Page 38 of Triple Play

Except for Felix.

I expected his glare. Not the slow blink of his eyelashes that makes heat crawl up my skin. Shira makes a little pleased murmur when my cock stirs—more than stirs—in my sweats. It’s funny how traveling always makes you a little wilder, like I left my normal self in Boston, or possibly in Atlanta several months ago. How the me who’s here doesn’t mind the attention.

From either of them.

A realization that makes my heart tick against my ribs.

I slide Shira off my lap and kiss her cheek in apology. She glances at my lap, then pushes her lower lip out, pouting.

“You don’t have to stop on my account,” Felix says. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounded disappointed.

“Food’ll be here soon,” I say. “Can’t wait to see how this ranks on the Shira breakfast-food leaderboard.”

Shira laughs. “Probably not higher than Boston Kreme donuts, sorry.”

“You really love that city,” I say.

“You don’t?”

“I wasn’t too sure about Boston until I met you.” A joke, except neither of them laughs. Don’t let ’em know that you spent a month worried that signing there was a mistake. “I mean, you do have coffeeshops every ten feet though, so that’s nice.”

“For what it’s worth, I agree with Shira. Dunks is kinda—” Felix says a phrase I don’t quite catch.

“Is suey generous like a New England term for coffeeshop?” I ask.

That gets Felix’s laugh, sudden enough that his T-shirt pulls against the span of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest. I look, then look away. “It’s sui generis,” he says, “and it’s Latin. It means its own thing.” It’s charming in the way he says it—not like he thinks I should know it but that he’s embarrassed to have used that term out loud.

“Sui generis,” I repeat, navigating my way through its syllables. “Wasn’t really expecting this to be a Latin kind of morning.”

“You mean you weren’t expecting a farm boy to be able to read?” Felix asks.

And I’m saved from saying something like, There’s a lot about you I didn’t expect, by the waitress arriving with our orders. We spend a minute arranging them on the table. I need to clear my head. Coffee should work. I take a sip. It’s hot enough to burn my tongue. That’ll do it.

We set about the serious work of eating and passing various condiments and Felix grousing about fake-ass syrup as Shira covers her waffle with it. After a few minutes, Felix picks up a spoonful of grits, examines it suspiciously, then tentatively tries some. His eyes widen in pleased surprise. He takes another mouthful.

“You have some—” Shira touches her face to indicate the blob of grits caught in Felix’s beard.

“Shit.” Felix dabs at his face with a napkin, which only serves to press the grits in more. “You didn’t tell me these things were glue.”

“Delicious glue,” I correct.

“Very delicious glue.” He combs a finger across his beard. “But I gotta get rid of this thing before we get to Florida. You still up for a little barbering when we pull in for the night?”

I shouldn’t, if only because I’ve been thinking about it far more than I should. It’s just helping a teammate—a friend—out. Nothing more than that.

“Sure.” I swallow around the lump in the throat that has nothing to do with grits. “I’d be happy to.”

We make good time toward Fayetteville that afternoon. Felix takes a turn driving Lilac—a short turn when he barely fits under her steering column. We pull over at rest stop to swap drivers. When he gets out, Felix stretches, arms above his head, T-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin at his waistband. Unremarkable, except how I can’t stop watching him. When we get to Florida, we’ll be in the same clubhouse. I’m used to seeing guys naked in professional contexts—bodies just sort of happen. It’s different from the sunlight picking out the red glints in Felix’s hair, from how I hope for another glimpse of skin.

“Oh, good idea.” Shira proceeds to fold herself in half, stretching her hamstrings. From this angle, it’s also impossible not to watch her—the lean strength in her legs, the generous curves of her hips. The wrap of her manicured nails around her ankles—and the wink she throws me as if she knows exactly what I’m looking at.

It’s not even that warm out—warm for New England, cold for Atlanta—but sweat starts to bead its away down the back of my neck. What am I gonna do with you both? A question I can’t answer. One I shouldn’t even be asking.

Finally, finally, I drag my eyes back to Lilac’s paint…

For all of a second, until Shira sighs and deepens her forward fold. Her leggings go even tighter against her ass. I’m not the only one looking—Felix has come out of his own stretch and he’s studying her with faint amusement. I should object, but objecting will mean noticing that I’m watching him with just as much attention as I’m watching her.

“This is so much easier than calculus,” Shira says as she rises out of her stretch.

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