2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It should have been easy for Jonathan to forget the oddball bar and the bartender with the stormy gray eyes and blond hair in need of a trim, but it actually wasn't.

After all, he was busy getting ready for the biggest challenge of his career—leading a football team. He'd never even been a head coach in college, only an offensive coordinator, and he knew every eye was on him, waiting for him to fail.

But he wasn't going to fail, because this challenge was not only exciting, Jon already knew it was going to be one of the most important things he ever did.

Even if the Condors lost more games than they won, he'd still chalk up this year as a success as long as the team did it together and did it clean and fair.

Still, even now, late at night, almost midnight by the watch on Jon's wrist, the bar popped into his head.

Every other time Kieran and the Pirate's Booty had entered his consciousness, he'd pushed them both away. Intending to focus on things that were more important.

But not tonight.

Tonight his office just felt a little too cold and a little too empty. Charleston a little too devoid of anyone he could call a friend. From personal experience, his apartment wasn't any better. Not that Kieran was a friend, but he was something .

Jon dug his phone out of his pocket, pulled up their text conversation—up until this point, consisting of exactly three words: Hi, it's Jonathan— and typed another message.

You never told me why you named your bar the Pirate's Booty.

It was kind of a stupid line, and he'd have been ashamed of it except that he couldn't be, because it wasn't a line. He wasn't trying to pick Kieran up, even as the knowledge of him, all the mysteries contained in those gray eyes, poked and prodded at him.

Jon considered himself an open and fair individual. If he had swung that way, he wouldn't have been ashamed of it. Or maybe all that surprised. One of his old friends from high school was gay. His niece was bi, and her best friend was non-binary. He'd easily accepted all of who they were, without question. Just as he'd do to the guys on his football team.

But it had never really happened for him, that gut punch truth that he wasn't just like everyone else. Whatever everyone else was, these days.

He tossed his phone on the desk. Trying to re-focus on the data on his laptop screen, and not on the phone and its unanswered text. Maybe it was too late.

No, that's stupid , he reminded himself, the guy owns a freaking bar. He's probably part-nocturnal. The way you're gonna be, soon enough.

Jon wasn't going to be nocturnal. He just wasn't going to end up sleeping much, period. But that was okay, because he could sleep when he was dead, and this opportunity wasn't going to wait for him to get a nice seven and a half hours of shut-eye every night.

His phone dinged. The shit on his laptop screen had no chance against the surprisingly strong pull of desire to look over at what Kieran had sent him back.

If I told you, the message read, then it wouldn't be as cool.

Jon smiled, even as he started to type a reply.

That's assuming it was cool in the first place .

Jon was open enough, receptive enough, that he hadn't missed the disappointment flicker across Kieran's face when he'd said he wasn't gay.

Had Kieran wanted his phone number for more than just an emergency contact if shit went south?

It was possible.

Ouch, I think my bar's pride is wounded :(

Before Jon could reply that the bar's pride—if bars could even have pride—was well-represented by the queer-coded flags hanging by the entry, Kieran texted again.

What are you doing up so late?

That was easy enough. Always been a night owl. Now I do more than just sit up too late on the couch watching TV, Jon sent. Lots of shit to do and not enough time to do it in.

We both know why I'm up so late, Kieran texted.

You guys aren't busy? Jon wasn't even sure what day of the week it was, but surely if it was one of their more popular nights of the week—or a weekend—and the crowd would be too demanding for Kieran to stand around talking to Jon.

It's a little busy, but I'm the boss so nobody can tell me to put my phone away ;)

Jon knew this was probably flirting, that Kieran was probably flirting with him. He'd seemed like a guy open to the possibilities, with his chill attitude, warm smile, and friendly face.

Then there were all those flags in the entry.

It would be the right thing to do to stop.

To do the adult thing, the right thing, and set his phone down, forcing himself back to the work on his screen.

But the pressure of taking this job was never-ending. He never got a break from it. Not for one minute could he forget where this team had been, last year, before it had been sold to Grant Green, a tech billionaire with no experience owning a professional sports franchise. The old owners had been morally bankrupt, ready to drag the whole team and all its players down a desperate black hole of doing anything to win a Super Bowl.

Grant didn't want that, and he'd made it crystal clear to Jon that if the Condors did ever win a championship, they'd do so in an entirely different way.

But for right now, one of Jon's jobs was scouting, because money was tight, and it wasn't just about finding great players at a price they could afford, it was about finding honorable players at a price they could afford. A much trickier proposition.

Kieran had given him a little bit of respite, for the first time in what felt like weeks, and instead of putting his phone away, Jon leaned back in his desk chair, put his feet up on the edge of the desk, and kept typing.

So, tonight's not Disco Night, huh?

Kieran's response was just as quick. For someone who seemed unimpressed by the Bee Gees, I'm surprised you even remember.

Jon laughed out loud. I'm more of a Donna Summer kind of guy.

And if he was flirting, well . . .he wasn't stupid. In fact, he'd sort of gotten this job because he'd proven himself to be the opposite. On the football field, anyway. Was he good at relationships? He was fucking terrible at them—when he even attempted them, which was practically never. But he could be a good friend. Even he , who worked too many hours, had friends.

Kieran could be a friend that he sort of . . .flirt-texted . . .with, every so often.

No harm, no foul, right?

Now that I can see. You in silver glitter with your hair teased up to there.

Maybe another guy—another kind of football coach, on another kind of team—would be freaked out by the visual that Kieran had provided. But Jon was only amused.

Look hot, do I?

Jon knew he shouldn't have sent it. But he'd gotten into a rhythm, fingers typing almost as fast as his mind was going, and it was too late to pull back, to stop now.

Maybe Kieran wasn't as into this as Jon was, because before, he'd been texting back almost as rapidly as Jon had—but now there was a long, drawn out lull.

A lull that made Jon set his phone carefully on the desk and actually think about what he was doing.

But before he could pull back—or text Kieran an apology for undeniably flirting with the guy, even though he wasn't interested, not like that, anyway, his phone dinged again.

I don't know, I can't remember. Jon made a face, because of course Kieran remembered what he looked like. It had only been a few weeks since he'd been in the bar, and then there was the fact he kept appearing on ESPN. The guy was just fucking with him now, in a way that Jon really found himself strangely enjoying.

He grabbed his phone, clicked the camera, and took a quick selfie, work-mussed hair, tired shadows under his eyes, bad lighting and all. To make it more playful, he stuck his tongue out and made the silliest face he could.

Donna Summer called and she wants her glitter back.

Aw, Jon texted, still chuckling out loud, am I not fabulous enough for her?

Not tonight you're not. Get some sleep. Unlike me, I know you can't sleep half the day away.

It was true. He was exhausted. He'd been watching film for hours now, and he'd gotten through most of what he'd hoped to, for tonight, so that was just going to have to be good enough.

He stood, stretching out his back, and grabbed his phone from the desk, texting as he walked down the darkened hallway in the practice facility, heading towards the parking garage.

Yes, Mom, I'm going to bed now, I promise.

It should have been kind of weird how Jon had wanted Kieran to tease him again, maybe even pick up on the mention of a bed and use that to flirt with him more, but he didn't. He only replied back: Night.

But still, even as he fell into that bed, only twenty minutes later, he realized he was still smiling.