Page 79 of Fumbling for Perfection

“You busy?” I pant.

“Never too busy for phone sex. What’s with the huffing and puffing?”

“I’m on the elliptical. What are you doing on Sunday afternoon?”

“Going through reports, most likely. You have a better offer?”

“I do. How do you feel about going to a football game?”

“When I invited you to come with me to the game, I wasn’t expecting all of this.” I close the door to the limousine and toss my backpack on the floor next to Rowan’s feet.

Jackson called in the calvary. Rowan happened to have the day off, and when Taylor’s not working, he’s by his husband’s side. And Kendall would never pass on an opportunity to watch dozens of men run around in tight pants.

“The more the merrier. Besides, you made a good argument about Walker never having a family cheering section. So here we are.”

“The limo’s a nice touch.” Kendall pops the cap off a bottle of beer. “Everyone can cut loose and no worries on who’s driving home.”

“Sadly, I have an early morning so there'll be no cutting loose, but I appreciate not having to fight traffic after the game.” Taylor tosses his phone in the pocket of the door next to him and stretches his legs between Kendall and me.

I love the more easy-going Taylor. Inspired by how Jackson stood up to his father and his company, he did the same and came out to his partners at his firm. As he suspected, they snubbed him and started taking his high-profile cases away. But because he’s a good attorney, he hired an even better attorney and threatened to file a discrimination suit.

And then he quit to start his own firm.

“Thank you again for getting the tickets.” I hadn’t meant to freeload off Jackson, but as soon as I suggested it, he said he’d take care of the tickets. Times five, apparently. Oh, and a limo. The joys of rolling in money.

We’re all wearing navy and white, the team’s colors. Kendall is the only one who owns a jersey, and she’s proudly wearing number eighty-six. For one, Miles Buckingham, the tight end, is gorgeous. But mostly because his nickname is Buck, which rhymes with fuck. And she loves to sayFuck me Buck,loud and proud when we’re watching games at home or at a local sports bar. From what we’ve seen on social media and news clips, he’s a flirtatious goofball, which is right up her alley as well.

We arrive at the stadium an hour before the game and find our way through the crowds to the merchandise area.

Jackson picks his way through a rack of jerseys and starts tossing number thirty-threes at me. “If we’re here to support my brother, we need to look the part.”

“I’m supporting Buck,” Kendall says.

“Always a pain in the ass.” Jackson rolls his eyes and nudges her aside.

I glance down at the price tag of one jersey. Over a hundred bucks? And Jackson refused to let me chip in for the tickets. Not that he can’t afford it, but it was my suggestion to come support Walker, and Jackson has paid for everything.

I’m sure he sees it as his penance for not being the supportive big brother he wants to be now. That’s the only reason I don’t feel worse about accepting the generous gift. Once the four jerseys are paid for, we all pull them on over our T-shirts.

It’s a beautiful seventy-degree afternoon and not too hot under the thick material. Rowan, Kendall, and I loop our elbows together and follow Jackson and Taylor through the throngs of people.

Other than golf, Jackson has never been to a sporting event of any kind, but Taylor’s been to a few Celtics games. His firm has box seats, and he gets in a few games a season. When it comes to football, our male escorts are mostly numb.

We ladies understand the game, for the most part, but the scenery is something we can all appreciate.

It isn’t until we’re nearing the bottom of the steps that I see how close we are to the field and right behind the Revolutions’ bench. The seats must have cost Jackson a fortune. Nosebleed seats are out of my budget, I can’t imagine what five second row seats on the fifty-yard line set him back.

“Hot damn.” Rowan whistles and slowly spins around, taking in the view of the arena. “This place is freaking huge.” AC/DC blasts from the sound system, and there’s nothing but good vibes in the air.

“That’s what she said.” Kendall stares at the field where both teams are stretching and doing their individual warmups. “Look at those fucking asses. Is it wrong to want to take a bite out of them?”

My focus isn’t on the men stretching on the field. It’s on one man. Walker is in his element. Focused, determined, and serious. It’s as if no one else is on the field and there aren’t fifty thousand fans in the stands.

Most of the other players are focused as well, but there are plenty who are smiling, laughing, and goofing off while still getting their warmup in.

Walker holds his lunge and his quads and glutes flex under the tight uniform pants. God, how I miss those strong legs pressing me against a wall or pinning me on the couch. He lowers himself to the turf and reaches for his toes, then fluidly spins to a pigeon pose.

His legs are his number one asset on the field. He’s fast and agile, as I’ve seen from the countless hours of clips I’ve been watching at night before I go to sleep. The pictures of him all over the internet are impressive, but it’s watching him in action that has me in awe.

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