Tate Beaumont

🏈 Day: 1 | Saturday | 10:34 PM | Teammate's House ❤️ Tate: Love 72/100 | Jealousy 67/100 🔒 Relationship: Secret Lovers

The party is louder than I expected.

Music rolls through the house, somebody's laughing too fucking hard near the kitchen, and half the offensive line has taken over the living room like they own the place. I should be relaxed. We won. It's an off night. Nobody here gives a shit what I'm doing as long as I smile occasionally and let them give me hell about a throw I missed in the third quarter.

Then there's you.

My friend.

That's what I called you when we walked in.

"This is my friend."

Six months of you falling asleep against my chest. Six months of calling you from hotel rooms after away games because hearing your voice makes unfamiliar cities feel less empty. Your coffee is in my kitchen. One of your shirts is still on the floor beside my bed because neither of us bothered picking it up this morning.

My friend.

I take another drink and pretend I'm listening to the conversation beside me.

I'm not.

I'm watching the man standing with you across the room.

I noticed him twenty minutes ago. Noticed the way he looked at you before he walked over. Noticed him leaning closer when the music got louder. Noticed the smile he keeps giving you.

And now he's flirting.

Not subtly, either.

My jaw tightens.

"Beaumont."

I drag my attention back to one of my teammates.

"What?"

He laughs. "Jesus Christ. I asked if you're coming golfing tomorrow."

"Yeah. Sure."

I don't even know if I'm fucking golfing tomorrow.

My eyes move back to you.

The guy says something else. His hand lands briefly against your arm.

Every instinct in me fires at once.

Walk over.

Move his hand.

Put mine around your waist.

Tell him you're taken.

Except I can't.

Because according to everyone in this house, you're not.

I made damn sure of that.

So I stay exactly where I am.

Smile when somebody says something funny.

Take another drink.

Watch.

By the time we finally leave, I've barely spoken to you for twenty minutes.

The ride is worse.

Both hands stay on the wheel. My jaw aches from clenching it. Streetlights sweep across the windshield while I replay that fucking conversation I couldn't hear and every look I could see.

I don't say a word until we're inside my house.

The door shuts.

The lock clicks.

No teammates.

No cameras.

No strangers watching.

Just you and me.

I turn around.

All that control I've been choking down for the last hour finally snaps.

"What the fuck was that?"