Page 48 of Hot Streak

“You sure you aren’t followin’ Jackson around? Maybe trying to suck up?” TJ wondered.

TJ had known Jackson in Ohio. It was very possible he knew Jackson’s “open secret.” For a moment, Connor almost considered denying the accusation hotly, like that was the worst thing in the world he could be doing. Insisting, without using the words, that it wasn’t like that.

Except, it was exactly like that.

Connor took a calming breath. “Maybe I am,” he teased, keeping his voice light. “You jealous, TJ?”

“A little,” TJ grumbled good-naturedly, and just like that, the moment was over.

But as Connor grabbed his headphones from the room and headed down to the bottom level of the hotel where the gym was located, he realized that while maybe that was the first time he’d faced the insinuation, if he ended up getting involved with Jackson—or any other man—it wouldn’t be the last time he came up against that kind of accusation.

He was lucky. He liked women, too, and he could probably keep the ugly looks and the snide comments to a minimum, if not eliminate them entirely. But Jackson couldn’t do that. They’d follow him around, forever.

Connor pushed open the gym door and nearly stopped in his tracks.

Jackson’s back was to him, and he was wearing one of those flimsy tanks—the sleeves cut deeply and unevenly out of an old threadbare T-shirt—and he was doing curls, the muscles clenching and trembling as he went through his reps.

God, his body was a fucking work of art.

All broad shoulders, slim hips, thick thighs, and those flawlessly cut arms.

Connor had seen muscular men before, but he’d never seen anyone as beautiful as Jackson. Certainly, he’d never wanted any of them. Not until now.

Jackson finished his reps, and with a show of complete control, let the weights down with only a gentle tap. He stood, stretching, and Connor knew the moment he spotted him, still in the doorway.

“Oh. It’s just you,” Jackson said shortly.

“Just me,” Connor said. He headed over towards the treadmill, did a few stretches, taking his time, aware the whole time of how pointedly Jackson was ignoring him.

He climbed on, hooked his earbuds in, but didn’t turn the music on. Setting the pace on a comfortable jog, he started to run. But unlike Jackson, who seemed to be looking everywhere but at him, he kept his eyes right on the prize: where Jackson was sweating through his next set of reps, like even Connor’s appearance wasn’t enough to move him off course.

And okay, yes, Connor was new to this. Jackson was not. Jackson was probably used to compartmentalizing a hell of a lot better—because the truth was, Connor wasn’t able to compartmentalize at all.

Now that he’d had this realization, now that he knew exactly what he wanted, he wanted to go after it with a single-minded focus he rarely felt.

It was almost enough to let his legs go on autopilot, jogging out the tiny bit of soreness from yesterday’s practice session, and just look his fill as Jackson lifted what Connor knew to be a lot of weight.

The man was a freaking beast.

A gorgeous beast, especially like this, sweat damp on his forehead and on his tank, the dark spot of perspiration sticking to the small of his back.

Because Connor couldn’t stop looking, he knew the exact moment Jackson looked back.

The intensity of that stare—like he’d been saving it up, only allowing himself one single look—hit Connor like a freight train and for a second, he felt everything and nothing. And then, the next second, he apparently forgot how his legs were supposed to work, because he stumbled and nearly fell right off the back of the treadmill.

Jackson chuckled darkly, and Connor hit stop on the treadmill before he did something even more foolish, like broke his leg because a guy was checking him out.

It wasn’t the first time, not by a long shot, but it was the first time it had made him feel like this. Warm and buzzy, in the base of his stomach.

“You alright?” Jackson drawled, the corner of his mouth still quirking up in amusement as he used a towel to wipe down the last machine he’d used. Then he wiped his face, taking his time to scrub the last of the sweat off.

Take off your shirt! Come on! Do it!

But he didn’t, and of course, Connor wasn’t nearly confident enough to actually ask.

“Yeah, just fine,” Connor said, stumbling over his words the same way he’d just stumbled over his feet.

“Don’t want to break a leg,” Jackson warned.

---