Page 5 of Penalty Zone

Caleb

“Will your dad be okay with this?” I ask again, standing in the frigid air. The temperature is mild, but the wind between the buildings is brutal.

“He won’t even notice. He said he’s going to bed, and he’s an old man. The rideshare is two lights away. It could be here in a minute or ten. I’ll wait for it.” Mason opens the door to the lobby of his dad’s building. “Grab your phone and haul ass outta there. No big deal. Since when did you become such a rule follower?”

Since it’s basically breaking and entering his father’s apartment with a stolen code. Obviously it’s not stolen, but Leo doesn’t know Mason gave it to me. The worst part, I suspect Mason wants to sext with Kayla. It’s his stress relief.

Dinner had been so awkward, and I spewed verbal diarrhea, trying to fill the silence.

“It’s only nine. He can’t actually be going to bed. Come up with me.” I hear the begging in my voice, and so does he.

“I can’t stand another minute of conversation with my dad. Go quick. He said he was going to shower. Get in and get out.”

Now I have a vision of a naked Leo, and I flee from Mason. The chance that this situation blows up in my face and my life becomes unrecognizable—one hundred percent. A million percent if I were a betting man, but I’m not.

Leo lives in an upscale, quiet building. Everyone here must be single or old. No music thumping, no laughter—as sterile as a hospital, but dressed up in fancy decor.

Mason’s right. I left my phone on his entry table when I bent down to tie my shoe. Even if he’s in the living room, I can duck in, grab my phone, and run.

Leo Griffin will be the reason I die. Either from extreme lust and blue balls or an elevated heart rate from anxiety.

I take three quick breaths and blow them out when I reach his door. That must only work in the movies because I’m ready to pass out. I’m already out of breath from taking the stairs. I didn’t want to chance being on camera in the elevator. As if Leo knows how to find elevator footage. I’ve never claimed to be rational.

My fingers shake as I enter the code to his apartment—twice, since I forgot to hit the hashtag.

I ease the door open, mimicking a stealthy ninja, but in reality, I’m closer to an elephant on ice skates. “Hello? Hey, just grabbing my phone.” My voice is low as I step forward, eyes swinging around wildly, checking for Leo.

An entry table is strategically placed to my left, separating the kitchen area on the right from the living room. Across from me are large floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing a pretty park. The couch to my left is angled to watch TV or take in the view. Luckily, Leo isn’t in the kitchen or the living room. I grab my phone, ready to leave, but freeze when I hear him whistling and moving closer.

My first instinct, drop to the ground and hide. But there’s no hiding my wide, six-foot frame, so I pop back up. Leo’s in the kitchen, wearing a towel and filling a glass with water from the fridge.

Of all the things to make me lose my shit, Leo’s muscular back flexing, a huge expanse of his snow-white skin, beads of water creating rivets in those fucking gorgeous muscles, it’s the fact that he’s filling a glass of water that gets me. I definitely pictured him as a snobby, bottled water type of guy. A hysterical bubble of laughter threatens to spill out, and I clamp my lips shut to keep it in.

When I swallow, it creates a lump that catches in my throat and travels down my esophagus, past my diaphragm, and into my stomach, where it sits churning up acid and bile, trying to retrace the laughter’s path.

Logically, I need to say something. Let him know he’s not alone. It’s the decent thing to do. Except on this rare occasion, I’m speechless. I don’t even need words; clearing my throat will do. But nope. Nothing.

My mind conjures a pornographic soundtrack, and he’s performing. As if he’s putting on a show for his lover, and the bass speeds up to increase the viewers’ anticipation. My heart races as my eyes devour his back. I can name each and every muscle, but they’ve never looked delicious enough to lick before. I’ve seen lots of naked men in my hockey career but never someone so enticing I want my lips on them.

My mouth hangs open, and I imagine myself as a cartoon character with a river of drool pooling on the floor. I’ll never be a sexy character in a scene.

Leo’s drinking his water, and in the silence, I can hear each gulp. I’m staring at his profile so he can see me in his peripheral vision if I shift the slightest bit. I’m holding my breath, and eventually I’ll need to breathe or risk passing out. If I couldguarantee being knocked out and waking up in the hospital, I’d choose option B. I’m not that lucky, so I exhale a tiny puff of air and intake a little more.

Get it together, Benz. Say something.

Leo pauses, his drink hovering inches from his mouth. He’s a half-second from busting me. But his glass clinks on the counter and he removes the towel from his waist to dry his hair.

Gobsmacked. I’m not even sure what that word means, but it sounds like how I feel. All the air has been sucked out of Leo’s apartment, and I’m now in a vacuum where I’m weightless and brainless. In another dimension, standing near Leo, invisible yet vulnerable, drinking in all the sights yet blind. There’s a real possibility this is a dream and I’ve created a fictional version of Leo.

But props to my subconscious for this fantasy.

Leo’s cock swings gently between his powerful thighs with the motion of vigorously drying his hair.

His hair—in my humble opinion—doesn’t need such rough treatment. It will dry in a few minutes. Maybe a light swipe to stop the ends from dripping, but that’s all it needs.

The hair situation can’t distract me from his cock. Yup, I’m a total creeper, staring. The man thinks he’s alone in his apartment, innocently getting a drink of water, and I’m eye-fucking him and his junk.

His cock is long, hanging limp but plump, and red compared to his pale skin. Of course, the man is big. He could be all show and no grow, but I doubt it. The tip is darker and—fire-ants-on-maple-syrup—the man is uncut.

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