Page 9 of Touchdown, Tennessee
Since transferring into TNU, I’d become more and more outspoken about being openly gay with every passing day. I paid attention to LGBTQ+ events on campus, attended plenty of them, andneverhid my sexuality as a football player. How had I not heard that Gray had publicly written about being into guys?
I realized something like I’d just been hit in the face with one of Luke’s missile football passes.
Gray Gilman infuriated me, yes. But there was something else.
Goddamnit.
I wasn’t just nervous around him because I was intimidated by his book-smarts or his sharp articles.
I actuallydidwant to fuck him.
CHAPTER 2
GRAY
There was nothing worse than a guy like Andrew Peachel.
Baby-smooth skin, big, kind brown eyes, and a way to charm every single person around him like he was a Golden Retriever who just did a trick.
His trick was football.
And yes, he was good at it.
But Andrew was also the kind of guy who hadalwaysgotten what he wanted.
Andtonight?
I was pretty sure he wanted to fuck.
From the moment Andrew first got to the bar, I could tell. He was scanning the room, looking at any guy who crossed his vision that might be interested. He wasn’t really good at hiding it, and the drunker he got, the more he looked over at me.
He didn’tlikeme, and he hated the idea of me writing an article about him or the team.
But he’d lost his game tonight.
He needed a win.
I knew he would happily take me as a conquest, deciding I was worth a hate-fuck the moment that tequila in his bloodmoved along fromtipsy and cockyand becamedrunk and desperate.
The thing is, Andrew could have just about any gay, bi, or curious guy on campus…
Other than me.
Denying him was going to be the highlight of my fucking year.
Andrew seemed to have always gotten what he wanted in every aspect of his life. Not just from his parents, who were apparently some of the wealthiest donors to the TNU campus in the last fifty years, but from Coach Ennick too, who clearly treated Andrew like some sort of athlete prince.
And Luke. The Tempests quarterback seemed to butter Andrew up at every chance he could get.
Right now, he had an arm draped over Andrew’s shoulder as the two of them tossed back their fourth tequila shots of the night over at the bar.
I was at a corner table alone right now, after the rest of the guys had broken off to play games of pool, dance near the jukebox, or head to the main, big U-shaped wooden bar.
I was here.
Observing.
The way I always did.
