5. Lee

CHAPTER 5

LEE

Lee studied his reflection in the mirror. He rubbed a hand across his cheeks and chin, feeling the bristles scratch his palm as he stared at his face. His mom always called him handsome, but Lee never felt like he looked good enough. Plain brown eyes, his nose slightly crooked from having broken it twice. His hands were strong but rough, calloused from years of ball-handling. And not the kind that brought anyone but die-hard football fans pleasure.

He thought about Drew's flirty grin and Mac's hooded gaze. Both men were beautiful in a way he wasn't. Mac was a ball of sunshine, full of energy, a fire that ignited a heat of lust so strong that Lee worried his erection would give him away.

Drew was more subtle, more settled, even though he was knee-deep in his studies. He'd worked his body into an art form that rivaled those Greek statues Lee had seen in museums. Lissome, strong, defined but not bulging. A mash of runner, biker, and some upper body to keep it all balanced.

Lee, in comparison, had harder muscles honed by years of weight rooms and training camps. His shoulders were well-rounded, his neck thickened, his pecs solid, and his abs cut. He put in hours a day on the gym treadmill along with running wind sprints and passing routes on the field. Tackling men and dummies, rushing lines, pulling ropes, and high-stepping oversized tires had made his ass into a work of art. Someday, someone would slap it and grab it and admire it, and it wouldn't be a coach or a teammate, nor a trainer or massage therapist.

And maybe that somebody would kneel at his feet, hold on to his nether cheeks like they were a lifeline as they sucked in his cock, brought him to orgasm, and then let him return the favor. Thoughts of his ex drifted by. Stu had been fun, but very vanilla. They only ever had sex in a bed with the lights dimmed. His ex's preference for bottoming had been something Lee had dealt with but didn't prefer.

He wanted it all and wanted to give it all equally, and he wondered which of the two—Mac or Drew—he'd be more compatible with. He imagined Mac on his knees, Lee's hands fisting his hair as the slender blond went to town on his dick. Stu had hated having his hair pulled.

Lee scoffed. Why the hell had he stayed with such a fussy guy for so long? Oh… right… school, football, and family took up almost every waking moment. Stu was… easy. Uncomplicated. And both of them knew there'd eventually be a termination date on their relationship.

He left the bathroom, gathered his gear, and psyched himself up for the two-minute walk to his car in the brutal July heat. There was something to be said for on-site parking in a covered garage, and paying a little extra to have a spot away from anywhere the sun could reach was a blessing his sad, slightly melted Jersey heart could get behind.

With the air-conditioning blasting, he drove slowly through the downtown traffic toward the stadium and practice facilities. They were due west of his apartment and a long stone's throw southwest from downtown. There'd been some disagreement between him and his mother over the two-bedroom apartment. It was just him, so why did he need so much space? She kindly thunked him on the head and reminded him how much hotel rooms cost and how nice it would be for him to have a place for her and Auntie when they visited. Otherwise, where would she cook for him?

His stomach overruled any thoughts of his mom potentially cock-blocking him. Her food was that good . She was a chef by trade, though she spent very little time in a commercial kitchen these days. Mostly she experimented and took on the occasional "grazing" side job while co-running a growing catering company. Who knew you could make money creating elaborate charcuterie boards?

His place was and wasn't close to the field. Crow flies, just a handful of miles, but the traffic made those miles take a while. On a good day, he'd make it in fifteen. Most days, however, it was closer to thirty. Of course, the nice thing about the pros was not having to cook much, because of the onsite cafeteria, or wash his uniform, both incredible time-savers.

Though neither management nor his coaches said, Lee took a page from the Patriots' playbook of learning everyone's name, and he most definitely thanked them every time. He could tell they appreciated it, and if he noticed some of the other veteran players nod in approval, he just smiled and silently thanked his mom and Bill Belichick for instilling good values in him.

Once he cleared downtown, the traffic eased, and he cruised easily toward ATEX stadium and the adjacent training facility. He pulled into the staff and players' garage and parked, eyeing the number of cars and calculating that he was right on time. Not too early and definitely not late. He grabbed his bag containing his cup, toiletries, and a change of clothes, then headed inside.

The wash of cold air flowing over him when he opened the door let him breathe a sigh of relief. Being from New Jersey, he thought he knew hot and humid, but the record-breaking number of 100-degree days Austin was currently experiencing had him wilting like a thirsty flower. When the Texas sun was hot enough to liquify metal, the cool comfort of air conditioning let him release his worries and focus on practice.

A blast of heat hit his back, followed by praise. "Oh, thank the Lord and sweet baby Jesus. Hot enough to fry eggs, my ass. Broil more like. What the fuck was I thinking extending my contract to live in this oven for another three years?"

Lee turned slowly toward the unfamiliar voice. He did not so much as recognize the player as he did the signature Swoosh tank top stretched to bursting by the ripped chest of his MIA line captain. And what a chest it was! Dark brown skin, broad pecs, bulging biceps…

"Like my shirt?"

Lee jerked his chin up, warmth flooding his body, and not the kind of heat he preferred. He stared into the sharp gaze of Aiden Young, the Troopers' defensive line captain. Young's cocky smile and pursed lips sending him kissy noises knocked Lee's libido down fast.

"You're a pretty boy, kid, but I like my babies with back and long hair I can pull." Young crudely mimed holding a head and fucking. Lee swallowed hard, gaze caught on the noticeable snake pushing out the fabric on the leg of Young's sweats.

"I hope to God and all his angels that you are not in the closet because you can't hide for shit."

Lee slowly shook his head and offered a conciliatory smile. "Nope, but I don't advertise that I'm out, either. Sorry. I… uh… haven't said anything or done anything. Nobody's said anything to me."

Young advanced and threw an arm around Lee's shoulders. At six-one, and just over two hundred pounds, Lee wasn't a small guy, but next to Young, he felt tiny. "Well, Mr. Matters—yes, I know who you are—nobody is gonna say nothing to you. They'll talk behind your back until you get up the nerve to let them in on your secret. Or, ya know, you just show up to some function with some man candy and let your freak fly. You got options."

"I see." Lee smirked.

Young palmed Lee's neck, pushed him to get him moving, and gave him a shake he felt down to his toes. "That's the spirit. You met Jacobs, yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ha!" Young clapped Lee hard on the back as they ambled toward the dressing room. "None of that sir business. Not even Cap or Captain, you hear me? The guys call me Yowie."

"Yow-ie!" players shouted as they passed on their way to wherever: medical, weight room, video room. Several hugged him, giving him the guy clench and a complicated handshake.

Lee attempted to put a name with every face and came up shy about a third of the time. He kept up until Yowie stopped dead and stared at the player striding with purpose toward him. Lee recognized him easily as the team's star quarterback, Addison Kelly. He'd heard the veterans refer to him as Addy, but since he'd only showed up a day or two ago, Lee hadn't had the chance to meet him officially. On Addy's heels was his number two, Callum Jones, AKA Cal.

"Yowsers, Yowie, nice of you to show your face. Coach is peeved he had to hold your rookies' hands, man." Addy slapped and shook Yowie's hand before pulling him in for a brief hug, then Cal did the same.

"Had to take care of some stuff." Yowie shrugged, a grimace tightening his features. Then he seemed to remember Lee was there. "You guys meet Matty yet?"

Addy beamed at Lee. "We have not. Addison Kelly, QB. The guys called me Addy." Lee shook his outstretched hand, then shook Cal's.

"Callum Jones—Cal. Pleasure."

"It's great to meet you. Lee Matters, rookie safety."

"Rutgers, right?" Addy asked, continuing after Lee nodded, "I've seen your game tape. I think you'll be an excellent addition to the team."

Oh God. Lee felt his cheeks burning again. Fucking Addison Kelly gave him a compliment. Whoa.

"Damn it, Addy, I think you broke him. You are too damn pretty for your own good." Yowie clapped Lee on the back again, jarring him out of his infatuated gaze. "Go snog your boyfriend or something, I gotta get changed and whip my line into shape."

"That would be nice," Coach Mike said, approaching from the team offices. He grinned at Lee. "Feeling good, Matters?"

"Yes, Coach." Lee liked his Defensive Coach, Michael Carlson. The guy was a dad through and through. Sure, he bellowed when needed, but just as often, he pulled Lee or another of the rookies aside and explained what they did wrong and what he wanted them to do. He'd had his share of good and bad coaches since he started playing Tiny-Mites at age five. Back then, it was more about skills, camaraderie, and the cuteness factor. By the time he got to Peewee at age nine, coaches started looking for potential, but Dads would be Dads, and without one, Lee sometimes got overlooked.

Things got better when, in seventh grade, he met Jimmy Kay, a pseudo-big-brother slash buddy from the high school team. Jimmy had been a safety, and he taught Lee everything he knew. Lee had soaked it up like a sponge, advanced his skills, and had the private high schools bucking to sign him with scholarship money. Lee just shook his head. He played for two years with Jimmy on the field in high school and again at Rutgers until his mentor dislocated his shoulder midway through his senior year and decided to bow out gracefully from the game. Jimmy had never turned his back on Lee, though, even when he came out to the team, and he never missed a single one of Lee's games.

He made a mental note to call his friend later that night and fill him in. They'd already made plans to see each other for the three East Coast games the Troopers had scheduled, and Jimmy had an open invitation to visit him in Texas should he get the chance.

"Young," Coach Mike stared at his defensive starter, "you're late. Get changed and see medical for clearance. You better not have done anything stupid in the off-season."

Yowie slapped a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Coach. I have been the picture of piety and innocence." Lee laughed along with the others. Nobody was that "good."

He trailed Yowie to the dressing room, where he introduced him to Chris Jacobs, who'd quickly earned the moniker "Jakes" when Coach kept shouting Jacobs and three players turned their heads. When Jakes stood, Lee, standing between them, felt even smaller. His fellow rookie was six-five and looked like he had another twenty or thirty pounds on Yowie. The dyed blond tips of his long dreadlocks and the clipped goatee added a sexy, roguish appearance to his youthful looks. Both men could easily squash him. He took a step back.

"I think Matty might be a little intimidated," Yowie snorted.

Lee rolled his eyes and popped over to his cubby, where he stripped down to his underwear and pulled on the athletic gear left for him by the staff. As he sat lacing up his cleats, the special team's coach, Jaxon Ross—Coach J—pushed through the swinging doors.

"Stevens, let's go. Matters, you're with me today. I want you fielding for Stevens. Never know when a ball might get kicked your way."

"Sure thing, Coach." Lee waved to Yowie and Jakes, then caught up with Garrett Stevens, the team's punter, in the hall.