Eastshore Tigers 01 - Strong Side (8 page)

Turning the laptop so he can see it, I cue up the footage I downloaded earlier. "Watch what he does right as he's about to get tackled."

The footage is of a running back who plays for the Jets, but it's definitely something we can use. He watches the clip with me, all the way up to the tackle and the call to end the play.

"You see that?"

"He sped up right before he was brought down."

I nod. "You ever listen to the defensive coaches? They’re teaching players to tackle through the guy, not to be a solid wall."

"So if I've got some momentum going, I should keep it up?"

"Anybody going in for the tackle might not be ready for it. At best you'll get a few more yards before you’re dropped, and at worst you'll be at less risk for injury. It's a way for you to control what happens."

Griff nods. "Could always use more control out there. Might be able to shake this finally and just play like a normal fucking guy."

"Stop being so hard on yourself. If anybody else knew what you've gone through to get here, they wouldn't believe it."

A slow smile spreads across his lips. "Pot, meet kettle."

"Do as I say, not as I do,” I say with a smirk. “Come on, get off your ass. We’re going to give it a shot."

"The other guys already here?"

I stand up and stretch, trying to remember what I was taught in peewee football when we used to try out multiple positions to see which one would stick. For about two weeks, I was on defense.

That was before they found out how far I could throw.

"They're at some party."

"Oh. Cool."

If I didn’t know any better, I'd say he sounds a little nervous. That thought is confirmed when I glance up at him. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, and I grin.

"Relax. I’ll go easy on you."

I stuff my laptop into my bag and leave it on the bench before walking out onto the grass.

Griff follows, and I hold up a hand to stop him. "Start here, and run toward me when I give the signal."

"You want me to do it in slow motion, like the movies?"

I roll my eyes, and don't bother to answer him. If I encourage him to be a smartass, he'll just keep it up. No matter how nice it is to have somebody who isn’t constantly up my ass about doing every little thing perfectly.

I get about twenty yards away from him to start with, then lift my hand up in the air to signal. I let him start and get halfway before I even go into motion. Best to take it easy this first time.

When we make contact, Griff hits me pretty fucking hard. He's leading with his shoulder like he does when he’s protecting the ball, and I'm down low to get a grip around his waist and tackle him to the ground. It doesn't exactly happen that way, though. I have to struggle to keep hold of him, and he almost shrugs me off. He gets at least five extra yards before I can bring him down, and his momentum ensures he can get up easily.

"That was a pretty weak tackle, man," he jokes.

He offers me a hand up, and I take it. "No shit. Been a long time since I did this. Set up and we’ll go again."

We do it a few more times, and I eventually remember what I was told years ago. Each time, I start a little quicker, and run at him with a bit more force. By the third tackle, he can't really shrug me off, and I bring us both to the ground easily. But he's still able to get back to his feet, and that's what counts.

"How'd that feel?"

"Like I’m going to have bruises on top of bruises tomorrow," he says, rubbing his side. "But I can see what you mean. Feels less like I'm being tackled from out of nowhere, and more like something I can control."

I nod. "That's the idea."

He makes a good point, though. I probably should've brought pads to this outing. Coach will have my ass if either of us get injured out here.

"Last one. Really push it this time."

He nods, setting up in the same spot as before. The grass has a little divot where his shoes have dug into the ground.

I take my place a little farther back, and give myself more time to get up to speed. I try to cushion the blow when we meet, to avoid putting either of us at risk, but Griff takes my instruction to heart.

He fucking steamrolls me.

I don't know if I just didn't have enough balance, or if I wasn't throwing enough weight into it, but he runs over me easily. He could've kept going, but I think taking me down takes him by surprise, and instead of shaking me off and moving past me, his leg seems to get stuck between mine, and we both fall to the ground.

At first I think I've made him sprain something. Hell, I'm not sure I haven't. But when he starts to laugh, I realize he's just fine.

I also realize that he's on top of me. Pressed against me, body to body. One of his legs is between mine, and his weight rests atop me.

I've been sacked and tackled. Had linemen flatten me to the ground and refuse to get up before. But this is different.

I can feel every hard contour of Griff's body. The way his well-defined pecs move as he breathes in and out. The sleek lines of his pelvis. The weight and warmth of his thighs. And I even feel his breath, hot against my shoulder as he laughs.

There's a part of me that wants to throw him off, and a part that wants to examine every sensation. I'm used to the way a woman's soft body cradles mind, and this is a lot different. Hard. Firm. There's nothing soft about Derek Griffin.

But for some reason, my own body is starting to heat up. When he stops laughing and looks down at me, my breath catches in my throat. Something passes behind his eyes—an unspoken heat—and my gaze fixates on his lips.

A hint of stubble frames them, but they look soft. Sculpted just like the rest of his face.

He shifts a little, and I'm not sure if it's deliberate or accidental, but his thigh brushed against my crotch, and I can feel my dick twitch in my jeans. Breath rushes from my lungs, and I can't move.

I can't think. I can't do anything but lay there, helpless as my body betrays me. Jesus Christ. My dick is waking up while there's another guy on top of me.

It has to be some sort of weird physical stimulation, right?

Because if it isn't… Then I have a lot more to figure out about my life.

CHAPTER TEN

- Derek -

Shit.

I don't know when it became weird between us, but it’s definitely moving into that territory now. I thought Hawk would be laughing right along with me, but when I look down at him, all I see is confusion. Confusion and something else that I don't want to examine too closely.

There's no way this can end in anything but disaster.

I scramble off of him, and mumble an apology under my breath. Swallowing hard, I rub the back of my neck as if I can somehow chase the thoughts out of my head.

I should've gotten off of him ages ago, and if I'd realized I was fully on top of him, chest to chest, hips to hips, thigh to groin, I would've done something sooner.

At least, I hope I would have.

Because my dirty little secret is that in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

Those full lips were so inviting, parted softly in surprise. I wanted to lower my mouth to his and finally taste him just like I’ve done in my dreams so many times before.

Even now, the thought of it races through my mind. Would he shove me off immediately? Or would he go with it, just to see what it's like?

There's no good answer to that. I know better than to pine after straight guys, but being around Hawk all the time is fucking with my head.

"Hey, I just remembered I've got a paper due tomorrow. You mind if I cut out a little early?"

It's the lamest excuse ever, but Hawk still looks a little shaken up. He's finally pulled himself off the ground, and his clothes are rumpled in that sexy way that definitely isn't helping my hormones.

I wonder if he can see right through me—see into my lustful mind. I fucking hope not.

"Yeah, sure," he says, and his voice is a little strained.

I stand there like an idiot for a moment, as if either of us are suddenly going to say or do something that will change what's become a very awkward situation.

Grabbing my bag from the bench, I head toward the entrance to the park, trying not to think of the feeling of Jason Hawkins beneath me.

Homework definitely doesn't help.

I actually do have a paper due tomorrow, but like the nerd I am, I've already finished it. My roommates are both gone when I get there, so there's nobody I can rely on to fill my mind with stupid shit that has nothing to do with Hawk.

Instead, I'm left to sit at my desk, staring at my laptop and trying not to go with the most obvious means of relief.

Jacking off to images of a straight guy is a slippery slope. Especially when that guy is my friend.

But I can't help it. I feel like a man starved, tempted with the smallest taste of food and desperate for more. My hand seems to act of its own accord, and before I know it my zipper is down and my already half-hard dick is in my hand.

I try to soothe my conscience by surfing to my favorite porn site, but it's not the actors I'm thinking of as I stroke one out.

It doesn't take me long to come. My body's been holding this in for a long ass time, apparently. And as I shudder in post orgasm bliss, I also start to feel that post orgasm shame.

It's not like Hawk is ever going to find out, but now I'm thinking this won't be the last time I have to seek a little relief.

And there's no way I can deal with a whole year of this shit.

After I clean up, I grab my phone and open an app I haven’t used in at least a year. I'm not really big on hookups. Casual sex is nice for a quick fix, but I've always wanted something more than that. I’m not a huge fan of fucking some guy I just met who doesn't give a shit about me beyond what I can do for his cock. I’d rather have someone who loves me; who will take care with me and meet me halfway to give us what we both want.

It's stupid and sappy, but it is what it is. Unfortunately, I've put myself between a rock and a hard place with this Hawk situation, and right now, an anonymous fuck is just what I need.

My body's just pissed that I haven't given it any attention in a while. If I can quiet it down, maybe it will stop making me ache for straight guys.

I swipe through the app, looking at pictures of abs and pecs and almost-dick pics. Nobody actually posts their headshot here. It's like a buffet table where you pick out exactly what you're craving most, no strings attached.

I already know what I'm craving, and I'm definitely not going to get it. Best to look for a distant second.

I wish a few of these guys would at least post some pictures of their lips, if not their full faces. It would give me a chance to indulge in fantasy without pushing it too far. But instead I have to settle for body shots, and I try to pick a guy who looks similar to Hawk in physique.

Athletic body. Defined pecs. Strong arms. Taut stomach. A little dusting of hair. Close enough.

The guy could have the personality of a brick and it won’t matter. The few times I've hooked up in the past, the bottoms have only had one personality: The desire to be fucked. Right now, that's exactly what I need.

I send a message and fire off a couple more just to make sure I can line something up. In a college town like this, there are always tons of horny gay guys. I’m bound to find something.

And then I can finally get Hawk off my mind.

Of course, it doesn't help when I see his name light up in my notifications. I check my texts and see him ask my help cramming for a psychology test tomorrow once I'm done with my paper.

Not great timing, but I did make him a promise. I don't want Hawk to fail because I'm having issues. Now that the semester’s started, he’s back in a dorm, so I pack up my shit and head over there, hoping it won’t be weird.

An hour later, I'm sitting in the one chair he has in his dorm room, his psych book on my lap, trying not to fall asleep.

I love learning about psychology, but this book is so fucking dry that it's no wonder he's having trouble studying for his test.

"I'm never gonna get this," he says, and his fingers curl around the edge of the bed. Something I immediately draw my gaze away from before my brain gets any ideas.

"Probably not from this book."

I snap it closed and toss it aside. It thuds on the floor, as useless as it was open.

"Why don’t we try this a different way. You trust me?"

He gives me a strange look, then nods. For the next hour or so, I pull some analogies out of my ass. It's pretty impressive, if I do say so myself. I speak to him like he's a coach, because I think Hawk would make a pretty damn good coach, and because a lot of what coaches do involves psychology.

I give him a couple hypothetical problem kids to work with, and apply the theory he's supposed to be learning for tomorrow's test. It takes him a bit of practice, but seeing it laid out like that makes it click for him.