“I’ll make you a deal,” Brody rasps. “If you win this match, I’ll let you fuck me in whatever position you like.”
He huffs as our arms thread, hips shifting, each of us trying to tilt the other. We’re rubbing against each other in a way that feels dangerous, but I can feel him getting harder, too. I lean into it, but I can’t really say if it’s to fuck with him or feel him. I forget for a moment that we have an audience.
“But if I win…” He locks my wrist and shifts his hips against me. “You’re mine to use as I please.”
I switch my angle, trying to focus on getting out rather than getting away. If my cock keeps rubbing against him like that…
He sprawls when I shift, and I roll, but it gets me nowhere. It’s just a back-and-forth struggle.
“Come on, Captain. What’s it going to be? You afraid of losing?”
“You. Wish. Asshole.”
“That feels like a yes to me,” he groans. The sound stuns me for half a second, but it’s enough for him to make a subtle move, turning his hips and taking advantage of the slight shift in my balance. He pops up, chest heavy into my shoulder, hooks the arm closest to him, and drives me onto my back. The whistle blows, and he groans in a way that sounds filthy and pained at the same time.
The whistle blows again, and Coach makes some notes on his clipboard.
Brody wins—by one point.
The crowd claps politely. Teammates slap Brody on the back. My father stares down at me with a look that could peel skin off bone.
Brody turns, breathing hard, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Good match,” he says softly. There’s no mockery in it, but I can’t register it for anything other than the loss it is. And the fact that I know I didn’t lose because he’s better than me. I lost because some part of me—some twisted, shameful part—is more afraid of what I want than of failing.
And that terrifies me more than anything he has planned for me when he collects hiswinnings.
CHAPTER 10
BRODY
I spend a solid thirty seconds after the match trying to catch my breath and pretend I’m fine. I’m not. I’m not fine at all.
My dick is staging a full rebellion in my singlet. Coach walks by, clapping a hand on my shoulder and chuckling to himself.
“Jesus Christ, Miller,” he mutters with a wheezy laugh. “Hit the showers. Walk it off, kid.”
I choke on nothing and duck my head, pushing past him and straight for the showers.
Cold water. I need cold water. Or a lobotomy.
The locker room is blessedly empty. I strip out of my uniform so fast I almost tear the strap and stand under water cold enough it could legally classify as torture.
It doesn’t help.
Not with the way Beckett looked tonight. All pissed and determined and…Fuck.
I think I might actually want Lincoln Beckett. I thought I was just playing with him, but that little display back there fucking did things to me.
When I can finally stand up straight without embarrassing myself, I towel off and pull on a pair of sweats. I’m about to head back to the gym to watch the end of the showcase and mingle when I hear voices.
I freeze on instinct, back hitting the wall. I’m not sure why until I register the familiar biting tone. It’s low, controlled, and venomous.
“…one point? One point? That’s what you bring me? This is unacceptable, Lincoln. I expect better from you.”
Lincoln?
I almost step out, because surely someone isn’t talking totheLincoln Beckett that way. But then Beckett’s voice replies, small and defeated and unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him.
