Page 13 of The Brotherly Shove

BREAKER

Three YearsAgo

Chicago, Illinois

"I swear, those refs must have gotten their dicks sucked by the entire team AND the coaching staff," Lennon gripes as I swipe the key to the hotel room we're sharing while in Chicago. As soon as we're in the room, I'm yanking at the tie on the stupid suit we're required to wear to and from our games. It's a rule that I still don't understand.

When I make it to the NFL, I'm gonna be rolling up to games in sweatpants and flip flops and no one is going to stop me. If it's good enough for Jason Kelce, it will be good enough for me.

I make quick work of the rest of my suit, shrugging out of the rigid dress pants and pulling up a pair of loose fitting jeans. The rest of the team is drowning their misery in cheap beers and jersey chasers at a dive bar down the road, but that's not always Lennon and my jam. Tonight, I'm feeling greasy food and a comfort movie. The night is still young, though, so instead of ordering in like I know we both really want to, I'm gonna force Len to actually go out to a restaurant with me so we can at least enjoy the city a bit before holing up in this room.

"I mean seriously, the amount of false starts they called on us in the fourth quarter. Nobody was moving! They just used it as an excuse to march the Shakers right down the field," he says for probably the hundredth time since the game ended over an hour ago. I snicker anyway, if only because that's the dumbest team name I've ever heard. I mean, points to the college for the alliteration—The Chicago U Shakers—but still, someone was mentally clocked out when they came up with that one. I keep my back turned until I hear Len zip up his jeans.

I pull my favorite t-shirt over my head—the one that says 'Taylor Swift' in a font reminiscent of a heavy metal band—and turn when it sounds safe. Lennon is still yapping and complaining about the outcome of the game. I nod along, not really listening as I loop a black belt around my waist and pull the buckle taut, leaving a little extra room for the inevitable bloating I'm bound to experience at dinner. He's not wrong, we were definitely being judged unfairly out there today, but it's over now. I don't see the point of dwelling on it when we have another chance to prove ourselves at home against a school from upstate New York next Saturday. I'm about to say as much to Lennon when he suddenly stops talking.

"Len?" I ask, snapping my fingers between us. He's staring at something behind me, suddenly pale as a sheet, like he'd seen a ghost. I glance behind myself, looking around for what might have spooked him, but there's nothing behind me besides a closed curtain and my luggage bag tossed haphazardly on the one chair in the room.

"Lennon," I say again, taking a step towards him. "Where'd you go, bud?"

He blinks slowly, then shakes his head like he's rejoining reality after waking up from a strange dream.

"What's that?" he asks, his voice sounding like it's coming from a million miles away.

"You were going on minute four hundred and thirty two of why the game today was rigged and then you just clammed up. What, did you take a hard boink to the noggin that I didn't notice?"

His cheeks go red, and my stomach sinks.

"Shit, Len. Did you actually get hit? Does your head hurt? Should I call Coach?" I start frantically patting at the bed, searching for my phone, but Lennon stops me with a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm fine, B. I promise. I didn't get hit. I just spaced out for a second. I think I'm just hangry. I'm gonna rinse off real quick and then let's go get some food, yeah?" He beelines towards the bathroom and I watch him go, feeling more than a little confused.

It's not like Lennon to go from one hundred to zero like that, and he already showered in the locker room at the stadium. We both did.

I mean, whatever, I guess. I'm not going to question the guy's hygiene if the only problem is that he wants to be cleaner than he already is.

I flop back on the bed, finding my phone in the tumble of sheets and start to scroll through Instagram. After a few minutes, my stomach rumbles and I realize I haven't heard the shower turn on yet. I decide that Lennon needs to hurry up, so instead of surprising him with the reservations I made at the famous deep dish pizza place that I know he's dying to try, I get up and walk towards the bathroom door.

I give the door a quick rap with my knuckles and call through it.

"Len, hurry up. I'm starving and there's a table for two at Angelo's Deep Dish calling our names. I promise to keep my 'deep dish is a casserole, not a pizza' comments to a minimum." I press my ear to the door when he doesn't immediately answer.I expected him to fly out the door, throw me over his shoulder and shove me into an Uber before I had the chance to change my mind about my restaurant of choice, but that doesn't happen.

When I hear a breathy moan accompanied by the unmistakable sound of skin on skin, I jump back like the door electrocuted me. I pace to the other side of the room and press my back against the wall.

Shit. I just accidentally listened to Lennon jerking off.

I'm not naive. I know this probably isn't the first time he's masturbated in the bathroom of a room we've shared. I know I've done it, there's no shame in it. It comes with the adrenaline after a game. If you're not hooking up, you've got to find some way to dispel all that pent up energy. I'm just shocked that he couldn't even be bothered to turn the shower on or wait until I'm asleep later.

He just started going to town on himself, knowing full well that I was waiting for him quietly on the other side of the door. An image flashes in my mind—Lennon with his pants pulled down just enough, one hand bracing himself on the bathroom sink while the other pumps up and down his length, teeth biting into his pink bottom lip, trying to muffle the sounds of his pleasure.

My cock thickens in my pants, and I swear to god, I consider slapping myself across the face when I feel the damn thing twitch against the zipper of my jeans.

Bad, Breaker. No. You are not getting hard over the thought of Lennon touching himself. You're going to pretend you never heard anything.

Yeah, I can do that. I can pretend. I just won't think about it. It's not like I haven't spent the last two years pretending like Lennon isn't the most gorgeous man I've ever laid my eyes on. I just shoved it down, and I can shove this down too.

I won't think about Lennon's mouth. I won't think about his thick chest or the soft looking black hair that decorates him all the way down to his waist band. I won't think about opening that bathroom door and asking him if he needs a hand, slowly sinking to my knees in front of him…

The bathroom door flies open and I turn quickly, adjusting myself so that my dick isn't so prominently trying to bust through my fly and Lennon places his hands on my shoulders.

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