Blake pipes up, “We have that benefit tonight, remember? Champagne and models? I feel a slutty night coming on. You?”
I shake my head. “Nope. For once I’m not on the list. The PR department only asked veteran players to make an appearance.”
“Shit, they consider me a veteran? It’s only my thirdseason,” Blake protests. He takes a hasty sip. “Hope that doesn’t mean they think I’m getting old.”
“You’re twenty-five,” I say dryly. “I’m sure they still consider you a spring chicken.”
He rests one forearm on the counter and I almost swallow my tongue when I realize where he’s standing. The exact spot where I bent Jamie over not even ten minutes ago. My man is clearly thinking the same thing, because he offers a wry smile behind Blake’s shoulder.
Blake sips his coffee and then I see a light in his eyes. “Ah! I’ve got the best idea. Did you know I’m brilliant?” He grabs a phone out of his pocket and starts texting. I don’t ask him why, because with Blake, you’re always going to get a full story of anything that pops through his big meaty head. So I enjoy the silence, choosing a second-rate mug because Blake is using mine and pouring myself a cup of coffee.
Jamie is puttering around the kitchen now, taking things out of the refrigerator. A dozen eggs. Some corn tortillas from the organic market where he likes to shop. Chorizo sausage. Salsa. He takes out a glass mixing bowl and starts cracking eggs into it. I love the care he puts into cooking. I could watch his hands all day. They’d look better on my dick right now, but this is nice, too. He puts the sausage into a heated pan and it hisses against the surface. Then he tosses the pan into the oven to cook.
“Whoa,” Blake says, looking up from his phone. “Whatcha doing there, J-Bomb?”
“Breakfast,” Jamie says, chucking the eggshells into the trash. “Wesley told me he has a big workout planned for later. Thought he could replenish some protein.” Jamie pulls a whisk out of a drawer, giving me a meaningful glance. Then he begins to give those eggs the business.
“Holy cow! You cook?” Blake marvels, his big puppy-like face obviously impressed. “No wonder Wesley likes you.”
I see Jamie bite his lip against a smile. There is a lengthy list of things I love about Jamie. His cooking isn’t even in the top fifty. There’s his smile, his flawless body, his easy personality, his highly skilled tongue…
Right. Now is not the time for me to think about that.
“You staying for breakfast, Blake?” Jamie asks over his shoulder.
Our neighbor yanks a counter stool out and plants his giant self onto it. “You’ll never be rid of me now.”
Damn. I’m going to start crying like a little girl if he says that again. I find some plates and silverware and make myself useful.
I’m only trying to help Jamie plate up the food when I reach for the handle of the sausage pan. Before I can even register the motion, Jamie’s hand shoots across the kitchen space and knocks my hand away from the pan.
“Dude!” Blake bellows. “J-bomb doesn’t want you touching his sausage!” Blake laughs hysterically at his own joke.
But Jamie can’t even appreciate the irony of Blake’s words, because he’s busy glaring at me. “Again—the towel draped over the handle means…”
“It’shot. I forgot.” I’m already famous for burning myself, and I don’t even cook.
Jamie waves me out of the way and serves up the breakfast.
“Those goalie reflexes,” Blake says. “They saved your mitt.”
Two minutes later we’re chowing down on scrambled eggs with chorizo and cheese in warmed corn tortillas with salsa.
Blake takes another bite and moans comically. “I love you, man.”
“That’s what all the guys say to me,” Jamie deadpans. He’s probably imagining the last time we ate a quiet weekend breakfast together in our bed naked.
But ultimately, it’s hard to hate Blake. It really is. Especially when he collects the plates after breakfast and just starts washing them without asking. When he’s done with that, he does the pans and then wipes down the countertops. Jamie pours himself another cup of coffee and plunks down on the couch while the kitchen is cleaned by someone other than him.
Even Jamie is softening toward Blake. I can tell.
Finally, Blake thanks us for breakfast and makes a move to leave. “Let me just check—ah ha!” he says, tapping on his phone. “This is awesome. I got you invited to the benefit tonight! This is a big shindig. My favorite one of the season. We’re talking A-listers at this puppy—supermodels, dude.”
“I don’t think…” I start.
“Check yer email, eh? The publicist said he was pumped up to have you. Two guys bailed because their wives are flipping out at them. The team bought a table and it looks shitty if it’s not full. So you’re in!”
On the end of the counter, my phone starts to ring.
