by Amy Lane
When he arrived and sat down, Dane covered him up with a bright orange fleece blanket emblazoned with Giants, which they used when they caught a game at AT&T Park. Tucked into the cup holder was a venti caramel latte, which, along with gloves, helped keep Mason’s hands warm.
“Do you have everything?” Dane asked soberly. “Are you as snug as a sultan in a swing?”
Mason shook his head. “I’m great,” he said. “I’ll have to pee in a few minutes—then we’re in trouble—but other than that, well done!”
“Good to know,” Dane said. He looked at the little girl on the other side of him. “What do you say, Holly-bell? Will you have to go to the bathroom in a minute?”
Holly-bell regarded Mason with unfriendly brown eyes. “No. Not with him.”
Mason arched an eyebrow at Dane, who shrugged. “Well, we can go as a group,” he said diplomatically. “Jason, do you have to pee?”
“How come she’s Holly-bell and I’m just Jason?” he asked, way too surly for one so young.
“Would you like to be Jason-llama?” Dane asked, his rather wonderful mind pulling that from thin air.
“What’s a llama?” Jason asked—damned suspicious for a seven- or eight-year-old. He actually had a no-bullshit line that arched between his eyes, something Mason would normally associate with a fifty-year-old marketing director who had been through the cola wars.
“It’s a pack animal originally from South America,” Mason told him at the same time his sister said, “It’s that thing Kuzco was in The Emperor’s New Groove, dummy. We just saw that last week.”
“That was an awesome movie,” Dane said, keeping the peace like he always did. “Do you want to be Jason-llama?”
“I don’t want llama-face!” Jason protested. “Make it something else!”
“Jay-bird,” Mason muttered under his breath. With this kid’s attitude, he would be behind bars soon enough.
“I like that!” Jason said chirpily. “She can be Holly-bell and I can be Jay-bird and—”
“Look! Uncle Clay just saved a ball!” Holly-bell chimed in. “Go, Uncle Clay, go!”
They all turned and cheered, and Clay cannoned the ball back into play. Thank God—the kids actually knew soccer, and watched and cheered, and Mason could concentrate on Terry.
From a strictly observational view, he was both an amazing player and an exasperating one.
He was amazing because he was squirrel-quick and an amazing ball handler. As soon as he saw an opening, he could steal the ball from the opposition’s best forward and be driving down the center line toward the goal.
He was an exasperating player because he was frequently out of position, and he didn’t know where any of his teammates were. If he got stopped at the goal line, he had no idea where to pass the ball. Skipper would be yelling at him—“Jefferson, dammit, you got three goddamned forwards, use us!”—and he’d be playing footwork games with the opposition’s defense.
Mason was surprised Skipper didn’t just chuck the ball at the back of his head.
But he didn’t. Nobody did. Instead, they called out to him, frequently, and pulled him back into the game they were playing and not the one he’d locked himself into at the goal line. They didn’t often score a goal that way—and twice they had an offsides penalty—but nobody seemed put out.
But the third time Terry did it, right before the half, Mason let out a big sigh.
“Gonna say anything?” Dane asked quietly.
Mason thought about it. “He needs to see how it should work,” he said after a moment. “He needs a picture in his head. I wonder if there’s any pro soccer on this afternoon.”
“There’s always pro soccer somewhere,” Dane muttered, hitting his phone. After a few moments wreaking whatever magic he knew, he grunted. “Good. Done. We’re set up to tape a game happening in Brazil in ten minutes. As soon as you’re home, look it up on the DVR. You can use it as foreplay.”
“Dane!” Mason hissed, glancing at their young and grumpy companions.
Who were both busy jumping up and down because Richie had just scored a goal.
Mason clapped and yelled “Yay Richie!” while the whistle blew and all the guys went to get a water. Terry and Carpenter came wandering down to their corner of the field, both of them carrying water and extra energy bars for their audience, and Mason smiled weakly.
“Energy bars,” Dane muttered. “Ugh. I’ll be pooping for days.”
“Mom says those are bad for you,” Holly-bell said wisely. “She tells Uncle Clay they make him fat.”
Dane jerked around toward the little girl with the beginnings of a snarl issuing from his throat, and Mason tapped him on the shoulder to calm him down.
Holly-bell giggled. “That was funny, Dane. Do it again!”
Mason grabbed his wrist. “Dane?” he warned, and Dane took a deep breath and let it out.
“Your Uncle Clay isn’t fat,” Dane said sweetly after a moment. “And if he thinks energy bars help, well then, let him eat them.”
“Good job!” Mason said to their approaching heroes. “You got any gas for the next half?”
Terry looked over his shoulder, embarrassed. “Skipper says I would if I thought more than ran,” he apologized. “I have trouble seeing the field.”
He handed Mason a water and a breakfast bar, and Mason caught his hand. “I think I have a way to help,” he said brightly. “After the game when you come over, okay?”
Terry cast Dane and Carpenter a furtive look, but they were busy explaining how granola bars were not fattening as long as you didn’t get the kind with chocolate and marshmallows and how they would hold the kids over until they went for lunch.
He looked back at Mason. “All day?” he said, a little bit of wonder in his voice.
“Dane will get home sometime in the evening,” Mason warned, but Terry shook his head.
“All day,” he repeated, nodding. “It’ll be great.”
And then—oh God—he kissed Mason’s cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world before he and Carpenter ran back into the fray.
“Stop that,” Dane ordered.
“Stop what?” Mason watched as Terry launched himself at the ball fearlessly, and then, per usual, ignored his teammates to drive it to a standstill.
“You are rubbing your cheek like a teenaged girl!” Dane snapped.
Mason dropped his hand and picked up his coffee, which was down to the dregs. He still felt the tingle on his cheek.
OF COURSE, after the game—which they lost, two goals to four—there was the usual postgame wrap-up around Skip’s car. Mason balanced on his crutches and talked about the plays and how good Carpenter was as keeper and how Richie had scored two goals.
Terry said playfully, “What about me, Mace—you got any praise for me?”
“He don’t got shit,” Richie said irritably. “You don’t see the field, dammit. You gotta pass it from midfield!”
Terry looked abashed, and Mason shrugged. “He’s a little right,” he admitted, “but you’re an awesome ball handler.”
“Heh heh heh,” Terry laughed like a twelve-year-old, and the whole team groaned.
Mason’s face flamed—which wasn’t bad, really, because he’d been starting to think he’d never feel his toes or his cheeks again.
“Not quite how I meant it,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, no.” Thomas, their hipster schoolteacher, stole Mason’s stocking cap and smacked him in the head with it. “You walked right into that one.”
“Limped,” Mason said with dignity, snagging the hat back. “I limped into that one. But that’s okay, because we’re going to go watch a pro game on TV—I’m pretty sure if he just saw a game, that would help. There’s this sort of….” Mason made vague gestures with his hands. “This puzzle piece thing that happens when you guys do it right. I think you’ll see it on screen.”
“Ooh,” Skip said, eyes wide. “That’s a good idea. In fact, we should take in a Republic game in the spri
ng.”
“What’s the Republic, and why would we be watching a game?” Dane asked suspiciously.
“Wait, I know this one!” Oh, for once Mason had inside info. “They’re the local soccer team, third division, I think. Tesko helped sponsor their new field. In fact, if we want to get a ticket bundle, I think I can get us a discount.”
And like that, Mason had the entire team’s attention.
Before they broke up for the afternoon, Skip agreed to get everybody’s money, and Mason agreed to ask HR for dates and times, as well as details on how many tickets they’d need to get the discount. Mason and Dane had gone to Giants games and 49ers games all their lives. He’d never seen people get so excited about third-division soccer—but then, he’d never been this excited about a Giants game either.
But the group broke up—cold and ready for some hot chocolate—and Dane went off with Carpenter to apparently spend the day with those two charming little assholes who had whined for their Nintendos during the entire second half. Mason anxiously watched him get into Carpenter’s Ford SUV.
Dane looked in his element, spouting nonsense and teasing the kids with almost every word.
He looked content, and Mason caught his eye and nodded fiercely. Dane patted his pocket—where his night dose of meds sat—and Mason nodded again, this time in acceptance.
Dane was an adult, and this was the best he could do.
“So,” Terry said as he slowly walked Mason to the Lexus. “You want I should stop for food on my way?”
Mm—food would be good. Just sitting in the cold and watching had given Mason a massive appetite. “Yeah—and I’ll make us some hot chocolate. It’ll be ready by the time you get there.”
Terry nodded, looking pensive. “Will you tell me what’s wrong then?” he asked plaintively.
Mason blew out a breath. “It’s nothing you can fix,” he said honestly. “Like I said, this morning just… just sucked.”
Those squirrel-bright eyes grew sharp and canny. “How bad? I mean, I like your brother, but how bad does it get without them?”
Mason shuddered. “He’s a real butt-hurt asshole,” he muttered. “I’ve got no other words. But… but you know. Dane.”
“Yeah. So worth it to see the good guy in him, right?”
“Yeah.” He opened his car door as the keyless entry beeped welcome. “And he’s going to have a good day.”
Hopefully, so was Mason.
TERRY RAN in with sandwiches and a duffel bag before the water and milk had even started to heat. He excused himself to shower while Mason finished up and microwaved some soup. They ate lunch and drank hot chocolate while watching the game Dane had taped, and while they didn’t know either of the teams (Terry wasn’t sure if he’d even heard of the country), they chose their good guys and their bad guys and watched the play.
Terry seemed to be in awe.
“Okay, I see it now. I mean, I see it. Skipper is always telling me to play my position, and I never got what that meant. Did you see what happened there? He was in the perfect place, and he passed it, and the forward took it in! Oh my God—it’s like… I can’t even tell you how much this makes clear. And wow—lookit these guys with the ball. I mean, you said I was good, but these guys—they’re so damned fast. This is amazing—oh look! He’s got it! He’s going in! Go, go, go, go, run, you little bastard, run—goal! Goal! Goal!”
Terry leapt off the couch, hands overhead, shouting and jumping, and Mason leaned back against the couch and laughed.
Play resumed and Terry collapsed next to him, laughing as well and holding his stomach. “Man, that’s fun. None of my work guys watch sports—I didn’t realize how awesome it was just to do that!”
Mason bit his lip, feeling like a sham. “I’m not really a sports guy,” he confessed. “I’ve gone to live games because that’s, like, an event. You eat garlic fries, and you cheer with the team and try to catch T-shirts. But I didn’t get how much fun it was.” Terry’s eyes were resting on his face, his mouth parted softly. His cheeks were flushed and his hair fell softly down one cheek, almost dry from the shower. “Until now,” Mason whispered.
“You get it now?” Terry asked, eyes crinkling.
“Yeah.”
Terry moved forward a little. “How’s your ankle?”
“Better?”
Laugh. “That’s a lie,” he acknowledged.
Mason would have shrugged if he wasn’t half lying down. “It’s better than Thursday,” he said truthfully.
Terry’s smile crinkled with mischief at the corners. “Is it good enough to prop up on a pillow while I ride you like a show pony?”
Mason laughed, feeling giddy. “I can’t be a stallion?” he asked a little plaintively, pulling Terry across the couch while he lay down flat.
Terry placed a little kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Stallions are assholes,” he muttered before tracing the seam of Mason’s lips with his tongue. “I finally got a guy who wants to show me that slow is a thing.”
“Oh,” Mason murmured, running his lips down Terry’s jaw. “Now the pressure is on. I’ve got to be a blue-ribbon winner.”
Terry shifted, placing his weight more fully across Mason’s chest while he went for Mason’s earlobe. “You’re not allowed to prance anymore.”
Mason moaned—Terry’s groin was pressed against his, and that hot breath in his ear, with the playful little nip, that was making the whole area swell in delicious discomfort.
“If I’m not prancing, how you gonna ride me?” Mason panted. He reached for Terry’s backside and kneaded. Tiny, muscular ass—but he didn’t mind.
Terry chuckled, strained and dirty, and moved sideways so he could reach down Mason’s body, cup his erection, and squeeze. “I’ll ride the… the whatyacallum—”
“The saddle pommel. Oh!” Because Terry had undone his belt and his fly and was thrusting his hand into Mason’s underwear. “Cock. Just ride my cock….”
Terry’s laugh tickled the skin of Mason’s throat. “You tortured me last time,” he hummed, running his teeth along Mason’s collarbone.
“Two weeks, Terry!”
“Yeah, but I want it to be good.” He started tugging at Mason’s shirt and sweatshirt, and Mason helped him out, seizing the hems and wiggling so he could throw them over his head. While he did that, Terry pulled off his own shirts and shimmied out of his sweats and boxers, then stood to kick them off with his shoes.
Mason reached out from the couch to run his fingertips along the length of Terry’s erection. He purred at the softness of the skin and the way the shaft bobbed happily at his touch.
Terry caught his hand just as he was skating his thumb across the edge.
“I can’t stroke?” Mason complained. “Stroke? Taste? Touch?”
“Let me get your pants off,” Terry ordered. “Geez, you’re bossy. I mean, I know you got the big office and all, but I’m giving you sex. Take orders for a minute.”
“Yessir,” Mason snapped out playfully.
Terry’s knees appeared to wobble, and he wrapped his own fist around his cock and stroked, very slowly. A bit of precome spurted out, and he caught it on his thumb and then thrust his thumb into Mason’s mouth.
Mason sucked hard, scraping the soft flesh with his teeth and meeting Terry’s eyes.
“You want me to order you around some?” Terry mumbled, like he’d never even thought of such a thing. “Be not like a toy, like… like….”
“Like you’re my partner,” Mason gasped. “Unless, you know, you just want me to beat off in front of you, ’cause….” He slid his hand under his pants again and made a pass of his own, keening when he came to the end.
Terry flicked his wrist as it disappeared. “Stop that,” he ordered. “I’m going to get you naked, and then we’re gonna see something.”
Mason reluctantly let go of himself and started pushing down his jeans and underwear. Terry helped him out the rest of the way, pausing when he got to Mason’s sock-covered feet.
<
br /> The one with the bandage on it swelled under the cuff of the pants, and he tugged at the edge with exquisite care. When the pants came free, Terry looked up at Mason and grinned like he’d accomplished something.
Mason grinned back. God—look at what he’d done, just to not cause pain.
Then Terry moved his outside foot so it rested on the floor and began his real path of seduction. He started by kissing along the inside of Mason’s knee, dragging his tongue up along his thigh. Mason gasped, caught between ticklishness and arousal. Terry upped the pressure, pushing with his lips and suckling hard, tight mouthfuls of flesh.
Arousal won, and Mason melted, spreading his legs as wide as they could go, exposed and open to the air and to Terry’s bold touch.
He licked the crease of Mason’s thigh and then danced around Mason’s scrotum, taking one testicle gingerly into his mouth.
“Oooh….” Mason massaged Terry’s scalp under his hair, lost in being tended to, being made love to like sex was an awesome thing.
“Here,” Terry said practically. “Lift your ass… and… yeah.” He shoved a pillow under Mason’s pelvis and placed his palm on each cheek, spreading.
Fucking awesome.
First he traced the predictable path from the back of Mason’s balls to Mason’s crease and along his hole. A rim job. Mason had given them a lot but hadn’t gotten many, and Terry’s finger petting, pushing gently as Terry licked and spat, lubing him up, almost made him come.
“Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod,” Mason chanted as that finger thrust in, the burn of the nerve endings setting all the tender parts on fire.
Terry pulled back enough to stroke Mason’s cock and say, “You like that!”
“Yesssss….” Oh, Mason wanted more. He did. He wanted to be fucked, reamed, taken—but nobody had wanted to do that for him.
“I’ve never topped before,” Terry said, pushing up on his elbows to pull the crown of Mason’s cock into his mouth. He sucked hard once and then let Mason pop out, wet and dripping precome in the faint chill of the air.
“Nungh….” He couldn’t even make the words.
“And I really want to sit on this,” Terry said, squeezing his cock from the bottom to the bell.
