1. Jase

Ipull the brim of my New York Mets baseball cap down as far as it'll go. Slouched against the far end of the bar in the shadows, I'm pretty sure nobody will recognize me. But anonymity is damn near impossible, especially if you're an NFL right tackle out for the night in your team's hometown. And it's just my luck that Sin City, the hottest new rock band around, drew a damn big crowd tonight here at Bar 901.

The problem is that the baseball cap can only hide so much. And the secret that's bigger than my identity is the one I'm desperate to keep. It's also the reason why the lead singer of Sin City, and probably most of the guys in this bar, hate me so much.

Because this bar isn't just any bar. It's a gay bar.

And they don't want me anywhere near this place. Their place.

"Stop slouching in the corner. You look like the Unabomber with your hood pulled up with that stupid baseball cap on top."

I turn my head slightly to scowl at my cousin Lane, the drummer. "You're lucky we're related, or I'd kick your ass."

He gives me a slap on the back. "You know, I remember when we were younger you actually used to smile sometimes."

"Smiling's overrated in my house." I nod my head toward the stage. "Why aren't you warming up?"

"I figured you might need a pep talk after that shit show of a game against the Cougars this afternoon."

"Fuck off. Save the pep for someone who needs it. This works just fine to take the edge off." I hold up my glass and dangle it in front of him before taking a long gulp of the whiskey.

"Bryce had a great game today. You speak to him?"

"Nope. Don't need to. My dad has already texted me twenty times about what Bryce did amazingly well and what I did horrifically wrong."

My older brother Bryce happens to be the Maxwell golden boy and star quarterback of the Oakland Saints in California. The same brother I'll never live up to. In my father's eyes, Bryce is also sitting on top of a pedestal, dripping in the kind of greatness Dad has only ever dreamed of. Bryce is also the best guy I know, which makes it so hard to hate him for being incredible at everything he does with zero effort.

Me, on the other hand? I've had to claw and fight for every good thing in my life. I worked my ass off religiously to earn a starting spot on my high school football team, and then worked even harder to get recruited to LSU for college. I played hard and suffered a pretty bad knee injury as a result, the kind of injury that hangs over me like a perpetual black cloud because one hit can take me out of the game forever.

And lemme tell you, I feel my football mortality every fucking day.

But even with the obstacle of a bum leg in my way, I did it. I made it to the NFL.

And somehow, I still live in Bryce's shadow.

I always will. Dad never lets me forget that.

Goddammit. My fingers grip the highball glass of Jameson so tight the tips turn white. A long gulp burns a path down to my empty stomach. I narrow my eyes at my phone screen.

Call me.

Two little words.

But I'm too angry to stab my father's phone number into the screen.

Because I know what comes next.

Tough love is my father's mantra. Has been for my whole life. Not that there's a shred of anything even remotely loving about the way he's dealt with me and my brother Bryce over the years.

Dad tore his MCL and ACL when he was an all-American in college. The injury took him out of the game forever and crushed his dreams of playing for the NFL. So he's been living vicariously through me and my brother ever since we were old enough to throw a spiral.

Our live-in football coach monitored everything we ate and drank, managed our workout regimens, and throttled us when we fucked up on the field.

I couldn't wait to get drafted to a city far enough away from home to keep me fucking sane. With Dad at our childhood home in Georgia, I was hoping for the Los Angeles Raiders, figuring a six-hour plane flight would keep just enough distance between us. But playing for the Cincinnati Crusaders means he's close enough to fly in for home games, which sucks for me.

"Do yourself a favor and stop worrying about Bryce. Just worry about Jase."

"Or not, because he's a total fuckhead with a huge chip on his shoulder that needs to be knocked off. Hard."

I grit my teeth when Brixton Scott, the band's lead singer, joins us. I take another long sip of the Jameson, then hold up my glass and nod to the bartender who gives me another drink and long, appraising look in response.

"What's up, Brixton?"

Brixton cocks his head to the side and gives me a fake smile. "This doesn't seem like your preferred watering hole with all the other jersey chasers. How'd we get so lucky tonight?"

I force a smirk. "Thank Lane for that. He pretty much threatened my life if I didn't make an appearance."

"Too bad you listened."

I take in a sharp breath. There's definitely no love lost between us, and Brixton has made that damn clear. He flashes one more fake smile, flips me off, and walks up to the stage.

"Jesus," I grumble, pulling the hood closer around my face.

"It's your own fault, bro," Lane says. "You made your bed."

I did. And because I'm so convincing, nobody has guessed my secret. My stomach twists. My fellow teammate and the star quarterback for the Cincinnati Crusaders, Gabe Kelly, came out months ago. I was kind of an asshole to him this season. I know he and the other guys think it's the gay thing, but it isn't. Stifling a groan, I pick up my glass and slosh the liquid around.

If Brixton is a rock god, then Gabe Kelly, like Bryce, is a football god. And I got fucking tired of listening to my father drill it into my head over and over, making comparisons between me, my brother, and Gabe. My job is to protect Gabe on the field, to make him able to shine as bright as the fucking sun. And I got tired of hearing how I wasn't good enough to make it happen.

Then, thank fuck, Gabe came out. That was my only goddamn reprieve from my father. He never said shit afterward. Suddenly, the golden boy became a fallen angel in his eyes because my father is probably the biggest homophobe on the planet.

But I was still jealous, jealous that Gabe could get my father's approval when I couldn't. I tried for my entire life, and all Gabe had to do was walk out onto the field. So I made shit hard on him and used the gay thing as my excuse for being a dick when really, I was just so fucking envious, I could only see green when I looked at him.

He was strong enough to come out and tell the world who he really is while I'm still keeping that shit under lock and key, buried so deep in the closet that I don't know if I'll ever find my way out.

So being here tonight is torture in a lot of ways.

Lane claps me on the back. "I'll see you after the show?"

"Brixton might try to shank me."

"I might let him." Lane chuckles and runs up to the stage.

I pull out my phone again, glare at my father's texts, then start to type out a message to my brother congratulating him on his game when someone crashes into my shoulder. A sticky, cold liquid drips down my arm.

"What the hell—?" My head whips over to the guy next to me and a sharp breath catches in my throat.

Lucas Bentley, one of my teammates, and the only other out player on the Crusaders, lifts an eyebrow at me. "Body's an A+. Face is a C, though. If you wanted to hook up in here, you should've stuck a bag over your head, Maxwell."

"I'm not here to hook up, dick." I look back down at my phone, trying to ignore the fact that my skin is prickling under the layers of clothes I have on. Ever since Lucas joined our team, I've been plagued with fantasies that I'll never live out, and the only way I can keep him away is by making sure that he remembers what a douchebag I can be.

"Gotta say I'm a little shocked to see you here. I figured you'd be out with your fellow cavemen right now, chasing squirrel." He tilts his head to the side. "Unless maybe you finally realized that jersey chasers don't suck cock as well as we do?"

I gulp down the last of my drink to keep the bile down. "Please don't talk about you sucking some other guy's cock."

"Oh, that's right." He grins and leans closer. "You have a problem with that, don't you?"

I lift my head and glare at him, fighting the sensation that swirls deep in my gut. "Right now, I have a problem with you, Bentley. So why don't you just piss off?"

"I can't. Not yet. My friend is the lead singer." He nods toward the stage. "I told him I'd stay for the first set."

"Great," I mutter. "How about you stay all the way up by the stage? And away from me?"

Lucas looks at me, his green eyes glowing like candles. "I don't see you rushing to get away from me, Maxwell."

"I was here first. And I'm not planning to leave."

"Okay. Then I'm gonna ask again. What the hell are you doing here, looking like the Unabomber?"

I let out a frustrated huff. "First off, you don't know shit about me, so keep your fucking judgments to yourself. Second, the drummer is my cousin. Happy?"

"Elated." Lucas drums his fingers on the bar. "And how does he feel about you being such a homophobe?"

I slam a hand on top of my cap and grab my glass from the bar. "For fuck's sake. You got your wish, Bentley. I'm out of here."

Lucas chuckles. "You're so sensitive. And anyway, you bill yourself as the gay basher. Aren't I allowed to be curious about why you're here?"

I grit my teeth. He's got a lot of balls talking to me like this. He should shut the hell up and move on.

Except Lucas isn't moving… away from me, anyway.

And I can't lie. I don't want him to leave but dammit, it's way too risky for him to stay.

Lucas comes closer, his stare so heavy, he can touch my soul with it.

"I don't bill myself as anything." I drag in a breath tinged with his cologne, recoiling when my skin pebbles with goosebumps. I reach for my wallet and pull out a few twenty-dollar bills before dropping them onto the bar. The sudden need to get out of this place has me by the throat, almost like a thick rope is cutting off my oxygen.

"You sure give Gabe Kelly a hard time. You think the comments you make don't sting?"

Gabe Kelly. I'm so sick of hearing the guy's name. The truth is, I don't give a damn that he's gay. But I'm sick to fucking death of him being the team's fucking prize peacock. He's like an enormous tree and I'm underneath him, begging for a tiny sliver of light that never comes.

Not that I'd ever admit that to a single living soul.

"Why are you such a jerk, Maxwell?"

I open my mouth to answer, but his penetrating gaze latches on to me and pulls me deep… deep enough where he might be able to see things, things I vowed to never admit to anyone.

Things I had a hard time admitting to myself.

So I turn away, but Lucas grabs me by the arm.

"Leaving already?"

I turn slowly, my eyes following Lucas's pink lips as they form the words. But I don't hear him speak. Pulsating music rattles my eardrums, temples pounding.

Get out now!

It's the only thing my brain can scream.

But my body is rooted to the spot. Lucas definitely has the ability to stun and destroy on the football field, but fuck, he's even more dangerous to me in here.

Something is happening. The way my stomach clenches as he closes the space between us has me reeling. He's saying something else now, but my ears are drowning in white noise.

My head is woozy, thick with cobwebs that keep me from thinking straight. I feel drugged. With a tightness in my chest, I slip away from the bar. Lucas steps toward me, blocking my path. My back slams into a wall. A rush of breath escapes my lungs, pulse throbbing against the side of my throat.

"You look scared, Maxwell." Lucas's lips curl upward. "Why don't you just admit that you're curious, too?"

"I'm not curious about a damn thing," I rasp, somehow able to find my voice as my skin is on fire as Lucas pushes into my airspace.

Liar!

The band begins to play and guys around us go apeshit, jumping around the dance floor, singing and dancing like idiots. One launches himself into the air and slams into Lucas's back. He lurches forward and collides with me, his thick muscled chest flush against mine.

He stares at me again like he's trying to see what lies behind my tight expression, but he doesn't move away. He places one hand on my chest, then slides it down toward my belt buckle.

What the fuck is he doing?

And why am I not stopping him?

Panic assaults me. I can't breathe, my fingertips tingle, crackles of electricity shooting through my insides.

My heart thunders, the head of my cock twitching at his display of possessiveness.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

No, please, no!

"Oh yeah?" Lucas's voice hums against my face. "Then why are you still pressed against me with a raging fucking hard-on?"