“I’m not obsessed with Coach,” I deny, but I might be just a tiny bit obsessed. I did it to myself too with the wild idea I acted on to tell him about my spanking fantasy in the car. It took every ounce of my strength to tear myself away from the sex sauna I’d heated up and then had offered to me on a silver platter.
Something I miss the most about being with Rhett was our spanking-type banter. I don’t meet a lot of people who are exactly my speed with that. Mercy is. Maybe that’s what’s responsible for our crazy spark.
And chemistry.
We have spark and chemistry.
Dash snaps his fingers. “Come on to one of us in front of Coach.”
“I don’t really want to be murdered, thanks,” Dirk says. “In case no one’s noticed, he’s a tad possessive with you, Jack.”
Yeah, he is. My smile deepens.
“Oh yeah. The other day I thought he was gonna snap on Kentz when he was flirting with you. You’re lucky the man has self-control,” Casey points out from the kitchen over top of his pot of mac ‘n’ cheese. He squirts a healthy dollop of ketchup into the pot.
Kentz might have a crush on me.
“There you go. Self-control. All kinds of self-control. My real concern is him believing it. He knows we’re all besties.”
“I’ll do it,” Stacey says. “He’ll believe it if I do it.”
Casey frowns and his eyes flicker in Dash’s direction and back so fast that I’m not one hundred percent sure it happened. “Why not me? As if he can tell us apart anyway.”
“Coach can, somehow,” I point out. Even when he can’t see their tattoos and they don’t have jerseys on.
“‘Cuz I’m the more responsible one. C’mere, Jacky, wanna practice?” He makes kissy lips.
Dash loses his balance, falling into the counter.
“All good. We’ve kissed enough I think we’ll be okay.” It’s not like stuff never happens between us friends. We’re horny dudes and sometimes we just need an extra hand. It’s a form of platonic sex that we don’t make a habit out of.
“But the reason he’ll believe it if I do it is because I’m a fellow Top. He can tell you’re all brats,” Stacey adds.
“Brats can kiss,” Casey says, shoveling macaroni into his face right from the pot.
Stacey rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I have a plan. Follow my lead?”
I’m finally able to stop fucking with my hat brim. “I can do that.”
Casey’s watching me. “I like where this is going, Jack.”
“Where what’s going?”
He shrugs, not about to relinquish his secrets. Whatever. I close my eyes and fantasize about all the ways I might drive Mercy up the wall.
* * *
In the locker room, Stacey plants his round ass next to me. “Want help with taping your socks, sweetpea?”
An immediate flush sweeps through me. Stacey only (usually) talks like that when we’re in the privacy of our own what-have-you—condo, backyard barbeque, etcetera. Not in the locker room. I catch onto what he’s doing. A little obvious pregame flirting, the warmup if you will, to the main event.
Got it.
“Would love that.” I lay the smile on thick. We get a few weird looks, but the other guys assume—correctly—that we’re up to something.
Stacey and Casey are identical, but if you know where their tattoos are, they’re easy to tell apart so long as they’re not wearing hockey gear and a practice jersey with no number. For me, it’s easier. Maybe because I have twin brothers? I’ve learned to tell them apart by what they feel like, and I don’t mean by touching them. There’s a different sensation in the air around each twin.
Stacey’s energy is calm and balanced. Casey’s is wild and sometimes chaotic.
