Page 4 of Summer Catch

Jon was open enough, receptive enough, that he hadn’t missed the disappointment flicker across Kieran’s face when he’d said he wasn’t gay.

Had Kieran wanted his phone number for more than just an emergency contact if shit went south?

It was possible.

Ouch, I think my bar’s pride is wounded :(

Before Jon could reply that the bar’s pride—if bars could even have pride—was well-represented by the queer-coded flags hanging by the entry, Kieran texted again.

What are you doing up so late?

That was easy enough. Always been a night owl. Now I do more than just sit up too late on the couch watching TV, Jon sent. Lots of shit to do and not enough time to do it in.

We both know why I’m up so late, Kieran texted.

You guys aren’t busy? Jon wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was, but surely if it was one of their more popular nights of the week—or a weekend—and the crowd would be too demanding for Kieran to stand around talking to Jon.

It’s a little busy, but I’m the boss so nobody can tell me to put my phone away ;)

Jon knew this was probably flirting, that Kieran was probably flirting with him. He’d seemed like a guy open to the possibilities, with his chill attitude, warm smile, and friendly face.

Then there were all those flags in the entry.

It would be the right thing to do to stop.

To do the adult thing, the right thing, and set his phone down, forcing himself back to the work on his screen.

But the pressure of taking this job was never-ending. He never got a break from it. Not for one minute could he forget where this team had been, last year, before it had been sold to Grant Green, a tech billionaire with no experience owning a professional sports franchise. The old owners had been morally bankrupt, ready to drag the whole team and all its players down a desperate black hole of doing anything to win a Super Bowl.

Grant didn’t want that, and he’d made it crystal clear to Jon that if the Condors did ever win a championship, they’d do so in an entirely different way.

But for right now, one of Jon’s jobs was scouting, because money was tight, and it wasn’t just about finding great players at a price they could afford, it was about finding honorable players at a price they could afford. A much trickier proposition.

Kieran had given him a little bit of respite, for the first time in what felt like weeks, and instead of putting his phone away, Jon leaned back in his desk chair, put his feet up on the edge of the desk, and kept typing.

So, tonight’s not Disco Night, huh?

Kieran’s response was just as quick. For someone who seemed unimpressed by the Bee Gees, I’m surprised you even remember.

Jon laughed out loud. I’m more of a Donna Summer kind of guy.

And if he was flirting, well . . .he wasn’t stupid. In fact, he’d sort of gotten this job because he’d proven himself to be the opposite. On the football field, anyway. Was he good at relationships? He was fucking terrible at them—when he even attempted them, which was practically never. But he could be a good friend. Even he, who worked too many hours, had friends.

Kieran could be a friend that he sort of . . .flirt-texted . . .with, every so often.

No harm, no foul, right?

Now that I can see. You in silver glitter with your hair teased up to there.

Maybe another guy—another kind of football coach, on another kind of team—would be freaked out by the visual that Kieran had provided. But Jon was only amused.

Look hot, do I?

Jon knew he shouldn’t have sent it. But he’d gotten into a rhythm, fingers typing almost as fast as his mind was going, and it was too late to pull back, to stop now.

Maybe Kieran wasn’t as into this as Jon was, because before, he’d been texting back almost as rapidly as Jon had—but now there was a long, drawn out lull.

A lull that made Jon set his phone carefully on the desk and actually think about what he was doing.

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