False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) (10 page)

“Sorry I was… I mean, for…” I draw in a deep breath and stomp down the nerves that rise in me. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow, Thor.”

“Yeah. Practice.”

He says it the same way I would if I were in his shoes. Yeah. Practice. That place where we have to see each other damn near every day. Where of course it isn’t going to be awkward because why would it be awkward?

God, I am so fucked.

T
he next couple
weeks go exactly the way I figured they would.

Erickson and I are apparently both capable of extreme focus, so at first we’re working so hard that what happened between us doesn’t really come up. Sure, there was a bit of hesitation when our eyes first met in the locker room Monday morning, but once we hit the field, things were fine.

Until they weren’t.

I don’t even know how it happened, but during Thursday’s morning practice we ended up in the same dogpile, with me on top of Erickson. I guess we were going for the ball carrier; a desperate effort to stop him from gaining any ground.

All I know is when the whistle was blown, I wasn’t focusing on who had the ball. I was trying not to get the world’s most inconvenient hard-on over the feeling of Mitch’s body underneath mine.

We avoided each other after that. Somehow we offset our shower times, and by the time I got out from mine, he was already dressed and heading out with some of the other guys.

I still went to The Top at first, because it would’ve been weird if I didn’t. But I kept my attention on my phone or the TV, not letting anyone really draw me into conversation for fear of ending up on the other side of a debate with Erickson.

It’s not really a cure, though, because I seem to have a knack for looking up at just the wrong moment. Right when Mitch is smiling or laughing or doing something else that draws my attention to his mouth. Every time, a jolt of lust hits me like a lightning strike and I remember the way his lips felt against mine, the taste of him in my mouth, and how his moans felt when they rumbled against me.

After a few nights of that, I had to beg off. I know I’m going to have to do something to alleviate the issue soon, too, because it’s affecting my mental game as much as my physical game. I managed to start the second week—in a game that we won, thankfully—but I was benched the third, and with good reason. I missed easy tackles in practice because I was too busy trying not to cross routes with Erickson.

Now with another Sunday—and finally a dorm room—to myself, I’m desperate to figure out some kind of solution to my problem.

I know I should talk to Mitch. He’s probably in a worse spot than me, since I’m the one who hauled off and kissed him without any explanation, and then left right after.

But I can’t bring myself to dial his number. Instead, I flip through my contacts and find a familiar name. Someone who might actually be able to help me untangle this mess I’ve gotten myself into.

I glance at the clock before dialing. It’s still afternoon out where he is, so I’m not sure if he’ll even be done with work for the day. I try anyway, and when the line clicks on the second ring, I feel a wave of relief wash over me.

“Hello? Who is this? It says Dante Mills, but I’m pretty sure he dropped off the face of the earth.”

I shake my head, a smirk pulling at my lips. “Pretty sure I could say the same thing about you. Unless your phone doesn’t make outbound calls.”

He scoffs at that, but I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. “How the hell have you been?”

Oh, you know. Just stressed the fuck out, paranoid beyond any reason, and—oh yeah—confused about something I was pretty sure I’d figured out a long time ago.

“Same ol’, same ol’. How are you? Still settling in?”

After Derek graduated, Jason moved with him to Arizona to take a job. I found out a while back that he got offered a higher paying position, though, and ended up taking it despite the need for another move.

Jason tells me all about the old place they’re renting, and what it’s like to live in California. He tells me about his job, and about Derek’s job, too. When he starts talking about how he and Derek are doing, I feel that now-familiar cocktail of dread and anxiety wind through my gut as I remember why I’m calling.

“Hey, I always wondered,” I say, trying to casually piggyback the question off something he said about Derek, “were you ever curious about guys before Derek?”

The silence on the other end threatens to do me in for good.

“Sort of. I had a friend in high school who was gay,” Jason says, and I can hear his words trail off. “Why?”

I consider just making some excuse and hanging up the phone right then and there. But I’m not quite that much of a coward. And I know Jason would just call right back anyway.

“I… uh… may have kissed a guy.”

I glance at the closed door of my dorm room. My roommates are out; they went to some kind of party, from what I gathered. But still I strain to try and hear them in the common room, just to make sure I’m actually alone. I don’t want to have this conversation with an audience.

“May have?” Jason asks, and I roll my eyes. “Are you not sure?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Okay,” he says, and I can imagine him putting his game face on; that serious expression he used to get when he was analyzing his options downfield.

He immediately ruins it by opening his mouth.

“Is he cute? What’s his ride look like? Did you go Dutch for dinner? I know you don’t like dudes paying.”

I lift my hand to my forehead, rubbing three fingers across the lines this conversation has created.

“You know, I used to be the smartass in this relationship.”

“Yeah, well. Getting the D changed me.”

“Dude, seriously,” I say, about a half second from just hanging up.

Jason seems to sense that, because he pauses a moment before saying anything else, and the humor is gone from his voice.

“Is it somebody I know?”

“No, he’s a freshman.”

Another pause. I idly wonder if he’s pulling up this year’s roster. I doubt it’ll take him long to figure it out.

“It’s that LB, isn’t it?”

Apparently less time than I thought.

“The pretty one with the blond hair.”

“He isn’t pretty,” I say, because it’s the truth.

When I look at Erickson—Mitch—I don’t think ‘pretty.’ Sure, his hair’s longer than the other guys’ and he’s got really striking eyes, but the first word that comes to mind when I give him a once-over is something way closer to ‘powerful.’

“So that’s a yes, then,” Jason says, and if his voice didn’t still have a serious lilt to it, I would’ve told him to go fuck himself.

I check the door one last time, then lean back in the chair I have parked in front of my small desk.

“I just… I don’t know. I feel like I have a connection with him. I haven’t had that since… you.”

There’s another pause, though this one is shorter than the last.

“But you didn’t ever want to kiss me, right?”

I can’t help but snort. I can imagine Hawk’s ego bruising the second the gust of air hits the receiver. “You’re not my type. Too skinny.”

But Jason must really have changed, because he just laughs. After a moment, though, he lets out a sigh, as if he’s about to sit me down for a lesson.

I guess that’s why I called. Jason’s the only guy I know who thought he was straight and found out he… wasn’t.

“Honestly? It’s mostly something you feel. I know it sounds like I’m bullshitting you, but there’s no way I can tell you what you feel. I’m guessing kissing that guy wasn’t terrible, or you wouldn’t be calling me about it.”

“It wasn’t terrible,” I manage quietly.

Yeah, it wasn’t terrible. It was just enough to make me lose my fucking mind, to the point where I’m pretty sure I would’ve had his dick in my hand before much longer.

It wasn’t terrible, just something that’s stuck with me mentally, physically, and emotionally in a way no other kiss has.

It wasn’t terrible, I’m just questioning everything I thought I knew about myself and letting my head get all fogged up when I need to focus.

Fuck. I’m not sure this conversation has helped at all. The only thing it’s cleared up is the fact that I was definitely affected by what happened, but I already knew that.

I’ve been living with the reality of that for two weeks.

“All the feelings and shit, you’re going to have to sort those out on your own, man. But as far as attraction’s concerned? There’s a pretty foolproof way to at least start figuring that out.”

It seems a little counter-intuitive. I mean, I kissed the guy. I initiated it. I wouldn’t have liked it—or even done it—if I wasn’t attracted to him, right?

But all this time, a part of me has been saying it was just a fluke. So maybe…

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, this is a little complex: Step one, boot up your laptop. Step two, search for some porn. Step three, get your d—”

“I get it,” I growl, but even as I tell him off for being a jackass, my body gets on board with the idea.

“Look, if you can jack it to gay porn, you’re probably not straight. And if you start thinking about that guy while you’re doing it?” The line is silent for a moment. “Well, then you’ll know how I felt.”

I sigh, rubbing my fingers over my forehead again. Jason and I shared a lot over the years, but I never thought we’d share this.

“Hey, Dante?”

I stare out the window, toward the busy courtyard. “Yeah?”

“He’s a lucky guy.”

I
’ve never been so fucking
paranoid in my life.

Despite knowing my roommates are gone for the weekend, I check their rooms and the hallway four times before going inside and locking the door. Then I check every window, pulling the blinds closed and drawing the curtains over them. After another check of the hallway and a glance at my phone, I head into the room I usually share with another guy and look around like he’s suddenly going to pop out from under the bed.

I lock that door, too, and consider pulling the bulky dresser we share in front of it. Even my crazy brain knows that’s too much, though, and it’ll just make the situation harder to explain if I’m caught.

So instead I do one more check, then grab my laptop from my desk and tackle my next dilemma: Where to sit.

I could probably just sit at the desk, but my back would be to the door, and anybody coming in would be able to see what I’m doing.

When I eye the bed, though, I feel suddenly nervous. Like taking Jason’s advice while lying in bed is going to somehow make it more real.

Jesus. I’m glad no one else is here. I can’t even live with myself right now.

I man up and push all those thoughts aside, bringing the laptop onto the bed with me. I set up the pillows, propping myself up so the laptop can rest on my thighs, leaving my lap open.

I already feel stupid, and I haven’t even pulled up the links Jason sent.

Letting out a breath, I check my email and my fingers hover on the track pad, easing the cursor dangerously close to one of the links.

A part of me doesn’t want to click on this; doesn’t want to know. It feels like it’s going to change me for good. Things I thought I knew about myself just aren’t going to be true anymore, right?

But that’s stupid, too, because after what happened with Mitch, I’m already wondering. I’m already changing. And I’m not sure I’m all that upset by it.

I click on a link that has the word “jock” in it and wait, my whole body still. The dorm internet is a little slow, but the images on the page load quickly, and soon I’ve got more dicks in my face than I’ve ever seen in my life.

A lot of the guys I know would respond with revulsion, but they’re just dicks. I see one every day. Shit, I see lots of them every day at practice, since most of the guys free-ball it from the lockers to the showers.

I don’t feel some instant stirring of lust looking at naked guys, though. I don’t even feel it when I scroll down and find a bunch of GIF ads of guys sucking and fucking.

I do watch, though, and I guess that means something. If I’m actually straight, I probably would’ve closed the tab and loaded up some straight porn, right?

I scroll through the list of free videos, then just decide to click one at random. I settle in as it plays, letting my legs fall apart a little more, expecting I’ll need to make room for my hand pretty soon.

And I do feel… something. A twinge of interest, I guess. But as I watch these guys go at it, I don’t really feel like I
have
to jack it.

I don’t know why I’m disappointed.

I click off the video and scroll down more until finally something catches my interest. The guy in the still is big. Tall, broad, lots of muscles. Light brown hair covers his chest, trailing down to his abdomen and lower. His beard’s trimmed, and he’s got tats on his shoulders and arms.

My body starts to take notice, and I click on the video. It’s two big guys, apparently, and my attention is held rapt. They talk a little—typical cheesy porn dialogue—and then they start kissing.

I can’t help but think of what Mitch’s lips felt like against mine as I watch them. They look so into it, going from a slow, tentative exploration to something desperate, and I remember my sudden need to have him as close to me as possible.

Shirts come off, and muscles tense and flex under exploring hands. I realize now that I wanted to touch Mitch more than I did. His ass was firm in my hands, and I imagine feeling his body react to my touch.

Without realizing I’m doing it at first, I slide my hand under my own shirt and touch my stomach. Warm, firm flesh doesn’t tense under my fingers the way Mitch’s would, but it isn’t hard to imagine.

I focus on the video, and by now the guys are stripped down to their briefs. While they kiss, one reaches between them and strokes the obvious ridge of the other’s cock through the fabric, and I find myself unbuttoning my pants and doing the same thing.

As the briefs come off, I’m not really focused on the guys’ dicks. Instead, I wonder what Mitch’s looks like. Is he cut? Uncut? I feel like he’s probably thick like me, and when my hand wraps around my own dick, I imagine I’m jerking Mitch instead.

And fuck, it feels good.

I can hear his groans, feel him tense as I do it. His lips are on mine and he loses focus, but makes up for it with a desperate passion.

From that point on, I only glance at the video every now and again to get my bearings. One of the guys drops to his knees and takes the other guy’s cock into his mouth, and instead of imagining Mitch sucking me off—which is what I figured I would imagine, since I at least have some context for that—I try to imagine what it would be like for me to do it to him.

What would he taste like? Feel like? Would he hold me there, thrust into my mouth, or let me take control?

I breathe hard as I work my cock, tension building quickly in me. By the time the guys in the video get to the fucking, my balls are already starting to ache for release.

But I watch just enough to give my mind an idea of what to expect, and then I think about Mitch again, and damn if my own fantasy doesn’t surprise the hell out of me.

Instead of me burying myself in Mitch, I think about what his dick would feel like inside of me. Everything I know about Mitch tells me he’d probably go slow first; let me get accustomed to being filled.

But then I’d tell him to stop screwing around, and he’d put all those muscles to good use…

I come with a shout, and it wracks my body so fucking hard that I’m damn near shaking afterward. The video keeps playing, but I’m not focusing on it anymore. All I can see are those blue eyes darkened with lust.

I haven’t proven Jason right. I didn’t jack it to gay porn.

I jacked it to thoughts of Mitch.

And that may be even more damning.

* * *

I
take a long shower
, trying not to think about this sudden revelation. No chance of that, considering why I’m taking the shower in the first place. It’s impossible not to think of Mitch, and I’m confronted with the very real fact that I’m going to have to figure out a way to be around him at practice without acting like a horny fucking teenager.

I can keep myself in check. It’s not like I expect to turn into some mindless, lust-addled fool the second he walks into the locker room. But what about when we’re alone? I know it’ll happen. Fate likes fucking with me too much for anything else to be true.

I don’t like lying. Especially to somebody I think of as a friend. And considering how Mitch responded, I know there’s a good chance he might be having the exact same thoughts right now. Just maybe with a little less confusion about it. But that doesn’t make the conversation any easier to have.

By the time I’m dressed again, I don’t have a plan worked out. It doesn’t sit well with me. Plans are the only way I get anything done. Without them, my life would just fall into a chaotic mess. I have a feeling that’s what will happen with Mitch if I let it, and frustration mounts in me as I think about it.

Before I can figure it out, though, my phone rings. A thread of anticipation jumps high into my throat. It could be Mitch. It’s not like we’ve talked since the kiss. He could be calling to clear the air. The very idea of that fills me with a mix of excitement and dread, and I reach for my phone after a moment’s hesitation.

But it isn’t Mitch. It’s my mom. Dread coils in me, and I pick up.

“Hey, what’s up?” I try to keep it casual, but my heart’s already pounding.

Part of me expects her to tell me she got kicked out with zero notice. I have no idea what I’ll do if that’s true. The only money I have is what she sends me. I can send it back—and I’ve started doing just that—but as soon as she figures out, she’s going to tell me to knock it off.

“Is that how you speak to your mother? ‘Hey, what’s up?’” She deepens her voice, mocking mine, and I smirk.

“Sorry, got a lot on my mind.” And because I know she’ll ask, I add, “Practice is brutal now that the season’s started up.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t work yourself so hard, Dante. Every time I call you, it seems like you’re at the gym or at practice.”

Not today. Today I’m freshly showered after jacking it to gay porn. As understanding as she would be about the gay part, I’m not about to tell her the rest of it.

“Lot of competition this year.”

I swear I can hear her frown. “Well, you still shouldn’t work yourself to death. You’re too young to be worrying about all that.”

I haven’t really felt young since my dad died.

“I could say the same thing about you.”

“That I’m too young?” she scoffs, and I roll my eyes. “Here’s the difference, young man. I’m the mother, you’re the son. It’s my job to work hard to provide for you.”

Guilt slices through me. Everything she’s done has been to provide for me. That’s why I have to make the most of this season. I have to give back and provide for her.

“I do have some good news, though.”

“I could use some of that,” I say, undoing some of the security lockdown I put on my dorm room.

“Mr. Randall is going to give me a three-month extension. That will give me enough time to get more income coming in and find a new place when my lease is up.”

Something about this doesn’t add up. My brow furrows and I stare out the window of my dorm room as if I can find answers out there.

“Since when is Randall in the business of giving extensions? He’s been jacking the rent up for years. Pretty sure he didn’t suddenly grow a conscience. What’s the catch?”

There’s always a catch.

“He was going to waive the last three months’ rent on account of how long I’ve been a tenant. I’ve kept that place spotless, too, so it’s not like he’ll have any trouble turning it over when I’m gone.”

That’s true, but there’s no world in which a man like Randall—a man who cares about money more than anything else in the world—would cut someone like my mom a break.

“The world doesn’t work that way,” I mumble.

“Dante, I brought you
into
this world. You don’t have to tell me how it works!”

I wince at that.

“The Lord doesn’t give us any more than we can handle. And sometimes, he gives us exactly what we need to handle it.”

“I don’t think God’s working through Randall, Ma.”

The last thing I wanted to do was get into an argument with my mom, but that’s exactly what happens. I hang up feeling like the world’s worst son, both for spoiling her hope, and because I’m positive Randall hasn’t just decided to not be an asshole.

I should be able to protect her from scumbags like that. But it’s not too late. I look up his number and wait for him to answer.

“CMP Properties,” he says in a voice that’s way more professional than he’s ever acted to me or mom.

“This is Dante Mills. I’m calling on behalf of my mother, Rhonda Mills.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Mills?” His words are nice enough, but his tone drips with a false sort of courtesy that makes my teeth grind.

I might as well drop the pretense.

“Real curious to know what you’re playing at. I’m guessing you didn’t waive my mom’s rent out of the goodness of your heart, so what’s the deal?”

He laughs at me. “Boy, you are one paranoid kid.”

My free hand clenches at my side. “Why did you offer to waive the rent?”

“Because it was already paid for,” he says, as if I should know better.

My brow furrows. “How would it be paid for? My mom wouldn’t have had that money.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Disdain drips from every syllable, but he quickly reins it in. “Your mom had an… anonymous benefactor.”

“Who?” I try my best to ignore what he’s likely thinking. Scum like Randall never change.

I expect him to jerk me around, but I hear him typing in the background. “Check’s from a Mr. George Erickson. Your mom got a special friend?”

My whole body tenses, as if I’m going to be able to leap through the phone and throttle him like he deserves. Fucking asshole. Every fiber of my being tells me I shouldn’t let him talk shit about my mom like that, but she’s still living on one of his properties. If I tear him a new asshole, she’s the one who’s going to pay for it.

And it wouldn’t be the first time.

So instead, I force myself to grit out a “Thanks for your time,” then I hang up.

Without Randall to focus on, my mind seizes on Erickson. George Erickson. That’s Mitch’s dad. I’m pretty sure he didn’t take a sudden, unsolicited interest in my family, so Mitch has to be the one behind this. He knew about my mom losing her job. He knew about her asshole landlord.