Chapter 1

One

Ezra

T he only Friday in February that the New York Times reporter is available, and so am I, turns out to be Valentine’s Day. Someone from Luke’s church set the thing up—with a writer that they know. So Luke offered to fly Josh and me to New York. But the reporter insisted on coming down to Tuscaloosa. He wanted to do the interview in my dorm room, but I’m not up for that. Anyway, I hardly even live there now. I’m Miller’s live-in house husband.

Somehow in the last month, our schedules have done a role reversal. Mills hit the ground running when spring semester started here at University of Alabama. He got himself enrolled in concert band and involved in intramural soccer, so as soon as classes started, he got busy as fuck. I, on the other hand, have been driving the Jeep from building to building, crutching my way to classes, and spending lots of time finding my groove with Netflix.

Even right now, Mills is finishing a cello practice, and I’m here at his— our —place, setting up his V-Day stuff and waiting on the reporter. If things go the way I think, Mills will get here an hour and a half before Dirk the reporter arrives. Mills knows about the deal and is prepared, but being welcomed in by two guys instead of one might be a shock to Dirk. Luke hasn’t told the guy I’m gay. But I know Dirk is, so I’m hoping it’ll work out.

I’m laying long-stemmed roses on the pillows of our queen-sized bed when my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, feeling a little breathless, but it’s Miller and not Dirk.

“Heya, Mills.”

“Hey, angel. Whatcha up to?”

I let out a faux sigh. “Just waiting on my boyfriend. Nah, just kidding. Well, I am waiting, but it’s all good. How was practice?”

“It was pretty good,” Josh says. “Working with two girls and a guy in a quartet. Just messing around.”

I can hear the excitement in his voice, though, and it makes my chest go warm and fuzzy as I sit on the bed’s edge. I lie on my back, dangling my legs off the side.

“You gonna play for me this weekend?” I murmur into the phone.

“Oh yeah. I need to practice. You’ll be tired after Greeley and the gym on Saturday. So I’ll have a captive audience.”

That makes me chuckle. “Since when do I need to be tired to hear you play that good shit?”

He knows it’s true. I’m Josh Miller’s biggest fan. He claims it’s just the inherent beauty of cello, I’d be captivated by anyone playing it, but we both know that’s not true. It’s his fingers I want to see moving along the fingerboard. I want to see his eyes close as he plays for me, his foot tap gently on the floor. After he’s done, I wanna kiss his neck and ruffle up his dark hair.

I laugh. “I’m getting hard thinking about you with that cello.”

“You filthy auralist.”

I rub my hand over my boner, shaking my head with my eyes closed. “Someone who gets it up for music?”

“Yup,” he confirms.

“I’m a Millerist. Remember what happens when I sit on the sidelines at your soccer?”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, I think you’ve gotta wear a jock strap next time.”

Fuck, and now I’m harder. “I could be convinced to do that for you.”

“Shit, dude,” Mills says. “When is this Times guy coming? I want to blow you when I get home.”

“Dude! How is that helpful? What if he shows up right now when I’ve got a monster boner.”

“Luke said his plane was landing at 11:30 in Atlanta. It’s not even 2 yet, and he’s gotta drive from there to here. And don’t call my favorite dick a monster. He’s XL, and that’s A-okay.”

I start pumping myself through my basketball shorts. “Mills?” I whisper. “Can you hurry?”

“I’m about two minutes away. You want me to jog? I’ll do it.”

I laugh, and he says, “Now, don’t be coming, Ezra. Hold out for my mouth. Why use your hand when you can use me?”

Ohhhh fuck. “You’re not helping.”

The doorbell rings. My stomach drops. “What the—”

“Dude, lemme in,” he rasps through the phone. “I’m tenting my pants out here!”

“Dammn, boy. You don’t even sound breathless.”

“Soccer sprints, baby.”

I pull the door open, and Mills is looking like a snack. He’s got on beat-up jeans, tented by his massive boner, and the same red and white Henley shirt he pulled on this morning. But he’s got flushed cheeks from the jog, and he’s giving me this lust-slack grin as he holds his cock.

“Masturbating on the walkway. Miller.” Mills laughs, and then he launches himself at me—full-on tackle with his arms around my neck and his face pressed against my shoulder. I think he forgot about my ankle, still in its boot.

“God, you smell good. And this Polo.” He nips at the collar of the hunter green shirt I have on, then at my throat.

“Hope you don’t mind me borrowing,” I tell him. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

“You look fucking lunchable, babe.”

Such a weird endearment—makes me laugh my ass off. I pull him inside and slam the door shut. “Miller, Miller, Miller…what a dirty boy, trying to rip a hole in those jeans you stole from my drawer…”

I end up on my knees, working his button undone and unzipping his fly. I end up sucking his dick in the foyer because I can’t help myself. Mills slides down the door. He’s gripping the back of my head as he comes, and then he’s kissing my mouth. He’s taking my hand, leading me into the bedroom, where he stops short, wide-eyed and then open-mouthed as he takes in more than a hundred roses covering our pillows.

“Ez. Holy shit.” Now he’s kissing me. He’s walking me backwards toward the bed’s edge, wrapping his hands around my elbows and holding tight so I don’t fall in my boot.

I ease down on my back, and Josh is crawling on top of me. He tickles my cheek and then my throat with a rose…and my lower abs. Then he works my pants down my hips, freeing my hard cock, and he gives one of the best blow jobs of my life so far. The kissing, licking, lapping at my cockhead, sucking—it’s all just right. He nudges my balls aside and hesitates, and I groan, “Please, Josh.” Once he’s got a finger in me, I can’t hold out for long. I come almost violently, going a little dizzy as he finishes and lays his cheek on my hip. And that’s how we’re posed when the doorbell rings.

Turns out nobody thought about the fact that 11:30 Atlanta time is 10:30 Alabama time.The reporter’s here an hour early .

“Fuck!” Mills laughs, looking panicked.

"Shit.” I shove my dick into my underwear and button my pants as he does the same. He hisses, “Tuck it down more,” and I do. I check him out. “You’re looking okay.”

“Because I’m hard as fuck and I just tucked it up into my pants waist,” Miller says.

We stand there gaping at each other. He laughs and straightens the bedding. Then he rubs a hand over the roses.

“Dude, this is beautiful. You did so good. Thank you.”

“Open the nightstand drawer, Millsy. If you’re that hard, sit in here, let it deflate, and eat some Fun Dip.”

“Wuhhh!”

I’m chuckling as Miller opens the drawer where I stashed his V-Day treats. The doorbell rings again, and I hug him, kissing his hair as he sits on the bed, grinning up at me.

“I love you, angel. Thank you for the sugar high.”

I kiss his forehead. “Always.”

“Go slow with him,” Mills says. “Don’t let yourself feel pressured.”

“Are we having ‘the talk’, Dad?” I tease.

He stands up so he can hug me tight and kiss my cheek. His hand strokes my back. “I’m so damn proud of you, Ez. All the work that you’ve been doing…”

He must mean in therapy. I kiss his lips. “I love you more.”

“I’ve got your V-Day when this guy leaves.” Mills cups himself, and I get one more hug before I hustle to the door, pulling it open for a short, slim guy with black glasses, a paisley button-up, and gray slacks with what I think are…

“Doc Martens?”

He looks down. “Nice eye,” he says. He looks so nerdy in the glasses. He seems shy as I beckon him in. He seems so shy, I end up making tea for him and trying to make him feel at ease. When he says he likes my apartment, I take a deep breath and say, “ Actually, it’s our apartment. Well, not really. It’s my boyfriend Josh’s. But I basically live here with him.”

Dirk’s eyes widen over the rim of his teacup, and I can’t help laughing.

“There weren’t any rumors,” he says, blinking, wide-eyed. “I saw nothing about this in all my digging. Heard nothing.”

I shrug. “Some people on campus know. And on the team. Maybe no one wanted to share it. Anyway, my boyfriend Josh is here. He’ll probably be out in a few minutes.”

Mills is clearly listening, because he’s out within one minute. He’s wearing a button-up and khaki pants and looking like the most gorgeous guy on the planet with his dark hair curling slightly on his forehead and his blue eyes and that smile. Polite and kind, as ever.

“Hi,” he says—and I make a note to rag on him for saying “hi” to our New York Times reporter. “I’m Josh Miller.”

“The boyfriend,” I tack on.

Dirk’s blond brows furrow, and he looks from Josh to me. “I have you down as the stepbrother.”

Miller’s face is priceless. He arches a brow and gives Dirk a wicked little grin without missing a beat. He says, “I’m that, too.”

Dirk’s hand goes to his cheek, and he mimes a swoon. “This story is getting interesting. Sorry to be glib.” He laughs, and I take Miller’s hand and lead him to the loveseat.

“It’s okay to be glib. We’re stepbrother fuckers. We’re okay with glib.”

“I won’t quote you on that,” Dirk laughs.

Miller squeezes my hand, and we all sober some as the reporter gets into what he’s really here to do. He’s here to do a so-called “human interest” profile on me—Ezra Masters, the Bama quarterback—but it’s one that will be tied into a big story the Times is doing about conversion therapy. Alongside the larger investigative piece, which is actually a four-part series, there’ll be a story about Alton. How the place closed at the end of January—under legal pressure following a victims’ lawsuit. A lawsuit financed by Evermore United Church, and one that has my name on it. A lawsuit that might not wrap before the FBI starts making arrests; Luke says those are coming soon, but I’m not telling Dirk that.

“We can do the profile on you and not link it to the series on conversion therapy,” Dirk tells me now. “I mean, my editor will be miffed with me since you said you were okay with it, but I’m willing to do that,” he says. “You don’t have to talk about it. After I leave here, I’m going to give you a day or two to change your mind. So you have time to think about it.”

I tell him I don’t need that. “I’m going to Pastor Luke’s church, Evermore, this summer. I’m not that religious, but they’re doing stuff there for survivors.” I say the word without a wobble in my voice, and I feel proud. “Everyone will know I’m out there, being part of that. I already have an interview with ESPN planned for next week. As soon as the suit got filed three weeks ago, they called me.”

“So you’re ready,” he says.

“Yeah.” I squeeze Miller’s hand. “We’re both ready.”

“You want to come out in the New York Times ?” Dirk makes a bug-eyed face like he thinks we’re insane.

“Umm…” I laugh, and Josh says, “We do. We’re both out to everybody personal. I told my dad last week, and that went okay,” he says.

Dirk asks—discreetly, and with hesitation—if the football program is okay with it, and I’m relieved to tell him I came out to them after the Rose Bowl.

“Ahh,” he says. “Because Josh went out on the field.” His eyes widen. “I need to hear that story.”

I refill his tea three times over the course of our story. It’s not the whole story, but I hit most of the high points. I’ve been rehearsing what to say about Alton, so I know how much I want to reveal and which parts I’d rather keep private. By the time he’s wrapping up, he’s got three crumpled tissues in his lap, but he looks…brighter.

“This is all very inspiring. I don’t mean that as a platitude. Just…the amount of courage it takes to speak about this rather than keeping it hidden. You didn’t have to add your name onto the lawsuit.”

I nod. I think of myself on TV sometime in the future, talking about Alton. On a talk show or something. Telling people that conversion therapy is like torture. It makes my stomach nose-dive, but I breathe slowly and the feeling goes away.

“I didn’t have to. I know. But I want to.”

Dirk smiles at me, and then Josh. “Why do I have the feeling he’s just getting started?”

Miller wraps an arm around me, squeezing tight. “Because he is.”