Brennan bit his lip, doing everything he could not to think about whooping Cliff’s ass in the way he wanted.
He made a mad dash for the basket. He tried to swerve around Cliff, but those damn feet moved at warp speed. Cliff spun around and knocked the ball out of his hands, swooping it up just as fast. He took giant strides back to the wall and flung a three-pointer into the air.
“How’d you like that?” Cliff’s arm stayed raised, showing off the sinewy biceps and triceps and patch of sweat underneath.
“I didn’t know you were one for trash-talking.”
“I’m not. You just seem to bring it out in me.”
Cliff wiped his brow with his shirt, flashing another glimpse at his chiseled stomach. Brennan’s balls felt heavy in his shorts.
Like many of his art cohort, he found sports overpraised and nowhere near as difficult as the act of creation. Yet he was ready to sing a different tune now that he was seeing Cliff’s skill up close. His body was a paintbrush and the court his canvas.
Enough poetry, though. He really wanted to kick this little shit’s ass. “Best three out of five.”
Best three out of five turned into best five out of seven. Cliff might’ve cleaned the floor with him at first, but Brennan stepped up his game. Their bodies mashed and collided with each play, and Brennan got increasingly distracted by his opponent. For one point, Brennan guarded Cliff as he tried to pivot away, his defense techniques improving. Cliff’s ass jutted out, inches from brushing up against Brennan’s aching crotch. Brennan relented at the last second or else things would’ve gotten supremely awkward.
It was during the fifth round when Brennan realized his shirt was literally weighing him down, the steam of the apartment amassing on his clothes. He whipped it off and wiped the sweat off his chest. He shoved his shirt into his shorts to clean up the downstairs area for a brief second, before realizing he was doing this right in front of Cliff, who gave him another deer-in-headlights look.
“Sorry. Ireallyneeded to do that. I’ll wash my hands.”
Brennan tossed his shirt into his hamper -- and missed, naturally. He quickly put it back in and retreated to the bathroom to wash his hands. He laughed at his heaving face in the mirror, the smile and color genuine. It’d been a while since he’d seen himself having so much fun. He reapplied deodorant for good measure.
When he exited the bathroom, he realized he probably should’ve wacked off, too.
Cliff stood by the basket shirtless.
Fuck. Me.
The chest he fantasized about was now in full view. Cliff’s pecs and abs were earned through countless practices and probably stuff like push-ups before bed. Need pooled in his groin. Explicit scenarios pooled in his mind.
Cliff was no longer the kid brother; he was a man.
Am I staring?
His willpower disintegrated with each second he spent in the presence of Cliff’s hot body. He kept telling himself this was Alex’s straight brother. Off limits.
“Best seven out of eleven?” Cliff’s deep voice carried over the whirr of the a/c and hit Brennan square in the junk. “Or do you give up?”
Horniness would have to wait. Brennan had an ass to kick.
Or spank.
Fuck. Me.
Brennan put on his game face. He gulped in a deep breath.
“Is this what it’s like when you play?” Brennan managed to fake out Cliff and pivot around him. He stomped to the wastebasket and jammed the ball in the hoop.
“What do you mean?”
“What goes through your head when you’re playing?”
Cliff walked to the table and chairs, which they’d decided was the top of their fake court. He spun the paper ball in his manly hands. “First, I size up the court. Where are my teammates? How are they getting to the basket? What is the positioning of the other team? I try to decipher their defense strategy, figure out how they’re playing so I can upend their thinking. I can tell you’ve gone from watching my face to watching my feet, so I’m going to do something that forces you to look at my face.”
Cliff bobbed his head at Brennan. He lurched back, and in that split-second when he stopped watching his feet, Cliff got the jump on him. His legs strode far left, away from Brennan’s arm, and found free space at the edge of the court. Brennan hunched over, tired, heaving in breath, his legs and arms tiring.
“My strategy is to eliminate all surprises so I can cause some of my own.” Cliff’s hands went into position. He lined himself up to the basket. Just as he was about to release the ball in a geometrically precise arc, Brennan bum rushed his opponent knocking him onto the bed. Cliff landed on his back, Brennan on top of him.
