Page 61 of Save the Game

“Well, I was, until you made it sound pervy.”

“I’m going to need you to kiss it better.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he says, trying and failing to sound annoyed. “I’ll see you at my place.”

Laughing, I toss my phone into the passenger seat and try to get my seatbelt in a position that doesn’t make my chest feel like it’s on fire. All jokes aside, my ribs really do fucking hurt and Arnica gel sounds incredible. I drive slowly, trying not to jostle my brakes any more than needed—the seatbelt straps directly across my bruised side and every slight bump has me gritting my teeth against the pain. When I pull up outside Max’s apartment building, I unclip the belt and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, taking a couple deep breaths before going inside.

“Maxy?” I call, cracking open his front door and peeking inside. He steps around the corner from the kitchen, smiling wide when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss me but carefully keeping his hands down by his sides. Well, that simply won’t do. I hook my fingers in his belt loops and pull him toward me, smiling into the kiss when I feel his hands land on my shoulders.

“Take your shirt off,” he instructs as I crowd him against the wall, kissing his jaw.

“Bossy,” I note, and he pats my butt.

“Let me see.”

Sighing, I rest my head down on his shoulder for a second before stepping back and toeing off my shoes. I walk back to his bedroom, tugging my shirt off as I go. Before I can preface that it isn’t as bad as it looks, I hear the sharp intake of breath and feel his cool hands on my skin.

“Luke,” he breathes, fingers coasting gently down my stomach, well away from the bruise.

“It looks worse than it is,” I cajole, and he looks at me incredulously.

“I can see the imprint of the baseball.”

“That’ll go away.”

He rolls his eyes so far back in his head, they’re liable to get stuck. “Grab a towel from the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Doing as he says, I toss a clean towel onto the bed and sit down to wait for him to return. Standing back up almost immediately, I take off my pants too, feeling odd without my shirt on. Max walks back in, arms loaded; he casts an appraising eye over my body, cheeks flushing slightly. I grin.

“Bruise first,” he says, reading my mind. “Spread that towel out and lay down. You’re getting a massage.”

I practically throw myself down on the bed in my haste to begin. Tucking one of Max’s pillows under my face, I take a nice, deep inhale before I turn my face and rest my cheek down. He sits down beside me, one leg bent up and brushing my thigh. I close my eyes when I feel his fingertips ghost over my side; the touch is lighter than a breath of air—there’s not an ounce of pain when he touches my ribs.

He cracks open the bottle of Arnica and the mattress shifts again as he moves closer to me. This time there is a little bit of pain as he concentrates his efforts directly on the bruising. Still, his fingers are gentle as he works the cream into my skin. I smile against the pillow, enjoying all the fuss he’s making over something as inconsequential as a bruise.

“Anywhere else hurt?” He asks, voice soft as though trying to maintain the peacefulness of the moment.

“Shoulders are kind of sore,” I mumble, cracking an eye and watching him shift until he’s straddling my waist. His legs are spread so wide that none of his weight is resting on me, but even so, my dick notices the change in position. I’m going to be dry humping the mattress soon, if this massage gets any sexier.

He places his hands on my shoulders, kneading gently as he searches for knots. I groan when he finds one, pressing into it with his thumb hard enough to hurt. It’s clear he’s someone who’s experienced many a deep tissue massage in his time—the man knows how to use his thumbs. Gentling his grip, his strokes turn soothing for a minute before he digs back into the muscles, trying to unlock the knots. It feels good, while also making me feel a little dizzy.

“All right?” He asks, and I groan. He leans down to kiss the back of my neck, below my hairline but above where my upper back is smeared with gel.

“Remember what I said about you being a torturer?” I ask, turning my head so my voice isn’t muffled by the pillow. He chuckles, breath ghosting against my skin, and kisses me again. I have to shift against the mattress as my dick really starts to take an interest in things.

“Anywhere else?” He asks, an amused lilt to his voice that says he knows exactly how much of a tease he’s being.

“A few places below the waist could use some attention,” I admit, and my skin pebbles with anticipation as the bed shifts, moving as he goes to kneel over my legs. If I’d had half a brain, I would have taken all my clothes off, not just my pants and shirt.

He pulls my boxer briefs up my leg a bit, trying to get the fabric out of the way, before adding more Arnica to his hands. My pulse jumps when he finally wraps his hands around my left thigh, even though it’s clear from the motions of his thumbs that he’s actually trying to give me a massage and not turn me on. I try to relax, even though my libido is in a tizzy with most of my clothes off and his hands on me. Think unsexy thoughts, Luke. This is just another post-game massage from the training staff.

Of course—seeing as my face is mashed up against a pillow that smells of Max—my brain decides to supply me with other thoughts. Thoughts of each separate time Max and I have had sex, each one revealing a more comfortable and adventurous Max. Thoughts of one particular night when he laid flat on his back and let me explore him, the unspoken trust leaving me breathless and feeling defensive of him.

He moves to my right leg, thumbs brushing along my hamstrings and catching on my leg hair. I’m not trying to be dramatic, but I really think I might die if this continues any longer. I need to come now.

“Maxy,” I mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.

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