Page 26 of Second Shot

Grinning, Marlowe says, “Fuck off.”

I take in the spread. “Niko, you know how to throw a Super Bowl party, dude.”

Niko beams. “Hellz yeah, I do.”

I notice there are no significant others here. Most of the team is single, but not all of them. Some are married, some have partners. Kincaid’s girlfriend, Tiffany, is in another state, so I get why she’s not around. But I have a feeling the lack of partners is intentional. Niko likes hanging out with the team, but I don’t think he likes it when their attention is divided between him and someone else.

Foster immediately claims one end of the couch, grabbing a plate and loading it with enough food for three people. Marlowe settles into a leather recliner that looks like it could swallow him whole. Kincaid and D’Angelosqueeze onto the other end of the sectional, playfully shoving each other for the best spot.

The energy in the room is festive. I go to grab a beer and find a spot on the couch, letting the conversation wash over me. This is what I worried I wouldn’t have after leaving Chicago. Downtime with teammates, everyone gathered around the TV, forming closer bonds. I’m glad to see I was wrong.

“Caldwell,” Foster calls out. “Tell these clowns Mahomes is the real GOAT.”

I shake my head. “Bro, I’m not starting a civil war before I get some wings in my stomach.”

“Wise choice,” Marlowe says. “Last year we almost needed a ref to stop a brawl.”

The conversation flows from football to hockey to Foster’s latest dating disaster. Apparently he matched with someone on a dating app who turned out to be his high school math teacher. D’Angelo nearly chokes on his beer he’s laughing so hard.

I’m halfway through my second beer, finally starting to relax, when there’s a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Niko announces, heading toward the door.

It’s Jacobs.

My stomach clenches with excitement at the sight of him, but I try to calm the fuck down. I’m acting like an idiot. He’s not my boyfriend, Jesus, I need to get a grip.

“You’re late,” Niko chastises him.

“Better late than never,” Jacobs says simply, holding up a six-pack of expensive imported beer. He looks hot in fitted jeans and a light blue collared shirt. “Hopefully you’ll forgive me.”

Niko grabs his shirt and tugs him in the door. “Go put that in the ice chest. You’re forgiven.”

Jacobs grins and my heart squeezes at how it changes his face. I haven’t seen many real smiles from the guy. I’m hoping that will change if we can get more chummy. I’m disappointed he doesn’t want anything more to do with me sexually. But since he just wanted to forget what happened that night, I have to assume he’s not interested. Not exactly flattering, but it is what it is. Maybe he thinks I was too pathetic. But I still want to try and be his friend.

Jacobs nods to everyone as he enters. I try not to read too much into the way his eyes linger on me a moment longer than the others. He settles into the last empty spot on the couch, which happens to be right next to me, and takes one of the beers he brought from Niko.

“You got here just in time,” I say, trying to ignore the press of his leg against mine. “Almost missed the kick-off.”

He keeps his gaze fixed on the TV. “Yeah, I had some stuff to take care of before I came.”

The Super Bowl starts, and conversation shifts to analyzing every play. The thing about watching a game with a big group of guys is it’s chaotic. Everybody’s got an opinion about everything, and there’s trash talk galore. The most surprising thing is Jacobs joins in. He cracks jokes and laughs easily at what everyone is saying. He’s like a different guy from the one I met that first day.

The first quarter flies by in a blur of spectacular plays and increasingly loud commentary from the guys. During the first commercial break, everyone’s debating the ads, rating them and arguing about which ones are actually funny.

By halftime, the booze and laugher have loosened everyone up. Foster’s telling dirty jokes, and Niko’s phone comes out. He’s posts some pictures of us watching the game. He’s good about that stuff. He keeps up with social media at home and on the road. Me, I tend to pretend it doesn’t exist. It makes me stressed out, so I bury my head in the sand too much.

The halftime show is epic, live performances by tons of celebrities. Who’d havethought a roomful of jocks would be glued to the screen, cheering and critiquing the performance like we’re judges on a reality show. But it’s a good time, and we’re all really enjoying ourselves.

The drunker I get, the harder it is to ignore the sound of Jacobs’ husky laugh, or his clean masculine scent. I look down at his hand resting on his thigh and I can’t stop thinking about how it felt wrapped around my aching cock. And the way he watched me as I came on command, fuck, that was so hot.

“Hey, Caldwell,” Niko calls out from the kitchen. “You brought ice, right?”

Shit.

“Uh, crap.” I stand and walk into the kitchen. “It’s downstairs at my place. Sorry, I’ll go grab it.”

“Thanks man. I wouldn’t ask, but we’re running low on the ice I had on hand.” Niko grimaces, looking guilty.

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