Crossing the Touchline

by Jay Hogan

  Meeting Cam had rattled me more than I’d been prepared for. He was gorgeous, sure. Even if his style didn’t tick your dick box, there was no denying the guy’s brooding, sexy looks, and confidence. Women were always touching him, and I’d even caught a couple of the guys on the team running their eyes over him—nothing sexual, just curiosity and maybe even appreciation. With others he just ruffled their sensitive hetero feathers.

  But for me it was more, a hell of a lot more. And not just physical, though there was a shit ton of that. I’d seen gorgeous—hell I’d even done one or two in my time—but when Cam kissed me, something ignited inside that blew me the fuck away, and I couldn’t get enough.

  It was just as well I’d screwed the whole thing up six ways from Sunday by showing my fully paid-up dickhead membership card, or I’d have been drowning in balls-deep, big trouble. A year down the track and I was still in big trouble any time I got near the guy, but I wasn’t going to risk shit now, and he wouldn’t let me anyway. I’d lifted my rugby game in the last year, and my coaches were adamant the AB call wasn’t far away. Besides, Cam had made his boundaries crystal fucking clear, and I didn’t blame him. Friends it was, however much that sucked.

  To that end, I’d done everything from sit on my hands to burying my phone in my bed, even going so far as to leave the damn thing at home, just to stop myself angling for another coffee. And it worked for the most part… until that damn text rolled in and unspoken fluttery things began to cascade in my chest. I may or may not have even fist-pumped when I read it, but I’m not copping to that without witnesses.

  My eyes drifted to Cam’s text yet again, the phone glued to my hand for the entire forty-five minutes since the message arrived. Long enough for me not to appear too eager, right? He might admit to thinking I was hot, but that didn’t overrule his concern that I might also be a pathetic, needy douche. Not an image I was keen on perpetrating, but one I had well and truly earned. No. I was going to do this with a tad more dignity. Deep breath.

  Thanks. The guys played well. Today?

  Ten seconds passed. I tried not to read too much into it.

  Sure.

  Okaaaay, then. That didn’t give away much. Why did I feel like we were playing chess underwater? I let a minute roll by, wanting to make the gap longer than his. Childish, I know. My fingers drummed on the arm of the couch and my leg did a fair impression of a pogo stick. Cool, calm and collected? Maybe not.

  …59, 60… finally:

  Great. Had to check my diary. But I’ll need to bring Cory. OK?

  For fuck sake. I didn’t own a damn diary. Notes on a fridge calendar were as impressive as it got, with a few alarm prompts on my phone for the important rugby shit. Even then I was lucky if I didn’t miss half my life. And as for a social life? Aside from being closeted and epically less than interested in joining my straight teammates on their drunken bar prowls, Cory, rugby, and my arsehole brother ate up any spare time I possessed.

  I had to wait longer this time; the man had upped his game. Still, dragging your four-year-old nephew along on a date wasn’t the usual romantic gesture—not that I was aiming for that. This was not a date. Coffee, no date. Two friends having coffee and a conversation. Still, Cory was a dealbreaker. In truth I could have asked Georgie to take him for an hour, but no matter how much Cam cranked my shit—and he did in oh so many, many ways—if the guy wasn’t okay with Cory, I’d walk away from even a friendship. In fact, that outcome would make this whole thing so much easier.

  At last a reply:

  Sure. Meet you on beach opposite Floyds in Mission Bay in forty-five? I’ll bring our coffee.

  So, not the easier outcome, then.

  See you there.

  I stared at the phone till the screen turned black. Not only did Cam not have a problem with my nephew tagging along, he’d even suggested the best option for Cory. Coffee shops, meh, noise and people quickly overwhelmed him. Beaches, on the other hand, were one of Cory’s favourite places as long as they weren’t swarming with people. Cam and I might even manage more than a few minutes of adult interaction.

  I glanced at my watch. It would take five minutes at least to wean Cory from his movie without a tantrum the likes of which would spell disaster for the rest of the afternoon. You rushed or surprised Cory at your peril, but keep to the programme, and he mostly adapted well-ish. He wasn’t very vocal and didn’t display a huge emotional range, but I was grateful that we could usually take him new places and engage him in simple activities if we stuck to his preferred methodology.

  A fleeting glance in the mirror ensured I was at least semipresentable—borderline sweatpant shabby chic—but with a fresh T-shirt, it would do. I grabbed Cory’s gear, making sure he had his precious truck safely in his pocket. I dreaded the shitstorm that surely awaited us if or when that thing ever got lost. I stashed a few of his other toys in the bag for good measure and added a bucket and spade, his favourite drink bottle, and a couple of blankets. One glance at the dense curtain of ash-grey cloud, and I dismissed the need for sunscreen or a hat. Summer was a distant memory.

  The beach wasn’t too busy for a Sunday. The heavy cloud layer and a cool early-winter breeze had swept families away from the sand and into the shopping malls. I tugged a ball cap onto my head in an attempt to avoid any rugby-fan attention and spied an empty piece of wind-protected real estate under a large pōhutukawa. Setting Cory down on the rug, I placed his toy bag close. He might enjoy the beach, but he hated the sand. Noise and bright lights hit that sensitive spot too. On the plus side, he wouldn’t move from the rug if his life depended on it. No chasing him around.

  A soft whine hummed in his throat as he sat stiff and unmoving. My gut tensed reactively, but I began to unpack his bag and did my best to ignore him. It was Cory’s default, I’m-not-really-happy-with-this warning signal, dammit. It would be just my luck for today to be one of the times he spat the dummy.

  Keeping a sideways eye on his activity, I fiddled with his snacks while softly picking up the chorus to “Dancing Queen.” It was his all-time favourite song—quirky for a kid who didn’t like noise, I know, but I guess it was the rhythmic beat. All I knew was it worked. He’d even been known to crack a dance to it, though dance was perhaps too strong a word. Move jerkily but enthusiastically was perhaps more accurate. He was never gonna give Usher a run for his money, but I freaking loved watching him in those moments. Craig, however, found the spectacle of his son dancing hugely embarrassing and discouraged it. Eventually Cory learned to keep it just for us.

  The whining calmed, and I stole a glance, reassured to find him watching me whilst nodding his head vigorously to the lyrics. I smiled and reached a hand out to stroke his hair, then stretched out on the rug beside him, gazing out to sea, tracing the lilac-and-green hills of Waiheke Island in the distance. And when I saw Cory’s hand reach into his pocket for his truck, I toned my volume down and relaxed. We were golden.

  “I wouldn’t give up your day job,” a familiar voice interrupted, and Cam sank cross-legged beside me.

  I accepted the coffee he held out and my pulse lifted as our knees and fingers brushed and his eyes grazed my body with appreciation. I reeled in the kiss I instinctively wanted to plant on those damn glossed lips and settled for a smile instead. Gloss?

  “Thanks.” I raised my coffee to his.

  He gave me a long look that damn near scorched my eyeballs, before tapping our paper cups together. “You’re welcome.”

  Under the guise of sipping my coffee, I took a few seconds to drink him in instead and…. Lord help me, he looked good enough to eat. Appetiser, main, dessert, cheese plate, and after-dinner mint all rolled into one—a smorgasbord of sensual flesh, apparently cooked just how I liked. He shouldn’t have looked as sexy as he did, wearing a pair of relaxed, faded Levi’s, black sneakers, a plain baby-blue tee under a loose black jacket and not a scrap of makeup or hair gel.

  Huh. That deserved a second look but, nope, no makeup bar the gloss. It was the first
time I’d seen his face au naturel. Straight from the shower, hair freshly washed, smelling clean and vaguely apple-like, face scrubbed and shiny, he looked relaxed and casual, and I decided… I liked it. Liked it and wanted to lick every square inch of it, preferably naked. Oh dear God.

  I cleared my throat and gave him some room, but not too much. “It was a good idea,” I said thickly. “The beach, I mean. Cory should be good for a half hour or so at least, but no promises.”

  Cam shrugged. “No matter. We’ll take what we can get, right?”

  I eyed him sideways. “Right. Though I think that was my line last time we talked.”

  He held my gaze for a bit before dropping his eyes to the three paper bags he held in his free hand. “Muffin?” He held them out. “Wasn’t sure what you guys liked so I got chocolate chip, berry and white chocolate, and apricot. I’m easy.” He added the last with a wink.

  I arched my brows at the double entendre. Evil bastard. And yeah, my crush crushed a little more. He was playing his advantage and clearly amused by it. I wasn’t. My dick had no room to grow and needed a time-out. And he needed to put up or shut up. He couldn’t have it both ways.

  “Like hell you are,” I countered. “If you’re easy, I’ll take difficult any day of the week and still come out on top. And you can take that any way you want.” Two could play that game.

  His eyes went wide for a second, then he laughed. “A bit presumptuous without knowing the rules, I’d say. You’re telling me you’re a—”

  “Nothing,” I interrupted. “I’m telling you nothing. That information is on a need-to-know basis. Friends, remember? Your choice, I recall. And fucking with my head isn’t cool, just so you know.” I winced and glanced to Cory playing with his truck, but he apparently hadn’t caught the swearing.

  Focusing back on Cam, I saw he looked somewhat startled. Good. Fuck him. I was sick of feeling half a page behind the damn story all the time. I might be less experienced, but hell if I was going to snivel around anyone, making puppy eyes, and it was about time he knew it. If this was going to be a friendship, it was going to be an equal one. I hadn’t got where I was in rugby by playing soft. I wanted him, but I didn’t need him, and I could match him in a bluff any day of the week. I did it for a fucking living, after all. Make them think you’re running one way and hedge the other—rugby fullback playbook 101.

  He stared at me, saying nothing, and I tried to gauge what was going on in his head, but there was a guardedness to his expression I hadn’t seen since the wedding. Then just before the tension tipped over into awkward, he nodded. “Fair enough. It was my choice. And I apologise.” He held the bag out. “So, name your poison…?”

  Huh. I slowly let out the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding as Cam rattled the bags again. “Oh, right. Um, I’ll take chocolate chip, and Cory will have the berry—minus the paper bag,” I cautioned.

  Cam cocked his head, and I shrugged. “It’s a noise thing,” I explained. “Just tear the muffin in half and put it on the rug. He’ll take it from there.”

  He did precisely as I’d said, and Cory stared at the torn muffin for a few seconds before reaching for a half.

  “Should I introduce myself?” Cam asked.

  I shook my head, grateful for him not leaping all over the little guy. “Let me. We’ll give him a minute to get used to you first. He’ll let you know.”

  We took a few sips of our coffee while Cory ran his truck up and down the rug until I saw he’d settled.

  “Cory.” I waited for a sign my nephew was listening. He rarely made eye contact, so I took what I could get and… there it was: he held his truck in his palm and went still. “This is Cam. He’s my friend. You can say hello.”

  His gaze flicked to Cam, then back to his toy. “Hi, Cam.”

  “Hello, Cory. Nice to meet you.”

  Cory put his truck back on the rug and continued playing. Beside me Cam took a bite of his muffin while I focused on trying to ignore how close we were sitting and the ridiculous furnace of heat radiating off the man’s body. His proximity did all sorts of peculiar things to my stomach, not to mention other geographically related appendages a little farther south.

  “You played really well yesterday,” Cam said.

  I tried not to stare as he bit off a large chunk of muffin and swallowed it down with a contented sigh. I nibbled at my own, not really hungry. “Um, thanks. But you know—team effort.”

  He grinned. “Modesty is admirable as long as you know how good you really are. Mathew says you’re the bomb, and friendship demands honesty and full disclosure. So, try again.”

  Heat rose in my cheeks and my gaze slid sideways, only to find Cory focussed on the two of us, his truck forgotten in his lap. Something about Cam had caught his interest. Get in line, kid.

  “Really?” I sighed. “We’re gonna do this now?”

  Cam raised his brows but said nothing.

  “Okay. Well, I played pretty good, then. Satisfied?” I shoved my remaining muffin in my mouth so I couldn’t be asked to add anything, and near choked in the process.

  He snorted. “You’re damn cute, you know.”

  “Not… cute,” I spat muffin crumbs down my jacket. “Cute will get me fucking crucified on the field, arsehole.”

  Cory’s head shot up.

  Shit. “Sorry, kid, bad word.” I rolled my eyes at Cam. “Your fault.”

  His grin grew wider. “Not.” He grabbed the empty bag from my lap, brushing my thigh with his fingers in the process and raising the heat level in my jeans to a tick off incendiary. The blush hit my cheeks before I even had a chance to look away. I sent him a withering glance, but all he did was smirk and head for the recycling bins.

  “Pretty damn cute,” he threw over his shoulder.

  Fucker. I grabbed a nearby pine cone and threw it at the man’s retreating back.

  He laughed, picked it up, fired it into the bin with the paper bags, and made his way back. “Still cute,” he teased. “Or maybe we should go with adorable?”

  Hell no. I fell on my back, swept my leg around and took him off his feet.

  He hit the ground on his butt with an oomph and stared at me in total disbelief. “Son of a—”

  “Language!” I cut him off. “Besides, now who’s adorable?” I smirked. “So much for all that taekwondo.”

  He brushed himself off and shuffled forward till we were side by side. “Guess I deserved that,” he said flatly.

  The tone was a little off and I hoped he hadn’t landed awkwardly. “You okay?” I looked him over.

  He hesitated. “Just caught my ankle.”

  “Shit. I didn’t mean—”

  Next thing, I was flat on my back with his hand wrapped above my knee in a searing horse bite, the rest of me held in place by some weird-arse grip that defied escape. Oh God. I’d always been ridiculously ticklish. If I’d had a minute to think, I might have exulted in the weight of his body pressed alongside mine, but instead I was hopelessly lost in flailing and gibberish. “No, stop…. Cam… please… stop….” For fuck’s sake. Where was one of Cory’s meltdowns when I needed it?

  Eventually he eased off, apparently satisfied once I’d all but wet my pants and was reduced to a rabid mess of spit and nervous tics. He stared down at me, laughing for all he was worth. It was impossible not to join in. He looked fucking amazing with those gold eyes dancing, completely open and innocent. And in that moment, I’d have endured a lifetime of horse bites just to keep that gaze on me, those hands touching me. To be the focus of all that delight was intoxicating. I couldn’t tear my gaze away, and before I knew it, I’d fallen silent.

  He quickly stilled and broke off eye contact, pushing himself away and dusting off his hands. “Can’t trick a trickster,” he laughed, but it wasn’t like before. His tone was wary—forced, even. “And don’t diss my skills, sweetheart.”

  I caught his gaze and held it. “Never,” I answered seriously.

  He gave a half smile and glanced away. />
  Beside me, Cory started to whine, loudly. Fuck. Now he decides to start. People craned their necks to see what was happening and someone pointed my direction. Shit. The last thing I needed was to be recognised.

  Cam placed a hand on my arm, his face stricken. “Sorry, I didn’t think about the noise and Cory.”

  “Nah, it’s okay,” I flustered, working up a solution in my head. And it was okay. I might try to make Cory’s world easier for him, but if he was to have a real chance at adult independence, he needed to learn to deal with everyday stuff like this.

  Reaching into the toy bag for a distraction, I heard Cam start in with “Dancing Queen.” Wow. I wasn’t convinced it would work a second time, but Cory frowned and his whining actually tempered. He seemed a bit confused by the unfamiliar voice but pretty soon he began to rock in place in that odd, jerky dance thing he did, and the noise eased to almost a singalong——almost.

  I turned to Cam and shook my head in disbelief. He winked but kept right on singing. After a quick check that no one was still looking our way, I reached over and squeezed his hand once in appreciation. He smiled and put an open box of juice on the rug close to Cory. It sat there for a bit until Cory relaxed enough to take it, at which point I was able to give Cam a nod that he could stop.

  He ignored me—of course he did—and finished the song. Passersby sent strange looks; Cam’s singing wasn’t gonna get him on Idol in a hurry, but he appeared to give less than a single fuck and neither did I. As for Cory, my nephew was entranced.

  Well, shit. My eyes pricked, but thankfully Cory kept Cam’s attention off my sappy meltdown.

  “Dancing Queen,” Cory said softly. “Cam.”

  My jaw hit the sand hard enough to register on the Richter scale. Cory didn’t volunteer conversation easily, least of all to someone he barely knew. It was the equivalent of snagging the hottest guy in a packed club with a single cursory glance. Never. Gonna. Happen. You might get an acknowledgement, maybe even a weak smile if Cory really liked you—but a whole sentence, almost? That was rare as fucking unicorns and reserved for family. It was progress, big-arse progress.