The relief that spread across his face made my heart stutter. He leaned closer, lips brushing my ear as his voice dropped low, hungry. “I like it when you call me coach.”
A shiver danced down my spine. I smirked, tilting my head just enough to catch his gaze. “Good, because I was thinking that maybe tomorrow, you might let me . . . play with your balls.”
His laugh vibrated against my skin, but when he lifted his head, his eyes were molten, locked on mine like I’d just handed him the win of his life.
“But tonight,” I said softly, steadying myself against the weight of his gaze, “I just want to cuddle.”
His brows lifted, surprise flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t let go of me. “Just cuddling?”
I nodded, feeling my throat tighten. We had gone about this thing ass backwards—sometimes literally—from the very beginning. Every time we’d collided, it had been fire first, our bodies running miles ahead of the rest of us. Sex had been our language, our escape, the one way we knew how to reach each other when everything else felt too overwhelming to name.
But sitting here with him, my pulse thrumming in every place his hand touched me, I realized that if we wanted this to last—if we wanted a shot at forever—we couldn’t just keep burning. We needed something steadier, softer. The kind of foundation that came from choosing each other . . . even when our clothes stayed on.
He didn’t argue, didn’t push, just shifted closer until his shoulder pressed against mine. “If cuddling is what you want,” he said quietly, “then cuddling’s what you’ll get.”
Finally, I could breathe again.
“And you should know that I’m one hell of a cuddler, kitten.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Is that right?”
His arm slid around my shoulders, tugging me against him until I was curled in his warmth. “Mm-hmm,” he murmured into my hair. “I’ve got all the stamina in the world where you’re concerned, even when it comes to cuddling.”
I hummed against his skin. “Stamina, huh? Bold claim from someone born before CD-ROMs.”
“Okay, now you’re going to get it.”
His chuckle rumbled against me as he pressed a slow kiss to my temple, then another to my lips, gentle and unhurried. I melted into him, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, our laughter fading into quiet. Wrapped up in his warmth, I let my eyes drift shut, content to fall asleep with his arms around me.
And for once, I was happy to eat my words. Brooks was indeed a world-class cuddler.
Brooks
Roasters 33–23
“Ifear I might be having pornographic thoughts about my breakfast.”
Brock’s fork clattered against his plate. “Tuck, baby,” he said softly, resting his hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Intricate metal rings adorned every finger, catching the light. “You can’t just say that kind of stuff in New Hampshire.”
“They don’t have sexual thoughts about French toast in New Hampshire?” Tucker asked, genuinely curious. Syrup glistened at the corner of his mouth like evidence.
“I don’t think they have sexual thoughts ofanykind in New Hampshire,” Soren muttered around his coffee, which he held like it had personally wronged him.
Pink snorted, nearly choking on his omelet.
I cut into my pile of vegan breakfast hash, enjoying the easy banter that ping-ponged around the table like it was a free comedy show. Not that I would ever be caught dead at a comedy show—impromptu crowd work was my biggest nightmare.
A pregame breakfast with my team, on the other hand, that I could manage any day of the week. Matty had picked the place this time, so I knew it meant he was looking for cozy conversation rather than something showy and extravagant.
There was nothing extravagant about Flapjack Fantasy. The barn-to-brunch spot smelled like maple syrup and woodsmoke. Sunlight filtered through tall, stained-glass windows, spilling across mismatched tables that looked like they’d been salvaged from every antique store in the Granite State.
It was a tradition during away series—dining together before our final game on the road. Between tonight’s game and the red-eye flight back to Portland, we had a long day ahead of us—all the more reason to load up on coffee and carbs.
Brock swiped his fork through Tucker’s blueberry French toast and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before announcing, loud enough for the entire table to hear, “Damn, thatisfucking good.”
It was open season after that. Chairs scraped across the floor as half of the team flocked around Tucker like rabid vultures, itching for a chance to snatch a bite of his meal.
“Back off, assholes.” Tucker leaned over his plate, trying to block their synchronized attack. He waved his fork like a dagger, ready to stab the next teammate who tried to steal a bite. “It’s not my fault you didn’t read the Yelp reviews before ordering.”
