I don’t take my designer, Diego, as the big truck kind of guy. More for a practical Volvo or even a flashy Corvette, but never a truck.
Inputting my code Diego gave me last night for the door’s keypad, leading into the house, I pull it back, standing still at the perfect home for me. The place is a museum, of sorts. The kitchen, just steps from the garage, is bright white with concrete countertops. I continue through the eat-in kitchen, stepping on the deep espresso floors that lead to the living room. I loved the idea of the master downstairs, but the black steel rails lead up a floating staircase to three more rooms.
I’m turning in circles, consuming the large white space with both glass and steel décor, when in my peripheral, the swimming pool pulls my attention from the inside of the house. I steal a look out at the pool where Diego sits, awaiting my arrival. The man has a beer and is lounging as if he doesn’t have common sense. It’s a little ballsy, but maybe it’s his way to welcome me.
I take a step onto my large sun deck and pool. Diego’s build is much bigger than the man I had researched as the expert in modern design. And he’s blond, where I thought his features were more like mine.
“Hey, Diego, I’d thought I’d told you we could get together another day. If it’s all right, I’d like some time to get a handle on the house before we discuss any changes. Do you think…”
The broad shoulders of the man in the recliner push to a sitting position, and as he turns around, it’s not the features of my interior designer. This is the man I’ve compared all men to since I last saw him in the locker room on the day my grandpappy died after the National Championship. He’s the man I’ve loved for some time, the quarterback of Nashville’s team. Standing in front of me is Crush Colton, the man who was once my everything.
2
Crush
I’m Christopher Colton, the crushing quarterback of this year’s championship hopefuls. If we’d not lost Jay Adamson, we would have won the big game. To add insult to injury, I had to hear of this asshole—Ryder Hanley—joining our team through social media. I’m the backbone, and no one has had the decency to tell me the man I thought was my best friend is our new starting wide receiver.
Sure, we’d played against each other each year, but he was on the field when I wasn’t. We never sought one another out.
He greeted me as Diego, and something inside me prickled with jealousy at the thought of him with another man. As my large body twists to see him, his face reddens, and eyes widen larger than I thought is humanly possible. I figured I would shock him. When I arrived at his house an hour ago, some dainty-looking man was putting the final touches on Ryder’s new digs. It must have been Diego. I fibbed a little by telling him we were best friends, and I dropped by to welcome him to the neighborhood.
This Diego person he refers to didn’t put up much of a fight, only gushed at me several times. I stare at my former best friend, and his own flush creeps onto his face. He gives out a nervous chuckle. “As I live and breathe, it’s Crush Colton.” Back in the day, he called me Christopher as much as my football name. Very few call me Christopher, and I think most of the free world thinks my God-given name is Crush.
I push to my feet, broaden my stance, and stand as tall over him as I can get. “Yeah, imagine my shock when a man I considered a brother up and left. Never returning my calls, he ignored me anytime we played one another. Now, he all of a sudden has a hard-on for playing on my team! Not to mention—of all the fucking teams in the country who had wanted to sign him. In my book this makes him an asshole, asshole.”
Ry gives me a shrug of his shoulders, peeling off his simple white T-shirt and pulling at the beer in my hand. “Fuck, it’s hotter than a witch’s tit out here.” He pauses, and it gives me just enough time to shift my gaze, hidden behind my aviators, up and down his body with him only to continue. “So, since you barged into my house, making yourself at home— with a fuck ton of assumptions, want to share some of your beer with me?”
Ryder doesn’t wait for an answer before he grabs my beer. He takes a swig, the cocky SOB, and then hands it back to me. I point at the small fridge in the corner of the outdoor kitchen.
He saunters toward it, grabbing one for him and a second for me. He’s back in my space, and the son of a bitch has grown since we last played together. He’s always been a little smaller than me, most wide receivers are, especially with the new type of quarterbacks, who are more mobile and larger, too, like I am.
But every part of him has become a solid mass of muscles, and hell, more manly than I remember, and—he’s never been a small man.
I pull for my beer and sit down in the sun as he scoots across from me at the part of the table in the shade. “Fuck, I may need to get my swim trunks on and go for a dip,” Ry begins like we’re casually shooting the shit.
“Yeah, I won’t be here long. I’ll leave you to get settled, but what fuck ton of assumptions are you talking about? You left me without so much as an explanation after you attacked my lips. You dodged my calls. You avoided me. You did this—not me, asshole.”
I stare at Ryder, but he takes his time to pull back on his beer, taking a long swig. He plops it down, a little louder than I’m expecting, and his eyes meet my gaze.
“What can I say? I was a confused asshole. I screwed up. I thought I disgusted you. Hell, I disgusted myself, yet I wanted you at the same time. I thought the distance would solve it, but those dodged calls on my part turned into years, and I didn’t know what I could say to justify what I’d done.”
His pleas are sincere and not what I remember of the cocky bastard. “And I came back to Tennessee to be closer to my family. I mean, my parents are still the unreliable shit show you remember, especially as they’ve distanced themselves from me due to their unworldly view on the fact I like men.” With Ry’s confession, he shrugs again.
“They turned their backs on you because you finally came out after all these years?” I ask, and though I’d been ready for a fight with Ryder, I’m pissed off on his behalf.
“Well, yes, but at the end of the day, it’s fine. I don’t want them. I have Kelsey and Loretta. It’s all I need in this world.”
I remember Ryder’s younger and stubborn as hell sister. But Loretta, this is a new name I’m not familiar with.
“Loretta, is she your…?” Yeah, I’m going to ask if she’s his daughter, but he stops me, perceiving this.
“Loretta is Kelsey’s daughter. She’s five and the love of my life. Kelsey found out she was pregnant on the day of our grandpappy's funeral. Named her after our grandpa. It’s like he knew I needed her in my life after losing him. And though the scumbag of her dad is no longer around, Kelsey is a nurse, and I make sure she and Loretta never want for anything in life, though my sister is stubborn as fuck.”
Again, we’re back to shooting the shit as if we have just picked up and hadn’t had this wedge between us for years. And I remember I’m pissed at him. This is supposed to be a showdown, baring my teeth, letting him know I’m in charge of my life, my team, and he’s not an issue and hasn’t been in years.