4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Jon knew he should've told Kieran he was going to the bar on Wednesday night. After all, he'd specifically asked the guy which night was the least busy so when he showed up, he'd have a chance of chatting with the friend he'd become so close to over the last month.

But he didn't tell him he'd show up on Wednesday, because Jon knew, deep down, there was a very real possibility he was going to chicken out and not show up at all.

It wasn't because he didn't like Kieran. No. The opposite was actually true. He was afraid he was liking this guy too much. Way too much, in a way he didn't usually like guys. In a way he'd never liked a guy before.

"Got any fun plans for the night or are you gonna stay here way too late working again?" Oscar, the offensive coordinator, asked him as Jon picked up his laptop from the conference room table.

He and Oscar had just finished another long brainstorming session about what direction he wanted their offense to take, and it had gone on for hours.

So late, he almost told himself that he didn't need to swing by the Pirate's Booty, after all.

But when he finally got in his car, he found himself driving in that direction anyway, his body and his heart overriding his mind. Maybe that should've worried him more, but he found himself drawn to Kieran's bar in a way that defied logical sense.

Jon parked and pushed open the door to the bar and walked in.

It was quiet tonight, only a few people scattered around the room, Kieran behind the bar, eyes on his phone as he scrolled through something. Maybe it would be something he'd text Jon.

Except he's not gonna have to do that now. Now, he's just gonna look up at you and say it with that smile on his face and you're gonna . . .

God, what was Jon gonna do? Or feel? He didn't know. Maybe that was really why he was here.

He knew the moment Kieran saw him.

Their gazes met and for a second, Jon swore that his heart skipped a beat.

He knew that couldn't happen. It was a scientific impossibility, but he felt it anyway.

"Hey, this is a surprise," Kieran said, a smile breaking across his face as Jon approached the bar. He slid into a seat, the same one he'd occupied last time, and it felt like it had just been right here, waiting for him.

Waiting for him to get his shit together.

Or get your nerve together.

Jon licked his lips nervously. "A good surprise, I hope?" He really should've told Kieran he was coming.

"The best kinda surprise," Kieran said, leaning over the bar. He was wearing an old, faded Condors T-shirt, stretched taut across his chest and his eyes glowed gray and blue and green. A thousand shades, in those eyes.

Jon didn't usually think men were handsome—though it wasn't like he was against acknowledging it when it was fact—but Kieran was, plain and simple, fucking hot. Made him hot under the collar.

"Are you gonna practice your superpower on me, now?" Jon teased.

Kieran smiled so wide the skin by his eyes crinkled. "What would you say if it's still blank when I look at you?"

What else do you feel when you look at me? Are you trembling inside, now? 'Cause I am. Even though I told you a month and a half ago I was straight, and I thought I meant it.

"Is it? Did I break your superpower?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow. Aware, on some deep, visceral level that he was definitely flirting with the guy. And not in the vague way he sometimes flirted over text.

This felt like it had purpose.

Weight.

Intent.

Maybe that was why his palms felt sweaty and he was shaking inside.

Because he'd worried it would feel like this when he came back to the Pirate's Booty. And worried that it wouldn't.

Kieran leaned in even more, elbows on the bar. They were only inches away, and that gray gaze swept over him like it could read every single thing he was thinking. Every single thing he was feeling.

"Do I . . .is there something on my face?" Jon stammered.

"Trust me, it's just your face. Maybe I like looking at it," Kieran said, eyes sweeping over Jon. "Thought maybe if I looked at it real hard, something might come to me."

"Oh." Jon swallowed hard. Realized that Kieran was saying his superpower still didn't work with him. Why ? Is that a good thing? What if it's bad?

But it didn't look bad, with Kieran gazing at him like that.

He'd admitted he liked looking at Jon's face. Was that his way of subtly saying that he found it attractive? That he was attracted?

"It's alright," Kieran teased. "I can still make you a mean drink. Whatcha want?"

Jon shrugged. He wasn't a big drinker. Not anymore. Not with this whole team—what felt like this whole city, sometimes—on his shoulders. "Whatever you want to pour me," he said.

Kieran appeared to like that suggestion. He grabbed a copper mug and filled it with ice and, in several shockingly graceful movements, poured in several different things, topping it off with a flourish and a slice of lime, balanced on the edge, before he set it in front of Jon.

"A Moscow mule?" Jon knew what those mugs usually indicated.

Kieran shrugged. "You're tart and a little sweet. Felt like it fit, superpower or no."

"Thanks?" Jon was pretty sure it was a compliment. He took a sip. "This is really good."

"And I didn't even add the edible glitter Carter especially likes," Jon teased.

Carter wasn't here—in fact there were no football players here, on a Wednesday—so he felt like he could let out the eye roll that he normally tried to hold back in the presence of the Condors' star receiver.

"Why does that not surprise me?" he muttered.

"He givin' you problems?" Kieran asked.

It felt like the same kind of conversation they'd have over text.

Except Kieran was right there, in front of him, near enough to touch.

No matter how much Jon tried to ignore the thought, he was pretty sure he wanted to.

Not that he was ready to. But the desire was there.

"No, not really. Not any more than usual. I worry every time something doesn't go his way he's gonna just lose it." Jon sighed. "I wish there was a way I could help him."

"You gotta wait for him to want the help," Kieran suggested, empathy written across his face. "You can't just want it for him. And he'll get there. When he comes in here . . .let's just say, I can sense these kinds of things."

"Another kind of superpower?" Jon asked, taking another drink.

"Yeah, sort of. Just a feeling, more than a certainty. Someday Carter's gonna run out of booze he wants to drink and people he wants to fuck."

"God, I hope so," Jon said.

Kieran laughed. And there went that stuttering heart feeling again. In any other circumstance, he'd worry that maybe he was developing a heart condition.

But no, he was pretty sure the cause was only Kieran. Like Kieran could be an only anything.

"How about you?" Kieran asked offhandedly.

"Am I gonna run out of booze I want to drink and people I want to fuck?" Jon was acutely aware of the fact that he hadn't specified a pronoun this time. Yes, sure, he was technically copying what Kieran had said about Carter Maxwell—who was a very open and proud pansexual—but he knew that wasn't only why he'd said it that way.

He'd been hoping for Kieran to react. How exactly? He didn't know.

But he reacted alright.

Kieran had been setting glasses up, fresh out of the dishwasher, and the second Jon said it, his fingers slipped. A second later, there was a crash as the glass hit the ground and shattered.

"Shit," Kieran said reflexively, his eyes still not leaving Jon's.

"Uh, sorry?" Jon said.

"Don't apologize." Kieran's voice was muffled as he leaned over and began to clean it up, tossing chunks of glass into a garbage can, but Jon was pretty sure he could detect embarrassment.

Jon saying people to fuck had turned the normally graceful and composed Kieran into a guy who dropped glasses.

"Alright, I won't then." Jon took another sip of his drink.

Kieran popped up, still looking a bit flushed. "You can't just say that to a guy," he complained, but the corner of his mouth was quirked upwards into a little grin.

An adorable grin.

Jon was charmed, he was amused, and he was more than a little unsettled, deep down. He'd known the evening could take this turn, but there'd been a part of him that had been almost sure he'd been imagining it all. That once he was face-to-face with Kieran again, he'd feel the same way he did about so many other male friends of his—platonic friendship only.

He'd never felt that hard yank at the base of his stomach, or any of these butterflies, for any of them.

This wasn't going away. He hadn't misunderstood.

"I take it back," Jon said, trying to keep his voice steady. "'Cause I'm not sure I'm actually sorry."

Kieran's little grin morphed into a full-blown smile. "I don't think you're sorry at all. Besides, no harm, no foul. It was just a glass."

It wasn't, though, not really, and Jon had a feeling Kieran knew it, too.

"The drink's good?" Kieran asked, changing the subject.

Jon let him. Just because he knew what was happening didn't necessarily mean he was ready to talk about it. Nevermind do anything about it. Not yet, anyway.

"Best Moscow mule I've ever had, and probably the best company, too," Jon said, honestly.

Kieran gave an approving nod and glanced at a ticket printing out. "I gotta pour this beer, then I'll be right back."

It gave Jon a second to watch him at work. There was a fundamental competency to Kieran's graceful, sure movements that Jon really enjoyed. He could watch this man do anything .

True to his word, Kieran was back quickly. "So, you excited for the rookies coming in?" he asked.

"You should ask me instead if I'm ready," Jon said wryly. "Mr. Green's been badgering me to add another quarterback to the roster, give Perez and Charlie a run for their money. I'm not against it, really, but I'm not for it either."

"Why not?"

Jon never felt like Kieran's questions made him defensive. He wasn't asking them so Jon could justify his decisions. He wasn't trying to backseat coach this football team, like it felt everyone else was.

"Nelson's playing well. And," he added wryly, "Randy and I designed a whole offensive system around him. I don't really want do it again , if he doesn't work out. I've got other shit to do."

"That's fair."

"Mr. Green just doesn't think Nelson's the future." Jon hesitated and then reminded himself that Kieran was a friend . He could be honest with him, and it wouldn't come back and bite him in the ass. "I'm not sure I disagree with him."

Kieran nodded. "I can see that."

"He's . . ." Jon winced. "He's serviceable. He's what we can afford."

"And sometimes you gotta settle for that," Kieran pointed out. "The defense looks good, though."

"They do. We've drafted well the last few years, miraculously." The old ownership hadn't done much else well.

"We're not gonna set the NFL scoring record this season, but I do think we can score some points. Enough, I hope, that we can win some close contests. I'm not hoping for the moon, here, just enough to convince Mr. G to keep me on."

"He's pretty reasonable, though, yeah? He knows the ceiling, considering all your limitations," Kieran said, leaning forward. Those eyes were so hypnotizing Jon wanted to lose himself in them. Forget all about the job he'd been hired to do, the semi- impossible job he'd been hired to do.

"He's going to be a great owner," Jon agreed.

"And you, Jonathan Kelley, are gonna be a great head coach," Kieran said with a fierce grin. Almost like he was daring him to argue.

When he'd been hired, great hadn't even been on his radar. He'd hoped he could do a decent enough job, with all the cards stacked against the Condors, that they won some games. But more than that, more important than anything else, had been his intention to make sure all his players felt safe in Charleston now. Unlike in past seasons when that hadn't necessarily been true.

"I'm gonna try," he said.

Kieran leaned in closer, so close Jon's mouth went dry—with desire? With want? With something else entirely?

"What I believe is that you're gonna do it," Kieran said. "I've seen a lot of coaches come and go here in Charleston, but there's never been anyone like you, Jon Kelley."