Page 19 of The Try Line

"We are in the South," I say with a tiresome huff. The whole media circus surrounding the NFL's most promising rookie coming out was the only thing people talked about for months. Thank goodness all the bullshit he went through didn't slow him down. He’s been proving bigots wrong left and right, putting up record winning stats and helping the Panthers rise to success. The last two seasons have been our best yet, and for the first time ever we are looking at a potential Superbowl on the horizon.

"Changing minds and changing lives, one touchdown at a time," he says, lifting his beer in the air to salute the picture of Jack Perry on the screen.

"You ever wish you'd stuck with football?" I ask, grasping at straws to keep the conversation going. I want to keep him talking. It's less awkward, but I also always loved the sound of his voice. I sometimes eavesdropped when Jase had him on speakerphone just to hear that sultry rumble.

Redirect, Mik. The idea is to get rid of the boner, not make it worse.

"Nah. It's not rough and dirty enough for me," he quips with a laugh. My cock twitches. He coughs, perhaps realizing the awkwardness of his statement. "Do you like coaching?" he asks, quickly changing the subject.

I shrug and nod. "Yeah, sure. Maybe not as fun as playing, but that shit's getting rough."

He blows out a breath and chuckles. "Tell me about it. They treat me like I'm a fucking grandpa."

"It doesn't show on the field. You still dominate."

My cheeks flush when I realize I've just exposed myself.

“The whole family gets together to watch every match," I say quickly, trying to cover up how closely I've followed his career since he left.

"I’m not as fast as I used to be," he says awkwardly.

"Who is?" I laugh. "We're almost forty years old, not thatyoulook it." It's not something that I meant to say out loud, but now it's floating in the air between us and he's giving me a confused look. "Not all of us have been keeping ourselves in prime condition," I say, gesturing to myself. I'd grown a bit of a paunch in the past few years that I didn't really care to address until I heard he was coming back. But no amount of sit-ups or running can seem to tighten up my midsection.

"You look good," he says quietly, his eyes raking up and down my body.

He seems to realize what he’s said, because he turns away entirely. But the words are out there now. They linger, filling me with a ridiculous, painful kind of hope. I can't have him, I know that. But a sick part of me wants him to want me as much as I want him. How fucked up is that?

The silence is heavy and awkward. I need to work some of this tension out before I break. I need to get out of here, to escape the thick emotions and memories that are filling the room and making it hard to breathe. I stand abruptly, and Jason turns to look up at me. Too afraid to open my mouth again, lest I say something stupid, I give him a tight smile and head to the garage.

The kids’ music isn't as loud in here, so I turn on my own playlist, then unbutton my shirt. The humidity in the air is oppressive, and while I lost the tie as soon as we arrived home, I'm still wearing the slacks and button-down shirt I'd worn to the graduation ceremony earlier. I pull off the shirt and my belt, leaving me in my dress pants and a tank top. Janel prefers I keep my ink covered in public. I sometimes get annoyed with how much she cares about anyone seeing my tattoos, but it keeps her off my back about them. It’s a small sacrifice to keep this part of myself and help her be more comfortable with this side of me.

I move over to the weight bench, grunting as I lift the bar. The more my muscles burn, the more I get out of my head. It's not helping my erection go down, though. After a couple of sets, I try readjusting myself, but even the slight touch makes me groan.Fuck.I'm hard enough that I think I could almost pull off having sex with my wife, but I don't want to do that with Jason in the house. Even after eighteen years and photographic proof that he's been seeing multiple other people, I still feel guilty every time I give in. It's stupid, I know.

My mind flashes to the way he looked me up and down in the living room, and I cup my erection over my pants. Goddamn, but he does it for me. It's not fair. After all this time, all it takes is one look from him, or even just his nearness, to scramble my brain. My body can’t help but respond to him.

I’m lying back on the weight bench, squeezing myself through my pants, when I feel my skin prickle. I turn my head towards a flicker of movement and sit up. In the reflective surface of a toolbox, there’s thebarely distinguishable shape of a man that could only be Jason.

Is he watching me?

Fire shoots through my veins. The thought of his eyes on me is enough to make me forget everything and everyone. My cock is now painfully hard, throbbing against the confines of my pants as I slowly unbutton and lower my zipper. Biting my lip, my hips involuntarily thrust into my hand the moment I wrap my fingers around myself. The figure shuffles. I can’t see him anymore. Hell, maybe it was my imagination. Still, I keep the fantasy alive, pretending I can feel his heated gaze on me.

"Oh, fuck," I whisper, and close my eyes.

Widening my legs and leaning back on the bench, I stroke myself firmly but languidly until my balls are tingling and I can hear Jason's breathing on the other side of the room. He’s still here.Fuck.

Spitting into my palm, I use my wet hand to guide my movements until pre-cum is leaking down my shaft. I pump myself harder, spurred by the prickle of awareness that he’s watching me.

My abs and forearms flex as I fuck into my fist, thinking of nothing but his eyes burning into me. As I get closer to release, I forget the game, forget I was pretending not to notice he was there. My eyes open and lock on his intense, heavy lidded blue gaze, and within seconds I'm coming all over my hand, lap, and the bench.

Jason bites his lips and his bicep flexes, and it's only then that I notice his hand around his own cock. The massive thing is heavy and glistening, and the slight curve makes my mouth fill with saliva. His fist rolls over the head on every other stroke, until he's catching his release in his palm. I stroke myself harder through the aftershocks of my orgasm as I watch him come undone.

CHAPTER 9

JASON

My fucking god, he’s glorious.

I came out here to talk, to try to force some casual conversation so we can keep trying to get comfortable with this situation. Maybe even join his workout. I thought I could use his home gym to work out some of the tension I've been feeling since arriving here.

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