Follow the River

When he pulls to a stop in front of me, I blow out a breath, because I do know who he is. I don’t know how I didn’t put the pieces together earlier when Coach mentioned his last name.

Because Ciaráin Grady has been throwing up astronomical stats the past two years at Clemson, being in the ru

And now he’s here at a college that isn’t exactly known for its football.

Which begs the question...why?

His attention is focused on Coach, not even giving me a second glance, when he says “Coach?”

That one single word, sliding over me like a smooth, rich whiskey, has my stomach doing somersaults and backflips and every other gymnastic move in the book on an instant.

Coach grunts before nodding to me. “Grady, I’d like you to meet your QB. My hopes are you’ll be able to mesh well together. Even despite the fact that you haven’t played together the previous two years.”

For the first time since he’s stopped in front of us, his eyes leave our coach and zero in on my own. They’re two deep pools of honey whiskey, the most distinct amber I’ve ever seen on a human. Seems fitting they match his voice.

“River Le

Those golden eyes stay on mine as his own arm reaches out to shake my hand. But the second our palms touch, fingers wrapped around each other’s hand, fire licks at my skin.

Actually, fire is putting it mildly. It’s more like a bolt of lightning, zapping each and every nerve ending in my hand, sending shockwaves of electricity and heat coursing through every inch of my body. All from a simple handshake.

From the flare in his eyes before he quickly looks down at our joined hand, he feels it too. That is, before he drops my hand like it literally burnt him and his gaze returns to mine.

“Ciaráin Grady.” He speaks his name slow and fluidly, sounding like keer-en.

When he doesn’t say anything else, I quirk a brow. “Do you just go by Ciaráin?”

He smirks slightly. “I guess my old team used to call me G or Grady, so that would be fine too. You’re welcome to come up with something else, so long as it’s more creative than asshole or dickhead.”

“Not asshole or dickhead. Duly noted.” I nod in all seriousness. “Well, Garrett over there—” I point to my backup QB on the other side of the field— “goes by G, so for clarity’s sake I think I’ll stick with Grady.” I give him a wry smile before continuing. “But welcome to the team, man. I have to say, you transferring might be a gift from God. I've needed another stellar wide receiver for two years now.”

“I aim to please, Len,” he retorts. The way my nickname slips off his lips sends a shiver through me. I want to hear it again just so I can watch the way his lips form the letters as he says it.

My brain is latching onto the single syllable like my life depends on it and replaying over in my mind on a loop in the span of only a second. As irrational as it is and no matter how much I don’t understand it, I crave it. My name on his lips.

“Did you need anything else, Coach? Otherwise I’m going to get back to it,” Ciaráin asks him, flicking his gaze back to our coach.

“Not at all. Go finish up the drill,” he replies, dismissing Ciaráin before tossing his chin at me. “And River, go get Garrett. Once they’re done, I want to run some routes. Get you two used to each other as quickly as possible.”

And that’s where we are ten minutes later, ru

Simply put, our chemistry is off the fucking charts and it’s got me all kinds of jacked up.

The next time it’s his turn for a route, I give him a wicked grin before giving him the universal go long signal with my hand. I catch his smirk and subtle nod before stepping back into position. And then back further and further until he’s far enough away that I’m ready to let it fly.

And fly it fucking does. Sails down the field through the air, landing safely in Ciaráin’s arms over halfway down the field.

I let out a holler, never feeling so high in my life. Ciaráin returns my excitement with a whoop from his spot down the field. And yeah, we both completely ignore Coach’s glares from the sidelines. Though, if I know Coach Scott, he’s secretly jumping up and down like a kid in a candy store on the inside.

Adrenaline is coursing through me and my hopes are through the roof for the season if this is the kind of shit we can do together on day one of practice. There’s definitely no false hype around this guy’s ability when it comes to football.

I could get used to this.

Ciaráin comes ru

And my heart drops to my stomach and out my ass.

Wait, what? Was he just...flirting with me?

I blink after him a couple times, and for the first time today, I let myself take a good look at him. The kind of look that, if this was a hundred years ago—fuck, even fifty years ago—I could be beat to death and strung up in the town square.

Okay I might be slightly over dramatic, but I’m not far off.

But still, I fucking stare at him. Taking in his muscular thighs encased in his pants, the pads doing everything to make his ass look like a goddamn peach I’d give my left nut to take a bite into.

The way I’m studying him, it portrays…interest.

And interested, I fucking am.

Despite the rules I’ve put in place for myself regarding my teammates, which are only two—don’t look and definitely don’t fucking touch—and despite the fact that I try to limit my hook-ups with the male population at CU…I’m fucking interested.

Really fucking interested.

My eyes take in his form again while he bullshits in line with Drew, letting Garrett have his run through with the receivers. His helmet is dangling from his fingertips, the pad of his thumb toying with the strap absently while he talks.

But even from ten yards away, I see his eyes dance with the same excitement that was taking hold of me not more than two minutes ago.

A thousand questions run through my head.

Is that glimmer there from the high of the game? Is this chemistry between us just from being two players in sync? Or is it something more than that? Does he feel this physical attraction too?

Is he also…into guys?

Fuck me.

This is the hardest fucking part about being bisexual. Girls are never this hard to figure out, contrary to what straight men might think. All I have to do is flash my dimples and a heated smolder and poof, their panties are gone. It’s practically magic.

But with dudes, it’s like trying to teach a monkey advanced statistics. In Spanish.