Between the Pipes (Offsides #3)

by J.J. Mulder

“You must be Nico Mackenzie,” he says, in what might be the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. It’s a voice meant for a speakeasy—smoky and whiskey-tinged. He holds out a hand, and I grasp it.

That voice paired with that face have the makings of disaster written all over them.

The back of him looks just as good as the front.

I take the opportunity to look him over, noting that he changed out of his SCU Athletics gear. He’s wearing dark jeans and a nice button-up shirt; I can smell a faint hint of cologne—something spicy.

Again, I have to question my motives. I need to turn around and go to my car. Why the fuck am I standing here prolonging the agony that is Nico Mackenzie’s company?

Taking this for the dismissal it so obviously is, I don’t bother reaching for a smile. “Yeah. ‘Night, Nico.” Instead of enjoying the inevitable pissed-off-expression this probably earned, I turn my back on him and stride off. When he calls out to me, voice laced with irritation, I smile. “Drive safe, Anthony.”

“Of all the burger joints in South Carolina, you had to come to mine.” That low, raspy voice has me wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. I feel like ice water has been injected into my veins as I turn and find myself looking into the dark, friendly eyes of Anthony Lawson.

He’s still wearing the athletic clothing he was wearing when he left SCU, and he’s still sexy. It pisses me off.

I’m standing close to him, and am focusing very hard on his face. Even in the low light, I can see the exact play of emotions as they race across his face: surprise turns to momentary confusion, before it settles on anger. His black eyes narrow on mine.

“You’re right, I do have a problem with you, you miserable jackass. But not because you’re gay. I don’t give two shits who you fuck, though I’d be surprised if you could find someone to take you up on the offer.”

“Ordering an Uber.” He tugs the phone out of my hands and I look up at him, aggravated. My insides feel like they’ve been sandpapered, everything catching up to me all at once. I want to go home. I would turn around and start walking, if it wasn’t dark and I wasn’t fucking blind as shit.

It’s a credit to how anxious his arrival at the bar made me, that it didn’t dawn on me until now that he was in a gay bar. “Anthony.” He grunts. “What, Nico?” Despite myself, the response makes me smile. Nobody calls me Nico, and I’m fairly certain nobody calls him Anthony either.

“I swear to god, if you ask me if I’ve got a problem with queer people again I’m going to pull over and beat the shit out of you. Not because you’re gay, but because you’re an asshole.”

“I am. I mean, I guess I am, I don’t know. But like I told you before, when I invited you to dinner, that place has great burgers.” Aggravated, he adds: “I wasn’t aware you had to be gay to be welcomed at a gay bar.”

“You’d be surprised.” I shrug, though he doesn’t see it. The stiffness in the car has diffused, just like that. “I’m not exactly a catch.” I wave a hand vaguely at my face and this he does see. A frown has replaced the smile. “Nah, scars are sexy. You’re dating the wrong guys.” “Probably. What’s your excuse?”

“My two best friends both have…” He bites his lip, uncertainly. “Well, they’re with people. It never really bothered me, before, that I couldn’t maintain a relationship. But now, watching them…”

“I always thought I’d have a hard time figuring out who only wanted me for my money, but it turns out even that isn’t enough of an incentive to go out with me.” “I guess we’ll just have to date each other. We can be miserable together.”

“Sounds good to me.” He chuckles. “Maybe I’ve been fishing in the wrong dating pool all along.” I stare at him. He knows I was kidding, right? “You know I was kidding, right?” “Yeah.” Oh my god, is that disappointment I hear?

We stay silent for the rest of the drive; the tension in the vehicle is no longer of the angry variety but more of a sexual nature now, and I don’t know which one feels worse.

“Do you want to come inside for a drink?” We’re standing under a streetlight, so I can see exactly how happy this makes him. “Sure, thanks.” Lovely. “All right. Come on in.”

He might not have a headache, but I’m going to get one from the strain of holding a conversation with him.

Despite him telling me he doesn’t want any, he reaches across the table and steals a french fry. Without acknowledging this, I nudge my plate closer to his side of the table and continue eating the burger. He’s made his way through half of my fries before he speaks.

When his green eyes finally catch on mine, my stomach gives another flutter of nerves. I didn’t realize hazel eyes came in that precise color.

He’s watching me, fingers idly turning the mug of tea. With the kitchen smelling strongly of peppermint, my beer no longer sounds appealing. Feeling daring, I lean forward and hook a finger through the handle of his mug, pulling it toward me. It slips through his fingers, and I maintain eye contact as I bring it to my lips and take a sip.

The way he looks at me stinks of mistrust, and it makes me uncomfortable. I want him to like me, damnit.

I guess we’ll just have to date each other, he said earlier. Yes, please, I think, and surprise myself.

Locking the screen, I make a mental note to get Nico’s number today and head into the shower.

I wonder if Nico’s headache went away and he was able to get some sleep. I wonder if he was at least a little bit serious when he said we should date each other. Because now that the idea has wormed its way into my mind, I can’t get rid of it. Switching positions, I picture Nico’s scowling face and summer-green eyes. I shouldn’t like him; I shouldn’t even want to be friends with him. But, absurdly, I want to kiss him.

I’ve never wanted to kiss another man before. Not on the lips, anyway. Or, below the lips, which is what I was dreaming about last night. I wonder if Nico has chest hair. Probably not, but damnit, I want to find out.

There’s nothing quite like being the single friend in a group of partners, a phenomenon I was still trying to adjust to. It’s not that they don’t include me, because they do; it’s more that I feel like I’m intruding now, where I wasn’t before.

Naturally, he’s just as much of a dick over text as he is in person. I try not to find it charming.

The joy that I get from a simple text message conversation with him sort of feels like an emergency.

I’ve decided Nico Mackenzie has a date, whether he wants one or not.

“Plaid is the uniform of the Midwest. It’s in my blood.”

I hadn’t noticed yesterday, but there’s a curl to it; if I reached out and tugged on a ringlet, I imagine it would bounce right back into place. I wish I didn’t find that thought as appealing as I do.

Anthony’s voice scatters the fantasy of running my fingers through his hair. He’s holding out a ridiculously large to-go cup with NICO written in block letters on the side, and a heart scrawled beneath. He sees me eyeing it and grins cheekily. “Labeled it myself.”

Stepping behind me, he reaches around to grab the door for me. His arm brushes mine, and this time I know it’s because he did it on purpose.

The sleeves of his plaid shirt are cuffed, leaving his muscled forearms bare. The desire to run my fingertips over the dark hair covering them is so strong, it takes me by surprise. What the fuck is with you and touching his hair? Be professional.

Anthony brightens at the mention of me wanting his opinion, smile sliding back into place. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if I did run my fingers over his arm.

Too late, I realize that without him here it will only be Anthony and I. But isn’t that what you want? a sly, internal voice points out.

“You can leave, too,” I call to Anthony, because I seem to only want things I cannot have and I absolutely cannot have Anthony Lawson.

“I can clean up here,” Anthony’s voice comes from my right side, unexpectedly close, and I nearly jolt, “if you have things to finish up in the office.” Annoyed at being snuck up on, I turn to look at him and repeat my earlier request. “You can go.”

“I can stay and help. And then we can grab something for dinner—I’m famished.” “No dinner.” “Yes dinner.” He skates off before I can reply, or possibly whack him with my hockey stick.

When we exit the rink, Anthony steps off the ice ahead of me and I'm treated to an unimpeded view of his ass and broad back. The clothes he’s wearing are tight, which I appreciate and curse in equal measure. Somehow, my useless eyes have no problem at all focusing on him.

I can’t tell if it’s him that makes me uncomfortable, or just the fact that I’m attracted to a straight man that’s pissing me off.

Anthony’s eyes fix on my abdomen and a strange look crosses his face. I’d say it was longing, but I’m not in the business of fanciful thinking.

There is an unmistakable heat in his expression. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t off base with the longing. The realization makes my fingers tingle; a desire to touch him manifesting as an actual physical reaction. I should fire him, and save myself the constant headache of his company.

I don’t care what I eat. The only thing I’m hungry for is hiding under tight, black athletic pants and is firmly off limits.

He makes an aggrieved sound, and I bite back a smile. No smiling, it will only encourage him.

“You can train away timidity. You can’t teach intuition though, and he’s got it in spades. He’s malleable and everyone likes him, so he’ll perform well no matter who you pair him with.”