I need you, man. It’s coming your way.” I call the play, then we break the huddle, and we’re in formation.
I hand the ball to Solomon, and just as he has in the past, he breaks the defensive line to give us a first down. But he’s not out of bounds, and the clock continues to tick. The play is sent to me, and it’s for Dallas. “We’re going to continue the running game, with that first down by Solomon. Dallas, it’s coming your way.” I share the play with them, and it means Solomon can help block. “I’m going to fake to you, Ry. Dal, get ready—I’m handing it off to you.”
We break again, and when Dex snaps the ball my way, I fake to Ry, passing the ball to Dallas as he runs around me. He pretends to go right and turns left to avoid a tackle, gaining eight yards. We hurry in formation because the clock continues to tick down. “Good run, Dal,” I call for him, explaining our next play in the huddle.
We’re not quite at the mid field, and with time on the clock, I’m comfortable with one more running play. “Let’s get out of bounds, to stop the clock. Solomon, ready for one more large run?”
We need this conversion because I hate third downs. Probably one of my worst stats is third down conversions. It’s more of a mind game when our team has this last chance before the fourth down.
“Yeah, Crush. Get me the ball. I’ll tear through every motherfucker to get down the field.”
Solomon never disappoints. When he says he’s going to accomplish something, nine times out of ten, he does.
Dex, our center, snaps the ball again, and when I fake to Dallas, I pitch it off to Solomon again, and with his legs running faster than a man his size should be able to move, he pushes through their defensive line, gaining thirty-five yards before he’s caught.
Another first down but a field goal won’t cut it. We line up, twenty yards from scoring. “Okay, I need you, Ry. And the rest of you, block for him.”
I wouldn’t put it past our competitors to perceive Ry is our go-to guy. “I’m serious. He needs some major coverage. Let’s help the man out.”
Again, we break, and with Ry on the far right end, the ball is snapped in my hands, and as I fall back and Ryder runs into position, there’s a sliver of hope, as he fakes one way and his defender is off him for a split second. I toss a little to the left, to give him more time to set up, and get farther from the defensive tackle. The ball gets closer, and it bobbles in his hands for a split second. He regains possession and tears from the defender's grasp to run the three yards into the end zone. I never count my chickens before they hatch, and I wait for the referee’s signal.
It’s a touchdown. I run and jump touch Ry as Dallas, Solomon, and pretty much the entire offensive line does the same.
Ten seconds are left on the clock. There’s always a Hail Mary of a chance, but after the extra point, they are behind by one.
They line up for an onside kick, and we wait on pins and needles as we recover the ball, and it’s over.
30
Crush
Two games are all it takes, and we’re on our way to the big one—the dream of all football players. Practices have been brutal. One day is all we have to rest before hopping on a plane to Atlanta, where we’ll play in the championship game. We’ll be there seven days earlier, for press week and we’re packed and ready to go, leaving early tomorrow morning.
In my home office, I’m ending a phone call with my publicist, Ry’s eyes fixed on me. He’s either stealth as a spy or sounds like he’s a herd of wild
bulls taking over my home.
“How is it you’re loud one moment, and sneaky the next?” Ry’s eyes bore in on me as I toss my pen on the desk next to the notes I’ve just penned down.
He’s hungry, I’m hungry, and it’s for the same thing, but work sort of calls, and I know it’s why he’s sought me out.
“Did you get what you wanted done?” He’s been down in my closet for hours, organizing what he calls my pigsty. We’ve compromised to my style, but are using his crazy and anal systemizing structure.
“Has anyone ever called you a packrat?” Ry asks, and saunters into the office, pulling a free chair over in front of my desk and sitting down.
“Yeah, but I’m nowhere near hoarder status, so don’t give me too much shit.” I rest my elbows on my desk, staring at him, then down at the notes. “The PR team you used before, to get past the shit storm of your sexuality, is on board with my publicist. We’re tentatively going to announce a couple of weeks after the big game. She thinks it’s best to share with the guys beforehand, like Dallas did.”
He gives me a little head jut when he raises his attention to the ceiling, his eyes closed in deep thought.
“What are you thinking, pretty boy?” I’m leaning forward, wondering what’s going on in his beautiful mind, extending my hand to touch him.
“When will you share it with Alison?” I pinch my nose at her name because, quite honestly, she’s kept a low profile since the debacle at Brooklyn’s party.
“Yeah, um, they think she’s best left until right beforehand. I’ll call her up and let her know I’m making an announcement. And that we’ll talk afterward, asking her to wait on me before addressing the press,” I explain.
“Everyone will think you’re retiring.”
It’s certainly what some may think. “With Dallas, he’s older than me. I’m not quite twenty-nine. It’s not unheard of for quarterbacks retiring as young as I am. But I’m still considered a baby in retirement years.”
