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“I’m yours.”
“And who do I belong to?” I asked next.
“You’re mine, too.”
Yeah, I really was.
We fell asleep stuck together with cum and sex, and I fucking loved it. I took his ass again once during the night while Patrick sucked and licked at my neck again, making more of his marks on my skin.
“I want to cook you breakfast,” I told him the next morning when we woke up. He frowned cutely, and I kissed the expression off his face. “Remember? I take care of what’s mine, baby.” He deserved someone looking out for him.
He nodded, and we put on underwear before going downstairs. I’d be leaving soon, so I didn’t have a whole lot of time. I’d miss my flight if I had to, even though it would get me a hefty fine from Coach.
“What do you want?”
“You don’t have to make me breakfast.”
“Sit down and shut up.” I winked and made myself at home, looking through his kitchen and fridge.
As I started omelets, he asked, “What are we doing?”
“We’re boyfriends having breakfast after a night of incredible sex.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Yes,” I replied simply. “Didn’t we spell all of this out last night?” He nodded slowly, brown hair sex mussed with stubble along his jaw. “I told my family about you.”
“What?” He blanched.
“Not that it’s Patrick Whitt, but when I flew out here on Christmas, I told them it was because of a guy I’m into. I’m playing for keeps.”
“Jesus. You’re like a bulldozer sometimes.”
“Are you complaining?” I pumped my brows.
“No. I like it. How are we going to do this? Where the fuck do we go from here?”
That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? “For now, we have breakfast.” I set his plate in front of him at the bar. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”
I didn’t have a better answer than that.
PART THREE
Overtime
* * *
This section picks up where the False Start timeline ends and continues into a fresh season.
17
WHITT
Early July
We almost always ended with breakfast, alternating who cooked. Tucker was better at it than me, hands down, but he’d shown me how to bake bacon in the oven to give it a texture we both moaned over and then use the bacon grease to fry the eggs.
After the Royals had beaten the Rush in playoffs, we’d been eliminated in the next round, and Tucker and I had spent all of our free time during the off-season sneaking away to meet up wherever we could. Not just in LA and Denver, but also Miami, Boston, Atlanta, Phoenix, and Dallas—anywhere we could easily and feasibly travel to and then hole up in hotel rooms or Airbnbs that one of us would reserve. The last time we’d gotten away, we’d been in Arizona. Tucker had never seen the Grand Canyon and wanted to, so we both had. Just…not together. And that was the downside. We existed in liminal spaces, pockets of time between our public lives, sequestered on our own. And never, ever in public.
