I’m just a guy who happens to be good at football. A guy who loves football and his friends.
That’s it. No more than that.
God knows, my father would like it to be more. No, seriously—Godknows—because my father begs him on his knees every night. Begs him to give me grander aspirations. Political aspirations, to be precise. To follow in his footsteps.
Fuck. That.
Wait ‘till dear old dad finds out what kind of begging I do onmyknees.
The familiar energy shift hits me as soon as I’m inside the karaoke bar. Like I said, I’m used to it. Comes with the territory of being the most famous quarterback in America. My face is on billboards—hell, several people in this karaoke joint are rocking my jersey. A couple dudes I don’t know near the bar clock me immediately.
“Yo, Butters!”
Hands slap mine as I weave through the crowd, grinning, nodding, playing the part. Gracious. Familiar.
Empty.
I spot my actual friends near the bar. My best bros, Anthony, and my teammate Beau are here. Beau’s wife, Lexi, and Anthony’s other bestie, Jen, are here too.
But there’s a guy with them I don’t recognize.
Dark hair, meticulously styled. Tailored shirt stretching across his biceps and chest, and—hello, tight pants.
Jen sees me first. “Butters!”
She hugs me quick before turning and gesturing to the mystery man filling those pants so deliciously. “Butters, this is Spencer. He’s also an attorney at the firm. Spencer, this is Ryan Buterbaugh, but we call him Butters.”
I turn fully toward him and lose my tongue. Deep blue eyes. Not soft. Not warm. Sharp. Assessing. He’s about five-eleven, maybe. Not super tall, but solid. Compact. His upper body is cleanly defined, but not overly bulky. The muscles under the fabric of his shirt move with precision; their sole function seems to be to direct your eyes to his narrow waist, and his—
Fuck.
Did someone order a bucket of thighs?
Thick slabs press against denim. Powerful. Dense.
I’ve spent my entire life around elite athletes. I know muscle. That’s a specific build; coiled and loaded for rapid bursts of exertion. If I had to guess, my money’s on gymnast or soccer player at some point in his life.
Jesus, those things look powerful. I bet his thrust game is next level. He shifts on his feet, tight pants doing nothing to hide his sizable bulge. Goddamn, my mouth is watering. I need to get myself in check here. I drag my gaze back up before anyone notices.
“I know who the quarterback for Arizona is,” he says in a dry, unimpressed tone. “I don’t live under a rock. I’m not calling you Butters, though, Ryan.”
Damn, the way he says my name.
“Fair enough. Good to meet you, little guy,” I shoot back… and realize my mistake instantly. The second it leaves my mouth; I catch the spark igniting in those piercing blue eyes.
He scoffs. “There’s nothing little about me. I’d be happy to take you to the men’s room and compare.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck, and all I can do is stare. I’m never without words, but damn, he’s so confident.
Commanding.
My weakness.
Waiting for me to respond, he cocks his head to the side, daring me to take the challenge. Lust builds low in my stomach, immediate and heavy. If I were anyone else—if it wouldn’t risk my career—I’d step closer. I’d lower my voice and tell him I’ve won stiffer competitions.
I’d flirt. Hard.
Instead, I blink like an idiot. He holds my stare. Defiant.
