“Yeah, that's me.”
“Danny Cross. Lead singer for Blackout Theory.” He gestured with one hand while the other guided his partner's movements. “Saw you play against Tennessee last season. That arm of yours was magic before that dickhead took you out.”
Right. The rock star. I'd heard their stuff on the radio, heavy, aggressive, the kind of music that pumped up locker rooms. “Thanks. Heard your latest album. Good shit.”
“You want in?” He nodded toward his companion, who looked up with interest, mouth curving into an inviting smile without missing a stroke. “Always room for more.”
Why the hell not? This was exactly what I'd come here for. No complications, no expectations, just draining my nut. I steppedinto the cabana and let the guy's mouth work me over while Danny continued his rhythm below. Someone walking by called out appreciation, and Danny laughed, throwing them a salute. It was efficient, practiced, the kind of encounter that scratched an itch without leaving marks.
But halfway through, my shoulder started throbbing. Then my hand began that tremor that meant the pain was breaking through the medication. I tried to focus on the warm mouth around my cock, but my body was betraying me even here.
“Sorry,” I muttered, pulling back. “Headache.”
“No worries, man.” Danny barely looked winded, his partner still working above him without pause. “Injury's a bitch. I fucked up my wrist a few years back. Couldn't play guitar for months. Thought my career was over.”
“How'd you get through it?”
“Not well, at first. Took some time. You'll get there.”
I thanked them and retreated to a private lounger, irritated as hell. Even casual sex was compromised now. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the latest podcasts, tucking my earbuds in as I listened for any updates about the upcoming football season.
“Without their seasoned backup quarterback, Cordero Morales, there's a lot of speculation about what Denver is going to do,” said one guy from Bleacher Report. My heart sank a little as I listened to them discussing potential trades and replacements for me.
“Sounds like they're scrambling to find someone new,” added another host, his voice tinged with pity that stung more than I wanted to admit. “I smell a trade in the air, and probably soon.”
I sighed and let myself sink deeper into the lounger, the weight of everything bearing down on me. After an hour, I gave up and headed back to my room.
The bottle called to me from the bathroom counter. I'd already taken two pills today, but the label said every four to six hours as needed. It had been four hours, technically. Close enough.
By evening, I felt steady again. My thoughts had receded to their usual dull roar, and I was looking forward to dinner with Vincent. We'd known each other for two years now, ever since my first visit to The Ranch where we spent a wild night tied up next to each other at an impromptu orgy that took over the dance club.
“You look better,” Vincent said when I met him in the main dining room. He was dressed in his usual crisp white shirt and jeans, looking every inch the successful resort owner. “More relaxed.”
“Good sleep will do that.” I settled into the chair across from him, grateful for the soft lighting that hid the lingering effects of the medication. “This place always works magic.”
“That's the goal.” Vincent signaled the server for wine. “Though I have to say, you seem different this time. Less wound up.”
“Maybe because I'm not trying to prove anything anymore.” The words came out before I could stop them. “Hard to maintain that competitive edge when you can barely lift your arm.”
Vincent studied me for a moment. “You know, The Ranch has been operating for almost eight years. I've seen a lot of men come through here trying to figure out their next chapter. Some running from something, some running toward something.”
“Which am I?”
“Both, I think.” He leaned back as the server poured our wine. “The running from part is obvious. But the running toward... that's still being written.”
We ordered dinner—grilled salmon for me, lamb for Vincent—and settled into easier conversation. He updated me on TheRanch's expansion plans, the new spa wing, a meditation garden they were adding.
“We're also launching a new companion mentorship program,” Vincent said, swirling his wine. “Teaching younger guys the craft, not just the physical skills, but the emotional intelligence, the psychology of pleasure. Ibrahim's been interviewing candidates all week. The man has exacting standards.”
“That's smart,” I said. “Most guys just fumble through it.”
“Exactly. We're building something sustainable here, a place where sexuality isn't shameful or hidden, where people can explore without judgment.” He paused. “Do you regret it? Coming out?”
I'd been asked that question by reporters, by teammates, by my therapist. But somehow, sitting here with Vincent in this sanctuary, the answer wasn’t that simple.
I took another sip of wine. “What I regret is watching that asshole who targeted me walk away without consequences. He committed a hate crime on national television, and the league gave him a four-game suspension. Meanwhile, I'm the one with a destroyed shoulder and a dead career.”
Vincent's expression darkened. “I saw the footage. That wasn't a football play.”
