Page 47 of Tight End

“How do you feel about playing Chicago at the opener on Thursday? They only lost one preseason game, and I mean, I’m no expert, but Anderson seems?—”

“Seems irrelevant for this conversation,” June says, cutting him off and putting her pink bag on the floor to push her father and sister toward the door. “Dad, Poppy, I hate to kick you out, but I’m going to. Thanks for taking Oliver to lunch. If you guys want to harass Ryan, you’ll have plenty of time at the cookout Mom is insisting we have at the end of next week.”

“Oh, good. Satan is having a barbecue.” Mr. Morgan scoffs. “I’ll bring the fun. And the ribs.”

Poppy gives us both a little wave, blowing a kiss to Oliver. “Bye, Oliver. Nice meeting you, Devlin. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“That’s so nice. I can’t wait for you all to get to know each other more.” June smacks Poppy’s hands away, closing the door behind them and promptly locking it. She sags against the door, sending an apologetic look my way. “Sorry about that. My family can be a lot.”

I nod, a smile playing on my lips. “It sounds like meeting your mom will be a blast.”

“Gramps calls her Satan but says I should neber tell her.” Oliver shrugs, beelining for the bag, and pulls out a few pieces of the polka-dot paper. “What did you get? Is it your birfday?”

“No!” June lunges toward the bag, her legs moving a lot faster than I thought they could in those tight pants. She lets out a war cry, and I’m pretty sure she leapfrogged over our son to get to this bag. Only she doesn’t open it or simply take it away. No. She throws that shit like it’s a shot put and the Olympic gold medal is on the line.

The bag soars across the room in slow motion, the gift paper flying out and then slowly sailing to the floor.

Oliver’s eyes are wide, and he looks excited to see what’s going to happen next. June is currently motionless, her hands pressed into her cheeks as she watches in horror as whatever is in the fucking bag hits the wall with a thud, the contents spilling out to the floor.

June spins to Oliver, a fake smile plastered on her face. “How about you go get ready for a bath? I’ve got you some new Bluey bubble bath.”

“I want you and Dad to give me a baf.”

And he’s off like a shot, pulling June along with him. Not sure that was her intention, but as I take a step toward her gift, she calls out, “Don’t worry about the mess on the floor. I’ll clean it up after bathtime. Can you grab us a few towels?”

Yeah, I’ll grab some towels. As soon as I find out what the fuck was in that bag.

They’re around the corner and trudging up the stairs seconds later, and I’m edging into the living room. Why I’m walking like I’m a world-class spy, I have no idea, but I don’t know how to stop. Neither one of them are here. And once I get a glimpse of one of the two packages, it’s a good thing.

My throat dries up, yet a little drool slips out from between my lips. Make that make sense.

It can’t. Nothing does right now.

Fuck.

Lying on the floor of my living room is a massaging wand about the length of my hand and a thrusting, vibrating dildo that’s a lot bigger.

I have so many regrets, number one being having her damn room ready for her to sleep in tonight. There’s no way I can go up there and pretend to be normal, help her give Olivera bath, because the entire time I’m going to be picturing her fastening the bonus suction cup to the bottom of that thing and riding that fake dick like it’s a bull at the rodeo.

How can I look her in the face?

How can I be normal?

How can I go to sleep tonight knowing she’s bouncing on a dick that isn’t mine?

Yeah, this day is the worst. Might as well rebag my competition and hand deliver it to her new room. I guess a fake dick is better than a stranger’s.

Fuck.

Chapter Twenty

Gordon: It was fun to stumble on a video of you doing yoga. Tell me, Ryan, was that a chub in your shorts or were you smuggling a small fruit?

Ryan: Aren’t you supposed to be working?

Ryan: And what are you doing on Instagram?

Gordon: I have an account.

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