That deep, husky voice sent a shiver of anticipatory lust through me, and I struggled to catch my breath. “Okay.” I shut the door. “Had some pretty awesome dreams.”
A teasing grin curved his lips. “I bet they weren’t as good as mine. Thanks for the send-off breakfast for my parents. And I appreciate you going with them to the airport.”
“I like your parents. I’m happy to go with them. After dropping them off—”
“Come here. Please? We’ll have dinner. I should be home from camp around six thirty.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“You. That’s all I want.”
Chapter Fourteen
Patrick
“Sloane, we’re gonna do shotgun. The Mavericks like to blitz, but they’re weak on the line of scrimmage with two tackles injured, so we’re gonna see what we can get.”
“You got it, Coach.” I jogged to the field, where the rest of the team had gathered. “Shotgun. Let’s do it.”
I bent over behind the center and called out the play. “Blue 42, Blue 42, hut, hut.” I took the snap and faded from the line of scrimmage a few steps, yelling, “Where the hell’s my offensive line?” Downfield I saw Rio, who’d become my favorite wide receiver. He was open, so I sent the ball sailing toward him.
“What’s the matter, Trick? Worried about your pretty face?” Lincoln King, star tackle and built like a damn refrigerator, cackled and made kissy noises my way.
Troy grabbed my butt. “Nah. More like his ass, I’m thinkin’. That’s what the ladies see most on the field.”
“And they love it.” I smacked his hand away. “So don’t bruise the merchandise.”
I played along with them, though it bugged the shit out of me that we could all joke like this only because they thought I was straight. What would they think of their leader if they knew I’dspent the night sucking a man’s dick, swallowing his come, and loving every damn second of it?
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Coach yelled. “Moore, King, stop slacking off and hit the tires. Durant, nice catch. Do some sprints downfield. Sloane, practice with Harte. Snaps and throws. Move it. Just ’cause the Mavericks suck this year don’t mean they won’t come to kick our butts. They’re gonna be gunning for us, especially you, Sloane. You haven’t played against them in years.”
“You got it, Coach. Hey, Harte,” I yelled to my backup, who was tossing the ball to one of the offensive coaches. “Let’s go. See you jokers later.”
I met Harte McKinney at centerfield. “Coach wants us to practice snaps and throws.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I approached him tentatively. We hadn’t talked much since I joined the team, more my fault than his. I figured he resented me coming in and taking a job he’d hoped to get. Being second string was ordinarily not a job most people wanted, but in the NFL, a player could make upward of three million a year—more if he was a veteran with the league.
“How’re you liking being part of the Kings?” he asked as he caught my throw and tossed it to me.
“I’m liking it. You’ve been here a while.” We were about ten yards apart, so we could easily converse.
“Yeah, about five years. Came a little after Luke Fontaine was traded.” I threw a perfect spiral to him, and he repeated one to me. “But I know they’re scouting for a younger backup for you, especially since I strained my arm when I filled in before you started. Look, let’s get it out in the open. I’m not interested in being the starting quarterback.”
About to return the throw, I stopped and stared at him. “Uh, okay. I guess I should say thanks. But isn’t that a little unusual? Don’t you want playing time? On my old team, JC was hoping for me to get sacked on every play, just so he could get a chance.”
I’d heard from the guys that JC Downs would cheer whenever I had a rough outing and had actively campaigned to get more playing time. It was one of the reasons I’d been eager to get away from the team—I’d never had a feeling of camaraderie with the other players. And the fact that they were struggling with one of the worst records in the league, with JC as their starter, did give me a bit of satisfaction.
“Yeah, sure. But I’m not a rookie. I’ve got fifteen years in, and I have a ring already. Come on, let’s do some snaps.” He motioned to the ball in my hands. “Give it to me, and I’ll do it for you. See, I’m not looking for glory or to get my name in the record books. I’m happy to be your second and earn my bank.” He bent, I took the snap, and then he ran out and I threw to him. Harte McKinney was quick, with fast hands, and I knew from watching him play over the years that he was a steady but not flashy player. A guy who came to get the job done.
“I got to admit, that’s not what I thought I’d hear, but I’m glad.”
We repeated the snaps with Harte doing five more, then me giving him the chance six times. We continued to throw the ball to each other while talking. Or rather, Harte talked and I listened. “I was never the superstar, but all I wanted was to play football and win games. I’m planning on retiring after this season anyway. My contract is up, and Coach told me that with my salary and age, they aren’t planning to re-sign me. They need younger backups for you.”
“Damn, man. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged and threw the football to me. “Is what it is, but maybe it’s for the best.”
