Page 5 of Home Game

I’d always gravitated toward slender guys in suits, guys who were more reserved, who probably had gone to Harvard or Yale, and who were more like… well, more likeme.

Storm was not that.

He looked every bit like a football player. His most recent Instagram photo was of him shirtless by a swanky pool at a resort, surrounded by women who looked like models. The man must have been six foot one of pure muscle, and his hair was dark and longer on top but cut neatly on the sides. He had a few tattoos across his back, but from the front, it was all clean skin. Judging by the comments, a lot of his female fans were “thirsty”for him and loved the combination of his grey-blue eyes with his dark hair.

Stormy Eyes, they called him. Usually with a lot of sweat-drop and heart-eyes emojis next to it.

It felt like Storm was smiling out at me, even from the small pictures. His smile always had a hint of mischief behind it, which was right in line with all the wild shit he had done in the public eye.

Storm Rosling called people out publicly. He got in verbal fights with anyone who talked badly about one of his friends or teammates. He threw parties that got noise complaints, again and again. There had been multiple times that he nearly got thrown out of the pro football league, but he was so popular—and sogoodat what he did—that he’d always skirted by.

I scrolled down to another photo and zoomed in.

Guilt pooled in me as my cock started to harden. I didn’t like the guy, but he was pure eye candy.

One of his recent videos was of him, alone, lying down onto soft grass and very obviously trying to showcase his abs.

He pointed the camera down as he stroked a hand over his chest and down to his stomach, letting the frame stop just above the thick elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs. He then panned the camera up again to his face—lightly smiling, with that mischievous smile—and ran a hand through the shaggy top of his hair.

Really, really fucking hot.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw the background of the video. It was clearly taken in a backyard, and the caption read:My shiny new home.Can’t wait to start renovations.

The fence was the same as the one in my backyard.

Stained in a beautiful cherrywood color, with the same pattern of trees above it.

I backed out to his main Instagram page and scrolled a little further down, confirming my worst suspicions. There were multiple photos that had the exact same little black-and-white fluffy dog who had shown up in my yard every day this week.

Oreo’s having herself a pool day, one of them was captioned, where the little dog was on a neon green inflatable pool raft on the water.

“Fuckme,” I muttered out loud to no one.

Storm Rosling wasn’t just my marketing nightmare.

He was my new neighbor.

2

STORM

“Storm,” Zeke said to me as I walked into the tattoo studio. “Never thought I’d see you around here again after our last session.”

I grinned at him and gave him a fist bump and a hug. “I swear I won’t cry this time. The last one hurt like hell, but this one will be easy. I hope.”

“What are you looking for?”

“If you’ve got the time, just this,” I said, holding out the small printed-out line art of the Denver Ferals claw symbol. “For the back of my right shoulder.”

“Always have time for you,” Zeke said, already reaching over to his supplies to begin tracing the art. “How are you, man?”

“Living life, loving life, and ready to play football,” I said, meaning every word of it. “So hyped for this new season.”

“I keep seeing you in the news,” Zeke said, casting me a glance from above his thick-rimmed glasses. Zeke was old, greying, and had always treated me like he was my tough-guy tattoo artist grandpa.

I rolled my eyes. “They never leave me alone. Did you see the headlines from earlier this week?”

He shook his head as he traced out my tattoo art. “Something bad happen?”

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