...And they’re back to talking about sex again. Or at least Sean’s back to thinking of it. “I can take whatever you dish out,” he promises. When Cordero reaches for his head, though, Sean holds out an arm to ward him off. “Not right here.”

Cordero grabs Sean’s wrist, the warmth of his hand like a bracelet of fire searing into Sean’s skin. “Let’s get you some ice,” he says with a grin, shaking his head. “You something else.”

Without waiting for a response, he leads Sean off the pitch toward the team’s bench, where a large cooler full of bottled water and Gatorade await. Everyone’s watching them—Sean keeps one hand to his head and lets Cordero pull him along, enjoying the hot hand holding his arm. At the center line, the coach stands with arms crossed, clipboard held to his chest like a schoolgirl’s. The glower on his face says he doesn’t know why they’re out of position but he’ll gladly give them a dozen laps around the pitch if it’ll get them back in the game.

Sean wants to point out he took a damn ball to the head here. Cut him some slack. But that really will land him laps, so he keeps quiet.

Cordero walks Sean to the bench. As Sean sits, the coach blows his whistle, goading the team back into their positions. “You a damn wimp,” Cordero murmurs, but there’s no malice in his voice, nothing mean about what he says. He’s teasing, and this time when he touches the bump on Sean’s head, his hands are gentle. Grabbing a nearby hand towel, he opens the nearest cooler and scoops out a handful of ice. He twists the towel shut, then tamps it in his hand to create a makeshift ice pack. “You know most pro players actually go out their way to hit the ball with their head, right?

“I ain’t pro,” Sean mutters. “If Beckham took a shot like that, he’d be down same as me.”

Cordero points out, “Beckham’d be paying attention during the game, not flexing with a rookie.”

Sean leans forward, head tilted so Cordero can hold the ice pack against his temple. Biting his lower lip, he moans softly, gaze lingering on Cordero’s bare chest. “Beckham ain’t my type. I like my boys a little darker. You hear me.”

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna make me hold this?” Cordero jiggles the ice pack until Sean takes it from him. For a brief second, their hands brush together—Sean’s surprised the ice doesn’t melt at the touch. “You been checking me out all day.”

Sean grins up at Cordero. “I like what I see. You got a problem with that?”

With a laugh, Cordero teases, “If you’d look at my face instead of my ass, you’d know I was scoping you, too.”

A thrill runs through Sean at Cordero’s brazen reply. Despite the game in progress before him, despite their other teammates and the coach nearby, he reaches out again to touch Cordero. His forefinger carves a trail in the sweat beading on Cordero’s bare stomach, down his abs to his dark navel. The flesh flutters beneath his fingertip, interested, but when he drifts a little lower, Cordero slaps his hand away.

“So now what?” Sean asks. The sun shines like a halo behind Cordero, draping his face in unreadable shadow. When Sean looks up, all he sees are the whites of Cordero’s eyes and those impossibly bright teeth. “We just gonna sit here or we gonna do something about it?”

The coach’s shout interrupts them. “Jefferies! Get back in play!”

“Guy like you gone get me in trouble,” Cordero jokes, nudging Sean’s knee with his. “I’ll hit you later.”

Sean laughs. “For real? Don’t be playing me.”

Turning his back to the field, Cordero faces Sean and grabs the front of his own shorts. His hand encircles the hard shaft of his cock through the material and gives it a healthy squeeze to make it bulge out. At eye-level, it’s all Sean can do not to jump the guy right here. “You ain’t the only one sprung,” Cordero whispers, his voice breathy and hot. “I’m-a get with you when we through. You better not be playing me.”

Unable to tear his gaze from Cordero’s sheathed cock, Sean sighs. “I ain’t never been more serious in my life.”