Free Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End by A. M. Riley

him?”
    “No,” said Paul immediately.
    “Hmm.” Jim scraped the chopped peppers into a bowl. “Have we reached an impasse?”
    Paul tsked. “I did a little online research.”
    “Oh, Christ, Paul, what did you expect to find there?”
    “I don’t know.” He toed the linoleum. He sighed.
    Jim wiped his hands and turned. “Okay.” He held out a fist and drew one finger at a time up, enumerating his points. “One. Take it slow. And I mean s-l-o-w. You might not even do it the first time. Two. You set the pace. I don’t care what Brian tells you; you understand? A man in that position doesn’t always know what he wants.”
    “Christ,” said Paul fervently. His jaw clenched.
    “Three,” Jim persisted. “Give yourself the space to deal afterwards. Brian will be…” Jim sighed. “Just fucking be there for him.”
    Paul’s head was down, but he was listening. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Okay.”
    Jim reached under the cupboards and brought out a soup pan.
    “You’ve done this before, though,” said Paul.
    “Not with someone I cared about.” There was something about the way he said it, something damning. Paul’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jim.
    “Thanks,” he said. And strode out of the kitchen, the chains on his boots ringing out with each step.
    “Don’t mention it,” said Jim, shaking his head and pouring tomato sauce into the pan.
    * * * *
    “I’m home!” called Brian brightly. He hung up his jacket and carried his backpack into his room to put it where it belonged under his desk.
    There was a pink rose on the desk. Puzzled, he picked it up and found the note under it.
    He read the note, and a crimson flush rose up his neck and into his cheeks. Carefully, he folded the note. Put it in his pocket. Then he went off to shower and get ready for dinner.
    * * * *
    Paul came in from the garage, where he’d been tinkering with his bike, wiping the last of the grease from his hands.
    He stopped and looked at the set dinner table. There was a vase with a single pink rose sticking out of it. “Who put that there?”
    “Brian,” said Jim. He opened the refrigerator. “We’re eating in ten.”
    “Okay.” With one last look at the rose, Paul turned to the sink and began washing his hands.
    * * * *
    What the hell was wrong with Scott?
    “Ask, don’t reach,” snapped Jim for about the tenth time.
    Scott rolled his eyes. “Pass the butter, Bri?”
    When Jim had woken him, Scott had been a sleepy, happy, golden bundle of satisfied man. That had lasted until he’d sat down at the table with Brian.
    Now he jittered in place. “Accidentally” kicking people under the table, “accidentally” flipping bits of pepper off his plate, “forgetting” his manners, and looking more and more pleased with himself as he did so.
    Brian’s cheeks were pink, and he seemed distracted, eating quietly and only lifting his eyes now and then to smile shyly at Paul, who seemed equally struck dumb.
    What the hell was happening in his house? thought Jim.
    “Wanna kick a ball around after dinner?” said Scott to Brian now. Well, thought Jim, at least he’d burn off some of that nervous energy.
    “No thanks,” said Brian, with that enigmatic, shy smile again. “I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”
    “You have class tomorrow morning?” asked Scott.
    “No. No class.”
    Scott’s leg, swinging back and forth, connected with Jim’s shin rather hard. “Oops, sorry,” said Scott.
    “Scott, just set your feet down on the floor.”
    Now the bright, nervous energy seemed to implode, and Scott scowled. Jim sighed. “You’ve finished anyway. Why don’t you excuse yourself?”
    Scott jumped up from the table, almost tipping his chair over, and thwacked Brian in a lighthearted way on the shoulder. “Lazy.”
    The thwack was, in Jim’s opinion, a little harder than it should have been.
    And Brian seemed almost feverish, with that high color in his cheeks, his quiet.
    “Maybe it’s a good