Matched By My Rival by DJ Jamison

1

SIMON

Five Months Later

Tracks, a little college dive bar with live music and drink specials, was hot and muggy from too many bodies crammed into a small space. Even behind the bar, with a few more inches between my body heat and the crowd of drunken twentysomethings, I was sweating enough that my T-shirt stuck to my back. On the stage to my left, a semi-decent band cranked out their tunes, but at least they were acoustic. On the nights band members hauled in electric guitars, I popped Tylenol like it was fucking candy. Tonight, the music was a quiet backdrop to the bar activity, drunken chatter and laughter that could still be headache-inducing.

“Well, shit. Of all fucking weeks.”

I glanced over. Rhett was frowning down at his phone as if it had just offended him. He tapped out a text, thumbs flying, then shook his head and repocketed it, murmuring something under his breath.

“Everything okay?” I asked as he slid behind me to grab a bottle of vodka, all business once more. The floor was sticky beneath my feet as I shifted to give him space.

“Something came up. My roommate needs my help Thursday night.” He shot me a grimace. “I’m scheduled to work a full shift, and I kind of need the hours, but…”

“Ah.” I continued to pull a beer, tilting the frosted mug to get the best head of foam. There was an art to it, I’d learned. Rhett had taught me, in fact, after I’d taken this job to help pay for school. It seemed fitting: Beer had gotten me into trouble—well, that and my temper—so it might as well help pay for school. “Well, if you need someone to cover, I could do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I tried to work weekends only to maintain some semblance of a normal school week, but it wasn’t as if I couldn’t use the money.

After everything that happened—losing my scholarship, losing my place on the football team—I’d nearly left school. I hadn’t seen much of an alternative when the video of my altercation with Parker went viral, thanks to some blog called College Athletes Behaving Badly. But a lot of people had stepped up to help me. My frat had gone out on a limb to create a scholarship just for me, and my grandparents—despite my protests—had insisted I finish my degree on campus, rather than take a year off to save or try to transfer somewhere with lower tuition.

I’d only accepted their offer with the caveat that I repay every penny. My older sister needed money for culinary school, and like hell I was going to suck it all up. Chels had been waiting long enough, with an unexpected pregnancy putting her plans on hold. Joey was great, a real sweet kid who she’d nurtured up to school age before attempting to pursue career plans. But now it was her turn.

Rhett flashed a flirty smile as he slid a glass across the bar to a guy in a fitted button-down, skinny jeans, and fuck-me eyes.

The pretty boy slid a five into Rhett’s tip jar and sashayed away. Did Rhett realize he was gay and play up the smile for a tip—or was Rhett into men? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t asking. My gaze followed the swish of those hips for a beat too long before Rhett drew my attention back to him.

“Thanks, man,” he said. “I hate to miss work, but I don’t think he has anyone else he can count on.”

“No problem. I probably owe you for something anyway.” I plonked a beer mug onto the bar in front of a waiting customer and watched him walk off without tipping me. I really needed to work on remembering to smile.

I may have realized my temper had fucked me over royally, but that didn’t mean I’d become Mr. Sunshine either. Not sure I was capable of bringing down the walls I’d been building up since my dad had become the king of pyramid schemes and lost our house. Mom hadn’t lasted long in the marriage after that, and I couldn’t blame her.

Rhett grabbed a bottle of beer and handed it over, swiping up cash from the bar in one easy motion while he cocked an eyebrow at me. “That’s right. I did train your ass.” He paused. “In bartending, I mean.”

He winked, further muddying my read on his sexuality. Not that it mattered. I might have an interest in guys, which had been ramping up steadily now that I was out of football, but I wasn’t going to mess with a co-worker—even a guy as cute and fit as Rhett.

“Fair point. I guess it’s the least I can do,” I said with a mock sigh.

Rhett grinned. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

I snorted. “Something tells me you make sure everyone sees it your way.”

He chuckled as he slipped to the far end of the bar and leaned forward to take another order. Slim, with nice muscle tone, he was a far cry from most of the guys on the football team, but I’d lay money Rhett was athletic. A runner, maybe?

He glanced my way, and I redirected my eyes to the line forming in front of the bar. I had drinks to sling. The last thing I needed was to eye up my co-worker, especially one who was practically my supervisor. But it was past time I considered what I wanted to do with my attraction to men. Because if Rhett was tripping my trigger, I might finally be ready to explore—somewhere far away from work, that was. With someone anonymous, someone who I wouldn’t have to see again.

Someone…from a hookup app.

I glanced at the time. Only three more hours till last call.

Three hours, and then I could do something about the building need inside—even if it was only to scan some hot guy’s pics and jerk off alone. But who knew? Maybe I’d get up the courage to swipe right. Maybe I’d find the balls to finally flirt. Maybe I’d find someone with the patience to deal with a guy who didn’t know what he wanted yet.

My luck had to change, right? After everything I’d lost, I deserved something, some little silver lining—even if I had brought most of my misery down on myself.

* * *

PARKER

I ran long for a pass, beer sloshing over the rim of the cold can in my left hand. There were hoots of laughter as I spun to set the can on the ground and raised my hands. The ball went wide—by about a mile.

“For fuck’s sake,” I called.

“What? I’m not a QB!” Cruz shouted, right before tripping over his own feet and hitting the ground with a thud.

“Thank fuck for that!” Johnston crowed, laughing so hard he had to bend over.

Cruz and Johnston were linebackers, big guys more accustomed to knocking me on my ass than throwing me the ball, but we were just screwing around. It was the off season, so while we still had regular training, we weren’t playing games every week. We’d been guzzling beer like Gatorade, trash talking each other, and tossing the football around for the past hour.

It was nice to blow off steam and remember that football was fun, not just a crap ton of work. With the intense last season we’d had, I needed that.

There were a few onlookers—Cruz’s girlfriend, Johnston’s on-again, off-again hookup, and a few girls who’d probably like to snag one of us—along with one or two students who’d paused to watch for a few minutes and shake their heads before continuing across campus.

My phone vibrated in my back pocket. “Hold up, I got a call.”

“Let me guess. Brunette, starts with H and ends in T?”

Johnston looked between me and Cruz, forehead creased in confusion. “Harriet?”

“No, dipshit,” Cruz said, giving Johnston a shove that sent him stumbling a few clumsy steps. “Hot. H-O-T. Jesus fucking Christ!”

They started bickering like an old couple, and I tuned them out as I checked my phone.

Not a brunette, but my very blond mother.

She called now and then to check in, and I usually answered because I knew she was lonely in the house without me there. Dad worked a lot, and we’d always been close. She was a huge football fan, a booster for high school and collegiate sports, and had the coach’s ear—whether he wanted her to have it or not. Dad loved football too, but he traveled for work, so it was usually Mom in the stands, cheering until her voice was hoarse.

“Hey, Mama,” I answered warmly. “You’re up late tonight.”

She sniffed. “I’m forty-three, not seventy. I don’t eat dinner at four or go to bed at eight p.m.”

I snorted a laugh. “Good to know because it’s after eleven.”

She sighed. “I guess it is. I watched a sad movie, and I needed to hear your voice.”

“What were you watching?”

“Sophie’s Choice.”

“Ugh, Mom, why would you do that?” I didn’t understand people who watched depressing shit. Wasn’t the news bad enough? Mass shootings, black men being murdered by cops, riots in the streets—and my mother was watching Holocaust movies.

“I like history,” she protested. “If we don’t remember it—”

“We’re doomed to repeat it,” I echoed over her words, having heard this line one or two hundred times in my lifetime. “I know.”

“Besides, you don’t get to lecture me, mister. You’re still up, and you’re the one with a 6 a.m. drill. First one since break, isn’t it?”

I winced. “Shit.”

“Tell me you didn’t forget.”

“How could I?”

We’d been reminded in weight training this morning. I’d had it on my calendar alerts for weeks. I’d remembered when I met up to hang with Cruz and Johnston. After a few beers, though, it’d become a selective memory. One I’d happily forgotten in the name of a little fun.

Cruz and Johnston started trash talking one another, shoving and laughing. I waved my hand at them, trying to get them to shut up, but they were drunken idiots at this point.

“What’s going on there?” she asked, a thread of tension entering her voice. “Are you at a party?”

“It’s not a party,” I said. “I’m hanging with a few of the guys. We’re just—”

“Toss me another beer, bro!” Cruz yelled.

Fucking great.

“—blowing off steam,” I finished weakly. “It’s the off season.”

She sighed. “Honey, I know you’re young, and you want to have fun. I get it, but…”

“But Coach will be pissed if we show up hungover,” I grumbled. “I know.”

“He will,” she agreed. “More than that, you know how hard these transitions are. Going from time off, to weights, to running drills again. It’s going to be rough enough with plenty of sleep.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re right. I’m going to call it a night.”

She groaned. “Now I sound like one of those helicopter parents, hovering over you. I hate that. You’re smart, Parker, and the best damn wide receiver that team has got.”

Now,I thought. The best wide receiver now that Prentiss was gone.

But Mom was my number one fan, always had been. She’d never admit that Prentiss had an intensity and dedication to training that I’d never had. If he were still on the team, he sure as shit wouldn’t be out getting drunk and stupid the night before the first drill in weeks. Ugh. Tomorrow morning was going to be murder. My stomach churned just to think about it.

“You can make your own decisions,” she said. “I should butt out.”

“Thanks, but you’re not wrong. I’m going to be hurting in the morning.”

“Drink some water. Lots of it,” she said. “And take some Tylenol.”

“I will, Mama bear. Don’t worry.”

“Mama is my name, and worry is my game,” she said lightly. “I’m always rootin’ for ya.”

“I know. Night.”

“Night sweetie. And just so you know, if I’d ever had a Sophie’s choice, I’d definitely choose to keep you.”

“What about Scott?”

“Your brother doesn’t need to know about this, does he?” she joked.

Laughing, I clicked off the call and dodged the football flying at my head. “Watch it, fuckers!”

“Come on, man. Are we playing or not?”

I thought about it a minute. I’d needed this, even if the timing wasn’t ideal. This school year had been intense, with Prentiss getting cut from the team. Despite his injuries—and his temper—he was the better player of the two of us. He’d had a drive I’d never match. Nor did I want to.

I’d always loved playing football. Playing. It took a lot of work to be good, and I was okay with that work, as long as I continued to enjoy the game. But lately… Well, ever since the shit with Prentiss went down anyway, I’d been struggling to find the joy I’d once felt in stepping onto the field. Prentiss had been a fun challenge. He’d motivated me to do better. We’d had a competitive spirit, each trying to outdo the other, catch more passes, gain more yards.

He’d gotten the best routes, being the senior player and the one with the chops for deep runs. But I’d nipped at his heels, made him feel me breathing down his neck.

And that had been—fun.

For me anyway.

Simon was so serious it was tough to tell if he enjoyed the taunting and teasing or hated it. Then again, he’d given me a split lip, so probably the latter. Which was too bad. But then, I’d probably enjoyed our trash talk a little too much.

Football was a means to an end for most of us. The pros were a hell of a long shot, but football kept us in shape, kept us in friends and sexy hookups, and paid at least some of the bloated tuition at a place like Hayworth. But all good things must come to an end, and for me, I was beginning to think I might be okay with that coming sooner rather than later. Because for all that football gave me, it also came with a cost.

It took a toll on the body—with tackles leading to bruises, sprains, ligament tears, and fractures—and for me, at least, it took a toll on the spirit. Because as long as I remained in the uber masculine sport, I couldn’t imagine ever being open about my pansexuality.

And I was really tired of locking up that part of me.

The same part that kind of missed Simon Prentiss’s dirty looks.