“Yeah,” I beg, knowing what he’s doing, throwing his leg over my hip as he fists both our cocks in his hand.
We groan into each other’s mouths with the first pump of his hand, working us on each other, the tips of our cocks rubbing, making air rush out of me. I clutch his hip, rutting into his fist. I have never been this desperate, this close, this fast.
Then again, I’ve been hard for this man for two years. I could argue this is actually the longest I’ve ever lasted. “Gonna come,” I warn, my voice hoarse and tight.
He nods, breathless as I crush my mouth to his, gripping him hard as the first juts of my release paint his hand, his cock, which stiffens even more.
He groans my name, his release pulsing from him as he works himself against me.
I gasp, my hands frantic, holding him against me, needing to feel him come everywhere, in his legs as they lock around mine, his hips punching against mine, his chest brushing mine, his lips chasing mine eagerly as my hips jerk again with another desperate rush of release.
I groan his name, too, pleasure flooding my body as I watch him roll his hips once more and shudder another hot ribbon of release along my stomach.
Our breaths saw out of our lungs as I look at him, stroking his hair, as his hand still touches us, even as we soften, holding us close, our pleasure, a glorious, long-awaited mess that makes him smile.
Leaning in, I press a slow, hungry kiss to his mouth, then ease onto my back. My eyes feel heavy. My body feels heavier. I tuck Oliver against me, feeling sleep weigh me down. I tell myself I won’t sleep, just…rest my eyes for a few. Because soon it’ll be time to get up and get ready for our game…
Time dissolves, warm as the cloth he uses to wipe us clean, gentle as his body tucked against mine.
The next thing I know is Oliver’s voice, as if said from the end of a tunnel. He sounds so far away. Relief washes through me as I realize I still feel his body close. “Gavin,” he says.
“Hmm?” I nuzzle the crown of his head, sigh contentedly. “Give me ten minutes,” I tell him, “and then I’m going to wreck you.”
He laughs against our kiss, then pulls away on a sigh. “I wish. But we have to get up and get moving. We’ve got a game today… Wait…” Oliver blinks, props himself up on his shoulder. “Did we fall asleep?”
Like a screwball comedy, our eyes widen in tandem, then snap to the digital clock I keep on my dresser.
We were supposed to be at the stadium fifteen minutes ago.
That’s when we both yell, “Fuck!”
22
OLIVER
Playlist: “Everything Moves,” Bronze Radio Return
Gavin drives like a bat out of hell and gets us to the stadium in record time.
“Flat tire,” he tells Coach, who sits in her office with Rico and Jas, before she can ask where we’ve been and why we’re forty-five minutes late. “Very sorry,” he says, double-tapping her door. “Hasn’t happened before, won’t happen again.”
I nod. “Sorry, Coach.”
She glances between us and sucks her teeth. “Uh-huh. Get your asses in there.”
“Yes, Coach.” I salute her as Gavin drags me past the door, down the hall.
“You good?” he asks.
He’s favoring his left leg, limping slightly. I watch him walk, concern tightening those anxious bands around my chest.
“Bergman,” he barks.
I snap my head up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”
He glances over his shoulder, something fierce in his gaze, a fire that’s doused as soon as we make eye contact. “I’m fine.”
It’s said with finality. A tone that says, do not cross me on this. Like he knows I’m aware of every sore spot on him that I touched, every movement as he eased out of bed that made him wince and hiss a breath before he threw back a handful of ibuprofen, swallowed them dry, and forced himself to move faster than I knew he wanted to.
I don’t understand how someone whose body is so clearly hurting and hurt makes himself go out on that field and run through that kind of pain, collide bodies, take tackles, force himself into bursts of vicious speed up the midfield.
I’m worried about him. And judging by the angry look he gives me as he catches me staring at him, Gavin knows it.
“Eyes up,” he says sharply, opening the door to the locker room. “Focus.”
“I don’t need you to tell me to focus on my fucking job, Hayes.”
The faintest smirk tips his mouth. “Good.”
He follows me into the room. I glance back. “Aren’t you supposed to go see Dan and Maria? Get your pregame tune-up?”
His lip curls as he brushes by, ignoring me. Santi’s on him, asking questions, Ethan, too. They so obviously look up to him, even though he scares the shit out of them. He’s got this instant magnetic force of authority. I watch him listen, answer questions, set them at ease in his terse, no-bullshit way.
When he catches me watching him, he arches an eyebrow. I look away. And then I tell myself it’s time to suit up and kick some ass out on that field.
I’m playing the best soccer of my life. Despite being nearly constantly double-teamed by my opponent’s defenders, I have two goals and an assist, and my legs feel lighter than air.
Clearly, I should get laid before a game more often.
We’re at the eighty-five-minute mark when that thought crosses my mind, the first time I’ve thought of Gavin in that way since we went out on the field. I haven’t been distracted, haven’t felt myself pulled toward him or fixating on him or this morning, on anything except the game unfolding around me and my responsibility to make it a winner.
Not yet, that voice inside me whispers. But it’s only a matter of time until it blows up in your face.
For the first time, I glance back at the midfield, spotting Gavin instantly. The wind snaps his hair back, revealing his stern features—severe brows, neat beard, dark eyes tinged with gold as the sun bathes him in its rays. He looks pissed—he always looks pissed during games—but I know he’s just ruthlessly focused.
I am, too.
I know exactly where my wingers are, where the goalie is behind me, as I cut across the field and Gavin snaps the perfect pass my way. God, his precision is freakish. The ball flies right past my feet as I seal off my defender, then take off, catching the ball in stride and barreling toward the goal.
I feel him before I see him in my peripheral vision, powering down the field, forcing his way past a defender who throws an ineffectual shoulder his way. The guy bounces off of him as Gavin cuts right, open for the pass that I send his way, then one-touches it into the back of the goal.
Relief soars through me. We’ve earned a lot of goals today, but unfortunately so has our opponent. With this one, we’ve narrowed the deficit. Now we’re down only one.
I can’t help but crack the widest smile as the stadium explodes, as the team piles up on Gavin. He shoves them off, one by one, but he ruffles their hair, shoves good-naturedly. And when he looks at me, he smiles.
“Fucking brilliant,” he says, tugging me toward him, forehead to forehead, before he shoves me off. A gesture of pride, connection, that makes my heart pound in my chest.
I keep my eyes down on my cleats as he walks past me, deeper on our side, in preparation for kickoff, but I can’t wipe away the happiness inside me, lighting me up. It’s the kind of joy that fills me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, that makes my fingertips hum and sends a kick of jittery, giddy adrenaline flooding my veins. I feel on top of the world.
Which is why it’s all the more jarring when, just thirty seconds later, as I step up to challenge our opponent’s defense, a vile slur cuts through the air and punctures that happy aura. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the word. And, unfortunately, in all likelihood, it won’t be the last. Being reconciled to the fact doesn’t make it easier, though. The defender who said it throws his shoulder into me sharply after he passes the ball, sneering as he jogs past me and glances back.
Unfortunately for him, looking back at me leaves him entirely unprepared for a six-foot-four, livid co-captain shoving him violently to the ground.
“Hayes!” I sprint forward, stepping in front of Gavin, hands on his chest. “Hayes. Stop.”
Gavin’s not looking at me. He’s glaring murder at the defender, chest heaving, that vein in his temple throbbing. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Shut up,” I tell him, grabbing his face. “Don’t say that.”
He lunges forward, and I have to shove him back. “I don’t fucking care.”
“I care.” I grab his shoulders again. “Stop.”
The ref jogs over, whistling and halting play. I’m about to open my mouth and defuse things, when Gavin turns, shoves me behind him and proceeds to tell the ref in a shockingly calm tone what happened.