5. Jase

The tires of my Audi R8 squeal around the corner from my condo in Hyde Park. There are barely any cars on the road, which is a good thing since I'm driving like a fucking NASCAR racer to get home and put this whole shit show of a day behind me.

I pull into the parking garage after stabbing my security code into the keypad. A quick look outside my tinted windows tells me that nobody is around. Thank fuck. My building is full of trendy millennials, tech and finance CEOs, and sports professionals who love to talk my ear off about the Crusaders' record and what the GM is gonna do to resurrect his team from the bottom of the rankings.

Uhhh, what the fuck do I look like? A football strategist? That's not my goddamn job, people.

I shove the car door open and step onto the concrete. A tiny needling pain makes my left foot twitch.

One more hit and it's over…

I feel like I'm walking on eggshells most days because of this injury. And it's not like I can tell Coach Greaves or the GM that my crap-ass playing is because I've got a pain in my leg that no amount of heat or cold will soothe. The team doctor helps me out as much as he can, and I bullshit him about the severity of the pain so no red flags are raised about my ability to play. But I know it's a ticking time bomb. I only have a small window of opportunity to find a new job, not that I know how to do anything other than play football.

Gritting my teeth, I get out and slam the door shut.

The urge to stomp out the anger festering inside of me like an infection grabs hold. But that warning twinge in my leg is enough of a reminder that I need to channel my rage in some other way.

I grab a fistful of my hair as the elevator just inside the parking garage dings when it reaches my floor. I want to punch something. Hard. Maybe that'll make me feel better.

Then again, I already did that a couple of times tonight, and it didn't do shit to help me calm the storm swirling inside of me.

An annoying as fuck voice inside of my head needles me.

That's because you haven't accepted the real source of your frustration, dumbass.

God, I hate that fucking voice.

My phone buzzes against my leg just as I twist the handle to my front door. I head straight to the bar and pour myself a glass of Macallan 25 before answering.

It isn't until I've taken my first gulp that I stab the Accept button.

"What happened to you this afternoon?"

I clench the glass tight and hit the speakerphone button so I can fling my free hand over my eyes once I flop on the couch with my drink.

"I had a bad day."

"That's your excuse?" my brother Bryce huffs. "Were you out fucking some jersey chaser last night? She keep you up too late? Or were you just hungover?"

"Maybe both," I grumble. It was actually neither, but he's gonna believe what he wants, no matter what I tell him.

"Your focus is off."

No shit. What a goddamn revelation.

"Sorry I'm not a shoo-in for the Vince Lombardi Trophy like you, B."

"The past couple of months have been a struggle for you and I'm just concerned. What's going on?"

I let out a deep breath.

I'm fucking broken!

At least, that's what my mind screams.

Busted, broken, and lacking the kind of talent that made effortless superstars out of my brothers.

But how do I tell him all of that? All my life, I've struggled for airtime in the shadows of my brothers' greatness. Now I finally have a shred of it, and I'm fucking it up royally because talent alone can't help me out of this situation.

And like gasoline on a fire, Lucas Bentley had to go and tear open the tightly knotted secret that I've managed to keep hidden. I'm hovering on the brink of full exposure—my truth about the bum leg and my sexuality—and I don't know what the hell to do about it.

Sooner or later, shit's gonna blow open and I'm not ready to handle the fallout.

"Is it your leg?"

I nearly spit out my whiskey. "My leg is fine, B. Lemme ask you something. Why is it that you only seem to give a shit when I'm having a rough time? Huh, golden boy? Why don't you ever have anything to say when I'm kicking ass out there?"

He pauses for a second. "I have plenty to say, Jase. But you barely take my calls. You don't answer my texts. It's like you're trying to shut me out."

I put the glass on the table and scrub my hand down the front of my face. Fuck, I resent him, but that's my problem, not his. "I'm sorry. I suck."

"That's a bullshit excuse, even though it's true." He snickers and I crack a smile.

The truth is, when Kyle died, a part of Dad died, too. Kyle was an even bigger superstar than Bryce will ever be, and when that light died, so did any compassion for me. I guess Dad felt that I should be better than I was with the genes I had been blessed with, and ever since then, my sole goal in life was to be a winner, to outshine the one brother I had left.

And I felt that letting Bryce in would soften my need to compete with him. Keeping him at arm's length made it easier for me to focus on being the best, not having the best constantly in my ear, making me doubt myself. Call it stupid and childish and immature.

I call it self-preservation.

"Look, I'm sorry for being an ass. It's been a rough day during a rougher month. I just need time to get back on my game."

And I will. I have no choice. It's all I have.

"Okay, bro. I want you to take care of yourself. We're on the schedule to play you guys in a few weeks, remember? I want your A-game out there."

I clap a hand to my forehead.

The game.

I know Dad'll be there.

And all of the sports media on the planet will be watching both Maxwell brothers battle it out on the football field. At least we're home that weekend. I reach down to rub the side of my left leg.

"You're gonna get it and wish you didn't beg for it."

"Love the attitude. Now get some sleep so you aren't dragging ass tomorrow at practice."

I end the call, stagger to my feet, and walk to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. The good thing is that because of my ability to compartmentalize all the shit plaguing me on a daily basis, and Bryce's phone call, I haven't had a chance to think about that kiss.

I grit my teeth as I strip out of my clothes and kick them around the bright-white tile floor.

Until now. When I'm naked.

How fucking inconvenient.

Stepping under the hot spray, I have the stupid thought that the water can wash all of the repressed feelings away like they're streaks of dirt on my skin. But the lust stirred up by Lucas's lips on mine is branded into my fucking soul. There's no way to scrub it free.

I squeeze my eyes closed and stand under the rushing water, letting it sizzle my skin. My core clenches tight, jaw tensing. I can still taste his mint-tinged lips, feel his hot breath on my face when he pulled me in for that searing, soul-shattering kiss.

My hand slides down the front of my stomach down to my throbbing cock. I grasp it between my fingers and fuck my hand with long, hard strokes. The heat of the water stings my skin, sparks igniting in my groin as my hand works faster, my mind envisioning Lucas's lust-filled gaze, his sexy smirk, his thick muscular chest plastered against mine. I grit my teeth, jerking my cock, pretending it's his hand and not mine.

Electric shocks make my blood sizzle. The eruption is fast and furious, my lips still crushed against his, my body shuddering with need and want for the forbidden as hot cum spurts from the tip of my dick and spills over my fingers.

I collapse against the back wall of the shower, my shoulders quaking, breaths coming in short gasps.

He said he did it to save me from myself.

He doesn't realize that I'm a lost cause.

And completely beyond saving.

I finally step out of the shower, drained but still unfulfilled. The entire room is draped in steam. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I walk across the room and pull open the door to let in some cool air. My phone buzzes where I left it out on the coffee table.

My brow furrows when I see Rex's name flash on the screen.

"What's up?" I ask the question, but my gut knots like it knows the worst isn't behind me.

"You've got one more chance, Jase. Tell me the truth about exactly what happened tonight, or getting cut from the team will be the least of your problems."

My fucking gut was right.