“You spoil me.”
“Damn right,” I murmur, resting my hand on the small of his back while the drinks are poured. “Only the best for my favourite wide receiver.”
He rolls his eyes at me, but I catch the sly glimmer sparkling across those pupils. It's always a battle to get him to accept a freaking compliment. He wears humility like it's going out of style. I don't mind his humbleness, but lord sometimes it'd be nice to see him embrace it.
The bartender slides our drinks across the pinewood bar top, and I press his glass into his hand. “To surviving my twin,” I toast, raising mine.
His smile is small but cosily warm. “To surviving your brother,” he echoes.
I take a sip, the fizz of the tonic dancing over my tongue, the botanicals smoothing into that clean bitterness. “Ahh… finally, something in this room that’s not hard to swallow,” I say with a wink. Enjoying every second of his mesmerising chestnut eyes, I could lose myself in them all evening.
I fell for him the night we met. It was only meant to be a cheeky hook-up.
A quick shag and a go, ya know?
But I couldn’t help myself. I had to come back for more. Those innocent brown eyes, looking up at me like he was begging for a bit of guidance. That gorgeous dark hair. The toned muscles under that shy smile.
There’s no way I’m letting Drew so much as lay a finger on Austin. He can go find some other poor sod to amuse himselfwith—male or female, I couldn’t care less. Austin deserves better than that parasite. He deserves the best and that’s squarely what he’s got in me.
My brother is the scum that festers on the bottom of a ship, a combination of rot and seawater. Floating along wherever you go, persistent, and impossible to eliminate.
Speaking of the bloody devil, Drew slogs on over, all tipsy and wasted. His scleras are bloodshot as he tries to take a hit of his vape. No telling how many drinks he’s had. Probably enough to put down an elephant or two.
“Piss off,” I mutter at him.
He leans in, breath reeking of vodka. “Only if I can get a taste of your new boy,” he slurs, lips curling in a smirk that enrages my fists and makes me shoot out of my seat.
“Not in this lifetime, mate. Now jog on before you find out how quick I can put you on your arse. Shall I ring your general manager?”
“Oi, Charlie I’m just shooting the piss. No need to be an uptight wanker 'bout it.” Drew mumbles out, before stumbling back into the crowd.
Christ, he needs a full-time babysitter. It’s a wonder he’s made itthis far in life without ending up in prison.
“Oof, your twin doesn’t handle his liquor the best.” Austin jokes.
“That’s a nice way of phrasing it.” I lean into Austin for a kiss. This is what I have really been waiting for all evening.
I savour the precious touch of lips, butterflies flying through me. It’s electrifying to do this in public. Minneapolis is a safe place to be queer. No homophobic comments or whispers. It’s just normal. As it should be.
The same couldn't be said for Manchester. Back home, I’d learned to read a room before I even thought about reaching for someone’s hand. Learned to tuck away that part of myself in certain pubs, certain streets. But here? Here I can kiss the man I love without weighing the risk.
I pull back, the lemon and sugar loitering ever-so-softly on my lips. “You have no idea how bloody good you look tonight.”
Austin laughs boisterously, the liquor helping to open him up out of his shell. A bashful smile overcoming him. I could sit here all night. Order every cocktail on the menu, kiss him between sips, and never tire of it. Let Drew watch if he’s lurking. Let him see exactly what he can’t have. It’ll drive the bastard absolutely insane.
“Oi, Sir, can we have another round? Whatever your best cocktails are.”
“Coming right up!” The bartender grins, knowing he’ll get a fat tip from me.
I’ve been a regular at these functions for years. A fixture in Minneapolis ever since they drafted me seventeen seasons ago, fresh out of uni. The analysts thought the Jacks were mad, spending a second-round pick on a kicker who’d never so much as touched an American football. I’d grown up with proper football—what the Yanks call soccer—booting a ball around the streets of Manchester. Back home, we play it the way the rest of the world does.
My parents grew so fed up with Drew that they shipped him off to a boarding school in Vermont, hoping a bit of distance anddiscipline might knock the attitude out of him. For two blissful years, the house was quiet. Then he came back for the last year of sixth form, sharper-tongued than ever. While he was over there, he found his knack for hockey… and a taste for pleasure that’s followed him ever since. Alcohol, sex, whatever you could think of, he indulged himself in.
I glance over to see him stumbling to the ground, nearly toppling a pair of women in heels.
“Should we help your brother?” Austin murmurs innocently.
“No, he’s fine,” I say, watching Drew try to right himself. “Maybe he’ll learn a lesson in the morning. Once he pulls you into his orbit, there’s no way out. If he does end up in jail, it'd be a favour to us all.”
