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Colt’s intricate ink gleams sweaty in the sun. I know his stunning new pec art of lotuses is for his mom. But I wonder about the older minimalist designs in his sleeves, particularly the birds, and what they mean. I have suspicions, but it’ll be too hard if I know the truth.
But this is easy. My timing. His speed. My placement. His catch. There’s no pressure on us, and for the first time in months, I see the real Colt—the one I fell in love with.
With Amber gone, he’s relaxed. He’s smiling while he runs. He’s fucking laughing when he splashes into the ocean. He could go til sunset, but my shoulder can’t.
“Hey, man,” I call out, “I gotta stop.”
He jogs my way with the ball tucked naturally into his side, like a damn baby, while he worries, “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I start my crossover arm stretches, “just a bit tight.”
“I’ll get you some ice.”
“I don’t need it.”
“I didn’t ask,” he scoffs. “Sit down and take the damn ice.”
He times me, giving me twenty minutes on a pool lounger with ice on my right shoulder while the afternoon gives way to dusk.
“Fuck, I’m starving.” He glances back at the open living room with the kitchen beyond.
The smell of Blair making dinner for us makes my stomach growl. “Me too,” I answer.
“I can’t believe it. She makes us come for her, and now she’s cooking for us?” He nods toward Blair, bending over, sliding a large glass pan into the oven. It looks like she’s setting the timer while Colt admires, “You lucky shit, I’ve never met a woman like her. The ones I meet are either too shy, too selfish, or too uptight.”
“Oh,” I chuckle, admiring how cute she looks in her green sundress, “Blair’s not uptight. She has a religion against shame. She works at a swanky adult store. You wouldn’t believe that place,” I pause, remembering what I’ve already shared with Blair in so little time. “You wouldn’t believe what she can make you feel, too.”
Colt huffs. He does believe me as I realize we’re talking more today than we have in months, and it’s all because of Blair.
“Tell me again,” he asks, looking over his shoulder, watching her put dishes away, “how she’d be a distraction and not the one who can finally make you win?”
Suddenly, I can’t answer.
I never thought of it that way.
All I’ve ever heard from coaches, my parents, or some other players is how love is a distraction and how I should wait until I retire in a few years.
But what if Colt’s right, and they’re wrong?
“Damn,” he fills my silence, “did she really write that alien book about y’all, too?” He reaches, dragging the towel off my dripping shoulder. The ice has melted. “I started it today and got all kinds of feels and a hard-on by chapter three.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “You should read her other books about us. Your dick will thank you.”
“Speaking of thanking dicks.” He pats his knees, rising to his feet. “It’s shower time.”
The image of Colt, wet and nude and jerking off in the shower, does something to me. Damn, I want to join him. I want to hold him again. I want to fist our soapy cocks together while I claim his kiss and suck his tongue.
But this feels too precarious.
We’re finally talking like normal again. We’re finally throwing like yin and yang. We’re finally relaxed and not pissed off.
So, he leaves, and I lay the wet towel to dry over my chair before I wander into my shower alone, letting the hot water soothe my sore shoulder, too.
The one thing I confess to no one—not Colt, not Blair, not Coach—is I’m not sure about my shoulder. On paper, the surgery was a success, and I do my daily physical therapy like a devout monk. But still, after today, I’m sore, and I worry.
“I gotta pee.”
Blair’s sweet voice lifts my gaze from the white shower tiles. She’s doing a funny dance in the threshold.
