Bromosexual

I snort at that, then give Dana’s arm a squeeze. “I’ll see you in the office Monday, alright?”

“Sure thing, socks. Good luck with him.” She gives me a wink, then strolls off to her own car.

I take a deep breath, then round my vehicle to slip into the driver’s side.

When I shut the door, all I hear is Stefan breathing deeply.

“Stefan?” I try.

His breathing is disrupted. He grunts, snorts, shifts slightly, then begins breathing deeply again.

“You need to sit up. Buckle in.” I glance at him through the rearview mirror. “Stefan.”

His deep breathing is the only response I get.

I sigh. Pulling the car into drive, I take off slowly. I’ll have to take the back way home to avoid the Friday night traffic and general craziness. Just to be safe, I tell myself.

The normally thirty minute ride home takes an hour and ten. After pulling into the driveway of my modest two-bedroom, one-bathroom suburban house, I cut the engine and step out to get my buddy from the back seat. It isn’t an easy or graceful endeavor. He is difficult at first, fighting me off with a series of groans and curses and one elbow to my ribs. Finally, I get him out of the car, kick the door shut, then guide him staggering through my front door, down a hall, and toward the spare bedroom.

Instead, he pushes into my bedroom. “Stefan,” I coax him. “The spare bed—”

He drops diagonally onto my bed with a grunt, his face not even meeting the pillow. On his stomach, Stefan’s deep breathing ensues once again.

I stare at him, unable to close my mouth. I never in a hundred years thought I would be staring again at Stefan Baker’s backside while he slept.

No, this isn’t the first time.

Far, far from the first time.

So many team sleepovers. So many times when we splayed out on our bellies across his bed to play video games. So many times when I’d come into a room and catch him on the floor watching a movie, playing a game, or sleeping.

I’ve lived alone in this house for over a year and have never had someone else in my bed. I can’t help but forget why he’s even here and, instead, focus completely on the way my heart just fills with the presence of someone else near me.

Specifically: Stefan Baker.

His butt, a work of art in and of itself, gently rises and falls with his every breath. I can’t help but find my eyes drawn to it, big and beefy as it is. I used to swat that ass when he came into the dugout after scoring home. Obviously a plethora of squats—or something—has done him a heck of a lot of justice during his time in the major leagues.

Is he still on a team? Shouldn’t I know? Why the hell is he here?

Ten solid minutes must go by while I stand here by the door watching him. For some reason, I pictured myself bringing him back here, him gaining some consciousness, and then us having an honest exchange of words. I expected to help clean him up a bit. Wipe away the blood. Tend to any open wounds, if there are any at all. Knowing how steel-forged his skin and muscles are, I doubt he barely broke a sweat battling that giant in the bar. Except for that gash on his forehead where a sharp knuckle or ring scored a hit.

With a groan, Stefan slowly turns over. I suck in a breath of air, prepared to greet him all over again and remind him where he is, but then he settles into a new position on his back and resumes slowly drawing in and letting out air.

And then I’m mesmerized by him all over again. I can’t get enough.

Okay. I’m being creepy. Let’s stop staring at him.

I shake myself, then go to the bathroom for a washcloth, which I run hot water over. Bringing it to my bedroom, I flick on a dim lamp in the corner of the room, then glance back at the bed.

Stefan doesn’t budge. The lamp gives light to his whole body. The heather gray shirt—whether from sweat, spilled beer, or the pure muscular form of his body—looks painted to his skin. It is very distracting, seeing as his skintight shirt reveals every ripple of muscle from his big pecs to his rolling abs. His head is cocked slightly, one of his arms is pressed against his side, and the other has a hand propped up on his stomach.

Help me. I can barely breathe at the sight of him.

Stop it, Ryan.

After one more long, hesitant look at Stefan sleeping, I force my feet to move, bringing myself to his side, and then I sit on the edge of the bed. He still doesn’t stir. I lift the warm washcloth to his forehead and, tenderly as ever, wipe away the dried blood.