“I aim to please, Len,” he retorts. The way my nickname slips off his lips sends a shiver through me. I want to hear it again just so I can watch the way his lips form the letters as he says it.
My brain is latching onto the single syllable like my life depends on it and replaying over in my mind on a loop in the span of only a second. As irrational as it is and no matter how much I don’t understand it, I crave it. My name on his lips.
“Did you need anything else, Coach? Otherwise I’m going to get back to it,” Ciaráin asks him, flicking his gaze back to our coach.
“Not at all. Go finish up the drill,” he replies, dismissing Ciaráin before tossing his chin at me. “And River, go get Garrett. Once they’re done, I want to run some routes. Get you two used to each other as quickly as possible.”
And that’s where we are ten minutes later, running easy routes, easily getting the feel for each other’s speed and playstyle. He’s quick, very light on his feet, giving me the freedom to throw faster and for more yards than I normally would with another wide receiver. Hell, even Drew.
Simply put, our chemistry is off the fucking charts and it’s got me all kinds of jacked up.
The next time it’s his turn for a route, I give him a wicked grin before giving him the universal go long signal with my hand. I catch his smirk and subtle nod before stepping back into position. And then back further and further until he’s far enough away that I’m ready to let it fly.
And fly it fucking does. Sails down the field through the air, landing safely in Ciaráin’s arms over halfway down the field.
I let out a holler, never feeling so high in my life. Ciaráin returns my excitement with a whoop from his spot down the field. And yeah, we both completely ignore Coach’s glares from the sidelines. Though, if I know Coach Scott, he’s secretly jumping up and down like a kid in a candy store on the inside.
Adrenaline is coursing through me and my hopes are through the roof for the season if this is the kind of shit we can do together on day one of practice. There’s definitely no false hype around this guy’s ability when it comes to football.
I could get used to this.
Ciaráin comes running up to me, panting slightly before tossing the ball into my hands from a few feet away. “Nice one, Len. Though, you think you could send it further next time? If I can break into the record books for receiving yard, there’s no way I’m not getting the fucking Heisman this year.” He gives me another smirk, one I’m noticing seems to be his signature. And before he turns to head back to the end of the line, he bites his lip and...winks at me.
And my heart drops to my stomach and out my ass.
Wait, what? Was he just...flirting with me?
I blink after him a couple times, and for the first time today, I let myself take a good look at him. The kind of look that, if this was a hundred years ago—fuck, even fifty years ago—I could be beat to death and strung up in the town square.
Okay I might be slightly over dramatic, but I’m not far off.
But still, I fucking stare at him. Taking in his muscular thighs encased in his pants, the pads doing everything to make his ass look like a goddamn peach I’d give my left nut to take a bite into.
The way I’m studying him, it portrays…interest.
And interested, I fucking am.
Despite the rules I’ve put in place for myself regarding my teammates, which are only two—don’t look and definitely don’t fucking touch—and despite the fact that I try to limit my hook-ups with the male population at CU…I’m fucking interested.
Really fucking interested.
My eyes take in his form again while he bullshits in line with Drew, letting Garrett have his run through with the receivers. His helmet is dangling from his fingertips, the pad of his thumb toying with the strap absently while he talks.
But even from ten yards away, I see his eyes dance with the same excitement that was taking hold of me not more than two minutes ago.
A thousand questions run through my head.
Is that glimmer there from the high of the game? Is this chemistry between us just from being two players in sync? Or is it something more than that? Does he feel this physical attraction too?
Is he also…into guys?
Fuck me.
This is the hardest fucking part about being bisexual. Girls are never this hard to figure out, contrary to what straight men might think. All I have to do is flash my dimples and a heated smolder and poof, their panties are gone. It’s practically magic.
But with dudes, it’s like trying to teach a monkey advanced statistics. In Spanish.
Case in fucking point, I’m standing here gawking at this sexy as fuck wide receiver when I should be, I don’t know, paying attention to the drills that we are running or talking to coaches or going over the playbook or literally anything other than gawking at this sexy as fuck wide receiver.
And for the entire rest of practice, that’s what I keep catching myself doing.
Watching. Sneaking glances. Flat out fucking creeping on the guy to see if I can catch anything that will alert my gaydar if he might be down for a roll in the sheets.
And I don’t need to be thinking with my dick on the field.
But those thoughts are only taken further the minute practice is over and he pulls his pads and practice jersey over his head in one fell swoop, revealing a glorious, sweaty chest and a set of abs Ryan Gosling would be jealous of.
He’s tanned and trim, ink covering his entire right arm in what looks to be some sort of Celtic design. The left forearm has a wing of maybe an eagle, two thick black bands circling about halfway up with a date in Roman numerals above them. He even has some words scripted on one side of his hips, running on the diagonal of his perfect cut V that tapers into his padded pants.
In short, he was crafted to be the downfall of any bisexual man and Jesus Christ I might be drooling.
No, seriously. I actually checked to be sure I wasn’t.
And the second he lifts his arms—how the fuck did I not notice those arms?—to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his biceps fucking glowing under the sun, I become insanely grateful these pants make it damn near impossible to pop a boner.
Yeahhhh...I’d definitely fuck the shit out of him.
“Good first practice, yeah?”
I jump at Coach’s voice beside me, not realizing he had stepped up from behind me.
“Yeah, definitely,” I cough, doing my best to remove my eyes that are currently super glued to Ciaráin’s body. Which I cannot do. They are firmly cemented in place, memorizing the way every muscle twitches and flexes as he starts stretching himself out next to Drew.
Coach catches the direction of my gaze and lets out a laugh. “He’s something, ain’t he? We fell into some serious luck when he decided to transfer out here.”
That he is, Coach. And hell yes we did.
But I just nod, keeping my eyes on Ciaráin.
“He’s going to be one helluv an asset to this team. You two keep up the good work. Maybe get to know him on a personal level off the field.”
How about biblically, Coach? Sound like something you’d be okay with?
“Absolutely,” I respond instead, because yeah, Coach might know I bat for both teams, but it’s not like we shoot the shit about that kind of thing.
Talk about awkward.