My Only Reason

It’s a cliché’ really, falling in love with my best friend, my very straight best friend. And to add more complications, I’m a football player, about to be drafted. We’re manly men. We aren’t supposed to be gay. But I am and I love the one person I’ll never have. Until fate forces us together six years later. It’ll be both a fantasy and hell on earth, playing along Crush—the only man who will ever truly own my heart.

He dropped a bomb on me. Then he left, never looking back. Our friendship—ruined until he lands back in my life. His presence is just as big as ever. I never forgot him, or what that one kiss so many years ago still does to my body. He’s here, but is he willing to stay.



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.”

He 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. “So, since you barged into my house and made yourself at home with a fuck ton of assumptions, want to share some of your beer with me?” He 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,” he 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.”

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