Page 44 of Him
“There are teams already?” How long had I been asleep?
Wes grins again. “Pat’s calling it boys versus men. Him and the older coaches against us young’uns.”
“Sweet.” I’m not a soccer enthusiast, but any sort of competition gets my adrenaline going.
“PS—losers have to perform a song for the campers in the dining hall tonight,” Wes says.
I narrow my eyes. “Which song?”
“Winners’ choice.” He snickers.
“Just out of curiosity—who came up with these stakes?”
My best friend blinks with the utmost innocence.
That’s what I thought.
“You know if we lose, Pat’s gonna make us sing Mariah Carey or some shit,” I grumble as I look for my shorts.
“Which is why we’re not going to lose,” he says cheerfully.
We stop at the bakery in town so I can grab a coffee and something to eat, and I scarf down two banana muffins as we head to the soccer field. It’s another gorgeous day and the tourists are out in droves, bustling down the sidewalk and filling the outdoor patios we pass on our way.
Two chicks stop in their tracks as Wes and I walk by. They’re in their early twenties, both blond, both incredibly attractive. One girl is wearing a top that’s cut so low her tits are practically hanging out of it, and a spark of heat ignites my groin. Shi-it. That rack is spectacular.
Wes winks at them and keeps walking. I match his strides, trying not to glance over my shoulder to see if the girls are watching us.
Okay, just one peek. I flick my chin back for a quick look, which causes one of the girls to nudge her friend.
Whoops.
“See something you like?” Wes asks.
I feel a slap of discomfort that wouldn’t have been there twenty-four hours ago. “Just thinking things over,” I mumble.
“I’ll bet.” His voice is low.
We don’t speak of it anymore, because I don’t need to involve Wes in my confusion. But I’m pretty sure that my dick is an equal-opportunity player. Because I love women. I love how soft they are and the way they smell and how they feel in my arms. I love fucking them and going down on them, and I’m never faking it.
Last night, I wasn’t faking it, either. And now I have no idea what it all means.
Wes nudges me, then points at a street sign we’re passing. Cummings Road.
“Like that joke has never been made before. Now who’s the pre-teen?”
He stiffens for a beat, as if he didn’t expect me to make a reference to last night. Then he snorts. “Let’s play some soccer, Canning.”
Indeed.
First, Pat gathers everyone around. You can’t ask a bunch of highly competitive athletes to play a friendly game of soccer without going over a few rules first. There will be two twenty-minute periods. And will the offsides rule count? Yes it will. Is slide tackling legal? No. “Because I will fucking kill anyone who injures himself,” Pat adds.
Good to know.
We’re playing five on five, and I’m in the goal, of course. I can see Killfeather over on the side, watching me with a grin on his face. He’s not a bad kid when he forgets to be stressed out.
I’m not stressed, either. I’m bored to tears, because Wes and the other guys are giving ’em hell at the other end of the field. We’re up 1-0 by the time I have to make my first save. A soccer net is a lot bigger than a hockey goal, so saving the net seems more haphazard. But I stop Pat’s shot in my hands and my team cheers.
I set the ball down on the line, back up and kick it downfield. Before it reaches Wes, he gives me a little smile, then traps the ball with his chest. It drops to the ground between his muscular legs and then he’s off running, controlling the ball, masculine beauty in motion.
