Every Shade by Nora Phoenix

Prologue

Five Years Before

Northern Lakein the winter was a miserable, cold-as-fuck hell, tucked away in the New York Adirondack Mountains. Common wisdom said hell was hot, but to Langley, being frozen was ten times worse than sweating your ass off, so hell being cold made way more sense to him. Why the fuck had his father decided this was the perfect place to move to? They could’ve moved to Arizona, for fuck’s sake. Texas. Even Florida. Granted, the people there were nuts, but at least it was warm.

The skies were blue, the sun was bright, and a biting wind clawed through his winter jacket, nipping at his bones as he hurried across the parking lot into the main entrance of Lakelands High School. He was late. Again. And since he already had three tardies and last time, Principal Riggings hadn’t seemed inclined to let him off with a warning until Langley had finally persuaded him, he’d better not run into the man.

He dashed through the hallway, the empty state of which told him he’d already missed the buzzer. Crap. The only hope he had was that he had gym first period and that Coach Meyer really liked Langley as his star quarterback, so hopefully that would get him off.

But when he stormed into the locker room, it wasn’t Coach Meyer who stood there waiting for him. Nope, it was Alexander Wingard, owner of Northern Lake Gas and Convenience and Lakelands High School’s pride and glory and single claim to fame, as he was the only alumni who had ever made it to a professional sports team. Or to anything famous and of importance, really. Unfortunately, a devastating knee injury in his rookie year on the Red Sox had ended it all for him.

“Oh,” Langley said as he skittered to a full stop. He was eloquent like that, especially when confronted with the sight of Alexander’s magnificent body packed in a pair of shorts and a tight T-shirt. Hello, Daddy. Cue drool.

“You’re late, Mr. Malcolm.”

“You know my name?”

The other boys in the locker room snickered. “Your class has ten students, Mr. Malcolm. Even this dumb jock can check off nine names and deduce you must be the tenth one.”

Right. Fuck. “Okay. Just making sure, since I’m new in town.”

Brilliant dialogue. Absolutely dazzling. No wonder Alexander—Mr. Wingard—looked at him as if he was spouting nonsense. He kinda was.

“Not that new. You’ve been here, what, six months now? I’ve seen you at the gas station at least ten times.”

Did that mean Alexander—oh, for fuck’s sake, he had to think of him as Mr. Wingard—had been looking for him? Paid attention to him? “Erm, yes, sir. Coach. Mr. Wingard. Six months and ten days.”

The man’s mouth pulled up in one corner. “I see we’re keeping track.”

Busted. “I guess?”

“Let’s get back to the previous topic. You’re late.”

All the excuses that always came so easily stayed quiet, nothing popping into his brain. “Yes, sir. I apologize, sir.”

“No need to call me sir. As I was telling the others before you interrupted me with your late arrival, Coach Meyer had a car accident yesterday evening. He’s in stable condition, but he won’t be returning to the classroom anytime soon, so Principal Riggins has asked me to fill in as PE teacher, probably until the end of the school year. You guys can call me Coach Wingard.”

Oh god, he would be teaching them? Holy shit, that was… A problem. A big problem. About seven inches, to be exact. Alexander Wingard was many things to many people, ranging from one hell of a baseball player to a businessman, a neighbor, a friend, and more. But to Langley, only one thing mattered. Alexander was gay. Out and proud gay, though he didn’t flaunt it.

And while Langley had been suspecting for a while he himself wasn’t straight, he hadn’t known for sure until the first time he’d met Alexander. Lightning had struck, angelic choirs had sung, and Langley had barely caught himself before he’d literally drooled. The man was…hot. Seriously hot. The stuff of highly erotic dreams in which he’d worn even fewer clothes than he did right now and had been a hell of a lot nicer to Langley.

Having him as his substitute PE teacher meant a few things. One, he’d never be late again for gym. Two, he’d better wear double layers of damn tight underwear because no fucking way would he not get a hard-on from watching him. And three… He’d had a third point. What was it again?

Right. Three, he would use this opportunity to subtly signal to Alexander that he, too, was gay. He was two months away from graduating, and he was already eighteen. Surely he’d be able to convince Alexander to coach him in a different way, no?

Oh, who the fuck was he kidding? Fuck subtle. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t gonna stop until he had him. Alexander Wingard was his.