Page 79 of Consummation

“Hardy har,” I replied, feigning annoyance. But I wasn’t annoyed. Not even a little bit. In fact, I was walking on air, despite my two foosball losses. Because despite how much I typically abhor losing at anything, I felt like I’d just gained something a whole lot better than a couple of stinkin’ foosball victories: I’d gained my brothers’ approval of the man I love.

Holy shitballs, Ryan must have slapped Josh on the back at leastfivetimes during our first game and high-fived him anotherten. Andin the second game, when Ryan and Josh were on opposing teams, Ryan floored me by doing the one thing that conveys matriculation into the Morgan clan more than anything else: he christened Josh with a stupid nickname.

“Aw, come on,Lambo,” Ryan teased when Josh failed to guard against one of Ryan’s many goals. “You can do better thanthat.”

“Eh, you got lucky, Captain,” Josh shot back easily.

My heart stopped. I looked at Dax, ready to share a look of pure elation, but Dax’s gaze was fixed squarely on Josh.

“I thought you said you actually knew how toplaythis game, Hollywood,” Dax zinged at Josh. “Pfft.”

Josh laughed. “You best not be talking any smack, Whippersnapper—or else it’s gonna come back to bite you in your rock-star ass.”

And that was that. My brothers had made their feelings about Josh crystal clear—and Josh had returned their affection in no uncertain terms. Just like that, it was two Morgans down, four to go (or, rather, two Morgans down,threeto go, since we all know Keane’s vote doesn’t matter).

And now, having finished our two foosball games, the four of us are walking into the family room, laughing and teasing each other as we go, joining Dad and Colby (and Colby’s boxer Ralph) on seats around the TV.

“Oh, yeah!” Colby shouts at the television. “Come on, baby! Come on!”

I settle myself onto Josh’s lap in a big armchair and glance at the TV, just in time to see the center fielder for the Twins run back, back, back—and then watch helplessly as a long-ball disappears over the center-field fence.

“And that ball is gone, baby,” Ryan says.

Colby and Dad shout with glee and the camera cuts to...Cameron Schulz, the All-Star shortstop for the Mariners, rounding second-base and fist-pumping the air.

At the sight of Cameron, I stiffen on Josh’s lap and look down, hoping against hope he’s somehow, through the grace of God, not looking at the TV right now.

“AndCameron Schulzsmashes a three-run homer to put the Mariners ahead of the Twins three-two in the bottom of the third,” theTV announcer says, just in case Josh isn’t paying attention to what’s happening onscreen. “That wasCameron Schulz’stwelfth homer of the season after a ten-game drought.”

At the mention of Cameron’s name on the TV, I glance at Josh to find him shooting me a look that can only be described ashomicidal.

I bite my lip.

“Schulz is sucking ass this season,” Dax says. He flashes me a snarky look, clearly reminding me he knows Cameron’s penis was once lodged deep inside me.

I shoot Dax a look in reply that unequivocally warns him not to say or do a goddamned thing to give my secret away or else I will cut him.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “The guy’s having a shitty-ass year. Glad he finally didsomethingto earn his big, fat paycheck.”

Dax opens his mouth to say something but I shoot him daggers again, and he shuts it—for a nanosecond, that is—and then he opens it again. “I heard the guy’s juiced up,” Dax says, smirking at me. “I bet he’s got a tiny little peepee.”

I squint at him.

“Well, if that guy’s on ’roids, he should fire his dealer,” Ryan says, swigging his beer. “Because they’re definitely not working.”

Josh laughs.

“Totally,” Dax says. “The Mariners should trade him.”

“They’re not gonnatradeCameron Schulz,” Colby says. “He’s a franchise player.”

“Poor guy’s just having a bad year,” Dad pipes in. “It happens to the best of ’em. Give him a break.”

Josh’s face is mere inches from mine. His eyes are smoldering. He touches the cleft in my chin, a gesture I interpret to mean I’m his and only his (and definitely not that asswipe Cameron Schulz’s)—and goose bumps erupt all over my body.

Josh licks his lips and I know he wants to kiss me, but he doesn’t—a show of restraint around my family, I suppose. Instead, he leans back in his armchair, his eyes burning holes into my face, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me into him.

“So how’s the album coming, Dax?” Josh asks, stroking my hair. “You were about to start recording when we first met at my house.”

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