The Endgame (Atlanta Lightning 1)

I was so fucked.

I turned away and studied the menu, the words slightly blurry for some reason.

“Are you ready to order?” the bartender asked, and I actually flinched in surprise.

Say no. Say you changed your mind and have to go. But I didn’t, God, I didn’t want to.

“Um…yeah. I’ll have the T-bone, well done, with the sautéed brussels sprouts and a side salad.”

“And to drink?”

“A water for now.”

“Got it.” She bit her lip, her cheeks slightly pink. I didn’t think it was in recognition but rather in interest. “How about you?” she asked Weston.

“I’ll also have the T-bone, but unlike my friend over here, I know how to eat a steak, so medium for me. Also, I’m not quite as healthy as he is, so I’d like mashed potatoes—I’m allergic to vegetables. And I’ll take a good whiskey. What have you got?” She named a few, and Weston chose one.

“I know how to eat a steak,” I found myself saying once the bartender left. “I just prefer it not be alive when I eat it.”

He laughed this rich, smooth, deep sound that somehow settled my heart rate. “It’s not alive. It’s good. You should try it. Also, what’s up with the healthy stuff? Live a little, Anson.”

I wanted to. Right then and there, I wanted to live in a way I’d never let myself. With him. There was something about him. He was funny, poised, masculine, beautiful. I wondered what his hands would feel like against my body, hard and demanding— No. I shook that thought free.

“I live plenty,” I replied.

“Do you now?” he asked, a cocky lilt to his voice.

My gaze darted away again, which made me feel weak. I was surprised when Weston scooted over to take the chair right beside me. He smelled of cologne, a dark musk that reminded me of something forbidden.

He was forbidden.

“So, Anson, what do you do for fun? How do you live plenty?” he asked, making a stab of envy pierce my chest. Damn, he was so confident. It oozed off him, and while I was confident in a lot of ways too, in others, I was a fraud.

“Sports. I like sports.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, not with a body like yours.”

I felt my cheeks flame and averted my gaze. Fuck, I was blushing. “You don’t like them?” I asked, trying to force myself to act normal.

“Yes and no. I’m not a die-hard fan of any sport. You’re not going to find me sitting in front of the TV every night, watching ESPN for highlights, but I can see the appeal. I like to win, and sports are about that. I’ve seen just about every one there is live, but I’m not a follower of any.”

“Do you play any for fun?” It was dangerous, starting up a conversation with him, but if I was careful, if I didn’t cross any lines, I could pretend. I could take this night and for once feel like everyone else—talk, get to know someone, wonder if there was a possibility for more.

“I played basketball when I was younger. My father thought I needed to be well rounded. I played all through high school. I was good because, well, because I’m good at anything I set my mind to. I worked hard because that’s what I do. Like I said, I enjoy winning, but it was really just something to put on my college applications and to make my father happy.”

“Did it work?” tumbled out of my mouth. Why in the fuck I’d asked that, I couldn’t say. Weston seemed just as surprised by it. His dark brows pulled together, three little wrinkles appearing on his forehead, and I knew I had my answer: it hadn’t.

“No. I was destined to be a disappointment to him, but now I don’t give a shit. In fact, I quite like letting him down.”

I didn’t think that was true, but I didn’t call him on it. The bartender came over then, handing us each a drink. When she left, Weston held up his whiskey. “To new friends.”

I clinked my water glass with his. “To new friends.”

We each took a large swallow. He drank his whiskey as easily as I drank my water. “So what else do you like? Besides sports.”

“Swimming.”

“That’s a sport. I’m beginning to think you have a one-track mind.”

Oh, if he knew the things I was thinking about him right then…wondering how he would feel against me, what that tongue sneaking out and licking his lip tasted like, how hard he would squeeze my hips, and how it would feel to kiss him… Jesus, I was losing my shit. “Motorcycles,” I added. “There’s something exhilarating about riding. When I’m out there, wind against me, it’s like I can go anywhere, be anyone. I’m free.” I loved riding. I always had, but I’d never explained it to someone the way I just had with Weston. In that moment, I wasn’t Anson Hawkins, tight end for the Atlanta Lightning. I wasn’t Elias’s big brother or the son Mom expected to marry a woman, have grandbabies, and maybe start going to church again. I was just me, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed that.