Page 4 of Serving Bunt

I bent to grab it, but straightened too fast, colliding shoulder-first with a solid wall of pale, freckled muscles.

Fuck.

I knew those freckles.

I had spent months dreaming about—and jerking off to—those freckles. I half-expected scientists to bang down my door any day now, demanding to study my inexplicable freckle kink.

Frecklephilia. Was that a thing?

My hand shot out instinctively to steady him, fingers curling around his bare bicep before my brain could catch up.

“Sorry,” I barked, far too loudly.

“All good,” Matty muttered. It took every ounce of self-control not to glance down when he adjusted his towel.

He didn’t pull away immediately. Just stood there, close enough that I could smell the sunscreen and sweat rolling off his skin. Those stupidly pretty—because yes, Matty Miller was a pretty man—hazel eyes narrowed, locking on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then he stepped back.

I gave him a genuine smile, the kind that usually got me out of trouble. “Guess we’re all off our game tonight.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it had any air behind it.

“That’s putting it nicely.”

The thud of my own heartbeat drowned out the clanking lockers and boisterous chatter. I should’ve walked away, clapped him on the shoulder like I would do to any of the other guys, and kept moving. Unfortunately, my mouth had other plans.

“You know, I saw a meme the other day with a dog that looked just like Mo. She even had the same—”

“Not now, Diaz.”

Diaz. Not Peter or Pete.

Diaz.

Matty ran a hand through his mussed curls, pushing them behind his ears. I pretended not to notice the way the beads of sweat clung to his skin as they slid down his collarbone.

“Sorry,” he added, softer this time. “I’m in a shit mood and I still have to pick up Mo from doggy daycare, and I hate—”

“Being late.” He gave a small, tight nod. “I get it.”

“I’ll catch you later.”

He slipped past me toward his locker, leaving nothing but a faint mossy scent in his wake.

I probably should’ve been thankful. This had been one of our longest interactions in days. Weeks, really.

Matty had been avoiding me like the plague since Soren and Clarke’s wedding, and frankly, I couldn’t blame him. Sure, we still talked about lineup stuff and scouting reports, but it was all surface level now, careful and clipped, like we were both reading from the same bad script.

One that didn’t end with a happily ever after.

Any chance of that had gone up in smoke the night I’d told him the truth about who had been writing explicit fanfiction about him—and most of our teammates—for over a year.

It had started as nothing, really. Just a way to burn off nervous energy. A stress-free, creative outlet for myself and whatever seven people stumbled across it on FanVerse. But then, one post had turned into another and another, and before I knew it, tens of thousands of people were reading my stories and sending me messages.

Including Matty.

Finding out your friend had been writing graphic sex scenes starring you and your teammates was one thing; realizing that the anonymous fanfic writer you had been texting and flirting with for months was your teammate was something else.