Page 56 of Provoking the Punter

“What’s the third option? Because I already knew those two.”

“You destroy it.” Preston turned on the shower.

“Why would I do that?” Even though walking away was a smart thing to do, he wasn’t going to do that. He was having too much fun.

“So you don’t get hurt.”

If Garrett hurt him, it would be by accident. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was going to play around, nor was he going to put his job on the line. And that was the problem. Garrett was never going to put his job on the line. Football would always come first while he was playing, and he’d told Chester that without making excuses for it.

For it to work, Chester needed to be okay with that. Really be okay with that, not just laugh and nod and claim he was also busy with work. His job didn’t involve set up paparazzi shots. His job didn’t involve media interviews. His job didn’t involve commentators, picking apart his game and his life.

If he was with Garrett, that is what he was opening himself up to. It would mean the media digging around to find out who he was. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, and his skin became clammy. “So you think I should end it now before?—”

“No, that isn’t what I said. Put it this way, what’s going to hurt worse, him breaking your heart, or you spending the rest of your life wondering if he was the one?”

Chester forced a laugh. “I don’t believe in the one.”

“Maybe not, but you want someone to be yours. And while he’s in the closet, you control the doors.”

“I hate you.”

Preston smiled. “I know. You’ve told me so many times before, but I’m here for you if you need to talk.”

“Yes… and I know you won’t tell anyone else.”

“And when you are ready to show him off in public: dinner at my house. I’ll invite everyone.”

Chester rolled his eyes. “He’s really not that big of a deal.”

Though he could already name at least three friends who would ask how many other gay players were on the team because they also wanted into a pair of those tight gold pants.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Every time Garrett stepped out onto the field to practice, he was painfully aware that if he didn’t get to play a game this season, there might not be a next season. He needed to be faster, cleaner, and more accurate than James every fucking time.

If he concentrated on the ball and his mechanics, he couldn’t worry about what the coaches knew or if were silently judging him instead of how he played. The only consolation he had was that if they had an issue, they would’ve cut him already.

Because if he wasn’t there next season, then there would be no more Chester.

What had begun as a mistake he wanted to make—or needed to make— had become something else. Neither of them were seeing other people, but they weren’t going on dates with each other, either.

And if that bothered him, it had to be bothering Chester.

He wanted to go out with him, to say that he was seeing someone instead of laughing off jokes about being single or not picking up.

He caught the ball, dropped it, and booted it down the field. He landed and took a couple of steps back, watching. It didn’t look too bad. It had a nice hang time.

Hulme turned to look at him. “That was a hell of a kick.”

“Yeah.” It had felt good leaving his foot. “A perfect snap, mate.”

All he had to do was repeat it again and again and again. He’d been making some of his best punts this week, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he’d settled in, or because the coaches were adjusting different things, but he was feeling fucking good.

Maybe it was the fucking.

He jogged off the field and James took his place.

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