You & Me

I met Landon at the stadium Friday afternoon. He was down on the field, unwinding the electrical cord out of the tunnel.

Bethany was up in the stands, relaxed and at ease with the wind blowing through her long hair. It was getting cooler, and she was in jeans and a Last Waters hoodie, Bowen’s number 16 over her heart and bedazzled in gemstones across her back. She waved when she saw me coming down from the parking lot. “Hey, Luke!”

Her voice made Landon look up. Our eyes found each other across the end zone. I spent too many seconds frozen, taking in the sight of him. Electricity snapped between us, the current of our connection sparking like a live wire dipped into pure oxygen. My steps faltered, and I broke into a beaming smile as he stopped what he was doing and watched me jog all the way to his side.

Whatever this was between us—chemistry, hormones, a fairy-tale kind of falling in love—we were screwed if that was how we were hiding it.

I said hello to Bethany before Landon and I disappeared beneath the stands to catch up on where we’d left off eighteen hours before. My back hit the concrete wall of the tunnel. His palms landed beside my head. Our lips were on each other less than a breath later.

The taste of him after eighteen hours apart was like lightning striking my brain. He moaned against my lips. Whispered, “Luke,” and “You have no idea what you do to me.”

How did we ever not kiss like this? How did we spend weeks together, share a tiny booth at Juice & Butter, share a deep-fried Creme Egg, share a couch at 2:00 a.m. and watch Netflix with bare feet, and not pull each other close? I dragged him to me, ran my palms over his back and down to his waist. Got brave and cupped my hands around both of his ass cheeks.

He broke the kiss with a curse, the first I’d heard fall from his lips, and sank his face into my neck. He panted against my pulse. His cock was hot and hard, and pushed against mine. I smiled into his hair and kissed his temple, the curve of his ear as he trembled.

“You have no idea,” he repeated, pulling back until we could look each other in the eyes. “What you do to me. None at all.”

Landon had turned me inside out, had remade my entire world. He made me think about tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, about how many hours until I saw his smile and heard his voice and felt his touch. He made me feel something bigger than happiness and excitement. Things like anticipation. Potential. Forever.

I hoped he felt a fraction of what was tumbling inside of me. Just a fraction.

We held hands and stood three inches apart, waiting for our hearts to slow as we talked about our Fridays and our boys until we were presentable. I finger combed his hair back into place before we left the tunnel. He kissed my palm, and the look he gave me—longing, adoration, joy—turned my knees to dust.

Pregame work consumed us for the next two hours. When Emmet and Bowen arrived, we waved and jumped and called their names from the end zone. I’d have been certain Emmet would disown me if I tried something silly like this a few weeks ago, but now I waved both my arms over my head and screamed, “Go 99!”

Bowen punched the air with both fists and beamed. Emmet waved and shook his head, but he turned back and waved again before he disappeared into the athletic center. Even half a football field away, I could see his smile. It was like the sun shining down on my face.

We toasted kickoff with the bottles of Diet Dr Pepper Annie smuggled to us from the concession stand on our skywalk. I regurgitated what Emmet had told me about the team’s road to the playoffs and their chances in the postseason. Landon agreed, and told me to watch how Emmet ran the defense for this game because victory or defeat would hinge on whether Emmet could build that brick wall he’d become known for. If so, Bowen would have the space to pick apart the other team’s defense.

“Most people think football is all about the offense and the quarterback, but it doesn’t matter how great a quarterback is if he doesn’t have a rock-solid defense at his side. Bowen would be nothing without Emmet.”

I kept my eyes glued to my son throughout the first half. I breathed with him in the leadup to the snaps. Stopped breathing when the ball moved, when he moved, when he hurled himself into the center of the offense and tore up the other team’s careful plays. I plucked phrases Landon had taught me out of the soup in my brain: a blitz, a blocked third down conversion. A sack.

Emmet roared on the field, victorious, a conquering hero. This game was his.

Bowen marched the offense up the field three times for two touchdowns and a field goal.

Halftime brought us down to the field. We were faster, and the team was slower, delayed heading back to the locker room by a marching band traffic jam. I passed Emmet on the sideline and shot him a smile. He beamed, all his joy radiating at me for three perfect seconds. I heard one of his teammates ask, “Your dad volunteers?” and Emmet say, “Yeah, man, he’s here every week.”

After our water duties, Landon and I shared nachos dripping with neon cheese—sneaking a chance to feed each other a single chip each; my lips closed around his fingertips on purpose, like I’d accidentally done at the fair—and posted back at our skywalk.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than Landon’s hands after that. My eyes snaked from the field, where our sons were putting the nails in the coffin of the other team, to Landon. To how he held that bottle of Diet Dr Pepper in a loose grip or how he reached for my wrist and squeezed my forearm when Bowen threw his third touchdown pass. He was careful with his touch, deliberate, no matter what he was doing. Passing sodas to junior varsity boys or pouring a glass of wine for me. Holding me close or stroking his finger over my tattoo.

One day, I’d know what those hands felt like when he was making love to me.

I tore my gaze away and focused on the rest of the game before I caused a situation for myself.

We won, which had been a foregone conclusion a few minutes into the third quarter. Emmet had directed his defense on a play that led to an interception, and one of his safeties ran the ball back for a touchdown.

When the game was over, the players looped their arms around each other’s shoulders and sang the school fight song while the marching band played along at ear-splitting volume.

“Dad!” Emmet found me hauling water jugs while the team headed into the tunnel. “Dad, did you see?” In his uniform, in his pads and cleats and swollen with adrenaline and pumped up on victory, Emmet seemed larger than life. Sweat dripped from his hair to his face. He was smiling. He had been all fourth quarter.

“Of course! Man coverage was genius, Em. Kept them on their toes.” At least, that’s what Landon said. I’d understood the broad strokes: Emmet switched up his defensive coverage, making an on-the-spot change. He’d sprung his mousetrap a few plays early, but he’d read the quarterback right and pressured him with a rush, forced him to throw early. Interception.

Emmet beamed as he bear-hugged me. I got a face full of sweat as my cheek slammed into the hard plastic of his pads. “I’ll text you from Austin,” he said as he pulled back. “Bowen’s getting a private tour of the UT stadium.”

A pang of worry hit me. Should I be going with my son on this college visit? Did I need to cancel my weekend with Landon, get in the car, and go to Austin with Emmet?

No. If Emmet were being scouted by the University of Texas, he’d tell me. I had to believe that. This was Bowen bringing his best friend on a road trip. My time exploring colleges with Emmet was still to come.

But if Bowen and Bethany weren’t going to be at Landon’s home this weekend, then did Landon even need to stay at my place?

Was it really about need? No. But what excuse were we going to give the boys?

“When are you guys leaving?”

Emmet was already jogging away, following the last of the team into the tunnel. “Tomorrow morning,” he called. “We’re going out to a late dinner and then crashing at Bowen’s. We’ll hit the road early.”

Another thought hit me. Where did Bethany sleep at Landon’s house? In his bed, where he and I had slept? Where he said he could still smell me in his sheets? Or did Bethany sleep in the bed where I’d realized I was falling for Landon? Where I’d humped the mattress until I came all over myself? Stop.

“Have fun!” I called after my son. He spun, shot me another beaming smile, and then disappeared into the tunnel.

I had no idea what to expect when Landon and I arrived at my house. Would we be making out as soon as we stepped inside? Leaving a trail of clothes from the front door to the couch or up to my bedroom? I’d bought both wine and lube, not knowing which we’d be more likely to use.

An unfamiliar shyness seeped in as I drove from the stadium to my townhome. Landon’s headlights bounced in my rearview mirror. My hands trembled over my steering wheel. I ran them up and down the leather. Breathed in. Stared at Landon’s silhouette in the driver’s seat behind me.

Wine was what we both needed, I realized, when we arrived. He’d gone quiet like me and still clutched his duffel as he carried it into the kitchen. I offered to take it, then froze when I stepped outside of the kitchen. Did I bring it to my bedroom? Leave it on the couch? I heard a cork pop behind me, heard wine slosh into glasses. Bedroom, I decided. Closer to the bathroom was my rationalization.

We sipped wine on opposite sides of the island. Our gazes met, flicked away. The air was thick, choked with what we weren’t saying. Tuesday night and our frantic make-out on the couch replayed for the millionth time in my mind. That night was etched in the whorls of my gray matter.

We could be kissing now, sinking into my shitty couch in my empty living room. Stripping our booster T-shirts off each other until we were chest to chest again.

Landon’s hand found mine. I jumped. Wine leapt in my glass. He stilled. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” My voice was strained. He started to pull away. I grabbed his hand, laced our fingers together. “I’m nervous. But I really want to kiss you right now.”

He smiled and left his wine on the counter, then came around to stand in front of me. His hand rose, and his fingers slid through the short hair at my temple. His thumbs brushed my cheek, circled the skin at the corners of my eyes. We leaned in at the same time. Our lips met as he sighed my name.

That frisson sparked again, fire igniting in my veins at the feel of him. His kiss, his touch. I held on to his waist so I wouldn’t fall as the world spun.

All the barriers of the week faded away. Our nights apart, connected by texting and pictures and our dreams, all the hours and minutes we’d counted down until we could be together again. Fatherhood, even, until we were just two men kissing and falling in love. My world reduced to Landon.

We moved like we were in a dream. Backing through my hallway, kissing our way up my stairs. I was touching him everywhere, sliding my hands beneath the hem of his shirt, up and over his muscled arms. I blinked, and we were in my bedroom, the backs of my legs hitting the edge of my mattress.

I tugged his shirt over his head. He slid his hands under mine, drawing the fabric up in slow motion as he ran his palms over my ribs. Cotton obscured my view of Landon’s face. Emmet’s number fluttered in front of my eyes and fell away. His breath was hot on my face.

My hands went to his belt and the fly of his jeans. I waited.

Landon’s eyes were ink-dark. He swayed. His open mouth brushed against my cheek. “Boxers,” he breathed. “Can we keep them on?”

“Of course.” I’d do anything he wanted.

My hands shook as I pushed down his jeans. His erection popped free of his fly, cock rock hard and already tenting the tight, satin fabric of his very small boxers.

Then it was my turn. His fingers worked through my belt, undid the fly on my jeans. I heard every one of the teeth on my zipper part. My heart was pounding. My chest moved like a hummingbird. Dizziness stole over me. I was lost to everything but what he was doing, the movement of his hands over my legs.

I sank to my bed and crawled backward, braced on my elbows. He was still standing beside my mattress, his muscular chest heaving as he watched me. His pulse leapt on his neck.

My knees fell to the side as I parted my legs. My cock was as achingly hard as his, and it rose between us, an obscene tent of cotton-covered fabric.

Landon moved like a football player coming off the snap. He flew into my arms, crawled between my legs. His thighs met mine, his hips to my hips, arms wrapping around my shoulders. I managed to gasp the first half of his name before his lips were on mine.

It was exactly like I’d dreamed a week ago in Landon’s guest bed. We moved in perfect harmony. Thighs pressing, pushing, squeezing. Hands gliding over skin as we kissed like we were keeping each other alive with our shared breath. Chest to chest, my nipples brushing his chest hair and the firmness of his pecs. Hips grinding, cock to cock, searing heat burning my skin even through our boxers.

I didn’t know where he began and I ended. We were starting to merge, the edges of us blending, becoming indistinct. My fingers found his, and he pushed our hands to the mattress beside my head as he kissed my jaw and my closed eyes and my pounding pulse. I wrapped my leg around his waist and thrust up into him. His thighs spread me wider, making me more open to him. My cock leaked precome. I felt his own smearing through his boxers against my hip and beneath my belly button.

Every part of him was trembling against me, from his shaking breath to his quivering biceps to the tremors running through his thighs. I’d never been this hard. I’d never been this gone. If we kept going, if we kept making out like this, I was going to come.

“Luke…” Landon’s forehead found mine. Skin dug against skin as we fought to breathe, to tear our lips from each other. I grasped the back of his head, held tight to the strands of his hair. “Luke, I need— We need—” His hips thrust forward again. His eyes fluttered as his lips parted.

I nodded. His head moved with mine. This was the make-or-break moment. We could plow forward, chase this conflagration, scream each other’s names as we came. It was what our bodies wanted, needed.

But it wasn’t what we wanted. And it wasn’t what I promised him. Slow. I want to cherish you.

We stilled. Our wild hearts were racing. My legs had wrapped around his waist, holding him tight to me, but now I let them fall away, my feet flat on the mattress. He rose to his elbows above me and stared into my eyes. Kissed me slowly, this time only our lips moving.

We ended up on our sides, legs tangled, hands held on the mattress between us. I’d moved the pillow Landon had used on the couch to my bed, but we still shared mine, lying as close together as we could get. The cool air in my bedroom turned the wet spots on my boxers chilly. Sense was returning in bits and pieces.

“Thank you,” Landon whispered. He ran his thumb over the back of my hand.

“You don’t need to thank me. I want to go slow, too. I loved that, yeah, but I love respecting you more.”

His eyes were like falling stars. “I want to know that we can stop if we want to.” He worried at his bottom lip. “I’m not waiting for a certain day or a week. When we take that next step, I want it to be something we choose together. I want it to be ours, not something we fall into.”

“I get that. I’m on board.” Everything was still new to me. I was all in, in every way, head over heels for Landon, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t shit scared sometimes. The wonder, the joy, eclipsed that fear, though.

“That was amazing, and all we were doing was making out.”

“I don’t know if we can go any further.”

He turned serious, a worried look in his eyes, like he was afraid he’d pushed me or hurt me.

I nuzzled his cheek and grinned. “I might explode if we do. Jesus, Landon, that was only making out. When you make love to me—” I made a sound like a nuclear bomb dropping and exploding.

He shoved my shoulder, laughing, and then laid his hand on my thigh. His fingers ran in circles over my skin. “Is that what you want? For me to make love to you?”

I knew the vernacular. Top, bottom. Pitcher, catcher. When I imagined Landon and me together in that way, I always imagined him inside me, him making love to me. I’d never been fucked before, had never played with my ass. But the thought of it, of him and me together in that way, felt right. “I do. I’ve never done it before, but I want it with you.” I swallowed. “Is that what you want?”

What if, out of all the ways we were perfect for each other, that was one way we didn’t fit?

The heat of his desire burned over me like a slow-rolling wave. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. My breath stopped. He nodded.

We whispered away the hours, hands on each other, thighs and knees and calves intertwined. We hadn’t turned on any lights in the bedroom. Only the light from the hall and the kitchen downstairs lit my house. A diffuse glow sneaked in the open door and lit Landon from behind. Him in my bed, his naked chest rising and falling, the look in his eyes as he gazed at me. I had to draw him.

My sketchbook lived on my nightstand. I was drawing every night, pulling moments from my memories and capturing them on cream paper. I drew like a man possessed, like I’d seen secrets of the universe and had to pluck them from my brain to preserve them. Pages and pages of sketches, some only rough outlines or line drawings, others as detailed and intricate as a photo replica.

I sat up and pulled my sketchbook into my lap. Landon pressed against my side as I cracked it open to a fresh page. “I want to draw you right now.”

“Me?” Landon seemed shocked.

If only he knew how many drawings I’d done of him in the past two weeks. I nodded. “Can you lie back down? Like you were?” He moved a little awkwardly, kind of stiffly, until he was back on his side. “Perfect.” I pressed the pencil to the page. “Now look up at me.”

There. That was the moment. That was the look.

I sketched out the lines fast, filled in the details slow. Spent endless minutes perfecting the shape of his smile, the curve of his cheek where it met his palm and the pillow. Stared into his eyes until my pencil recreated every speck of light and shadow. I saw him in fractals—perfect eyes, kissable lips, gorgeous face—and it wasn’t until I pulled out of the drawing that I realized what I’d done. I sat back. Bit my lip as my pencil drifted down the empty page where I’d planned to fill in the rest. His chest, the bed, the glow from the open door. All I had now was Landon’s face against the pillow. And the look in his eyes.

“Can I see?” Landon shifted against me. His breath caught. “Luke—”

I wasn’t sure if I’d poured my feelings into drawing Landon, or if I’d teased out buried, hidden emotions from within him. Was it the subject or artist who had fallen so deeply in love? Looking at what I’d drawn, I couldn’t tell.

I flipped back through my last two weeks of sketches while he hooked his chin over my bicep. Images of Emmet flashed by—him on the field warming up at practice in his T-shirt and athletic shorts and helmet; him at the kitchen table as he frowned at his textbook; him in the center of the field under those big lights, hands open, arms spread, ready to leap—alongside sketches of footballs and uprights and Bowen making a pass from the center of the page.

There were pictures of Landon, too. His smile. His laugh. Him beside me at the fair, him beside me at the football games. Him teaching Bowen how to fillet a fish. Him holding a glass of wine as he looked into my eyes. I hesitated, and then skipped to the sketch of him in the wine bar. “This was the first thing I drew when I started again.”

I felt raw, exposed, like I’d revealed a secret too soon. My heart was pounding.

“These are amazing.” Landon fingered the pages, flipping back and forth between my drawings of Emmet, of Bowen, and of himself. “Why don’t you have your own gallery? Why aren’t you famous?”

“Never managed to get my shit together.” I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “I draw for myself. It’s about… feelings.” Obviously. I’d bled emotions all over these pages. Everything I drew captivated me. Everything I drew I loved. “I never wanted to lose that.”

I’d bounced from art major to art history major to general studies because I’d felt my creativity slipping away. Then life happened to me: Riley’s pregnancy, Emmet’s birth. Getting married when we still didn’t really know each other.

Moments since had rooted me. Emmet’s birth. Being his father.

Meeting Landon.

“These are beautiful. Amazing.” Landon turned my face to him and kissed me with his eyes open. “And you are amazing,” he said against my lips. “And you are beautiful.” He smiled.

“I haven’t shown anyone my drawings in eleven years.”

“I’m honored.”

“I also haven’t drawn in eleven years.” I quirked a smile back at him before my nerves stole it away. “You brought this back for me. You brought everything back for me. You’ve given me my life back, Landon. You’ve given me my son back.”

He held my face in both of his hands. “No. You and Emmet found your way back to each other on your own. That was you and him.”

I leaned into his touch. “I wouldn’t have been brave enough to try without you.”

“But you did. Be proud of yourself.”

I nodded and pushed my forehead against his. We breathed each other in, held each other’s gazes, until I set my sketchbook aside and pulled him to me for a long, achingly slow kiss.