The Star (Charleston Condors Book 1)

RILEY TOLD HIMSELF VERY firmly he was not going to throw up.

He’d come onto the field for warmups early because sitting in the locker room, just sitting there and staring at the floor, imagining the way the game might go, made him nearly sick.

Maybe visualizations worked for some players, but for Riley, they just made him imagine all the ways everything could go wrong.

But then he’d come out onto the field and heard the cheers as people recognized the name on the back of his jersey, and the pressure had hit him like a freight train.

Right to the stomach.

“You good, rook?”

Riley looked up, and Jem was standing in front of him, a wry grin on his face.

“I’m not a rookie,” Riley said. But he felt like one.

The last time he’d played in an NFL game, he’d been standing on the sideline, holding a clipboard.

He wasn’t the one expected to take this team to the field and then lead this team. In that respect, he was absolutely a rookie.

“Sure you are,” Jem said kindly. “And it’s okay to be totally freaking out right now.”

“Did you?” Riley bent over and checked the ties on his cleats. He’d probably done it a million times since he was eleven, and he’d demanded he follow in his older brother’s footsteps. But it had never felt as vitally important as it did now that his shoes stay firmly on his feet.

“Um, yeah,” Jem said. “I nearly shit myself every single play. I got bowled over by a lineman half my size because I couldn’t get my head in the game. But you—” He paused. “You’re not gonna do that, Flynn.”

Riley wasn’t so sure.

Of course, he’d been in tough, stressful spots before.

That first game in Pittsburgh, when everyone had been expecting him to fail, and he knew he couldn’t? He’d been a wreck.

But he’d still gone on the field and done exactly what he’d prepared for.

You can do that again.

“You’re not,” Jem repeated and reached down, giving him a reassuring tap on his shoulder pad. “You see how many fans are in this stadium sporting brand-new Flynn jerseys? You got this.”

“Thanks,” Riley said. Stood. Felt reasonably sure he was not going to puke this time. “You know, anytime you want a job as a motivational speaker, it’s yours.”

Jem grinned. “Thanks, rook. That means a lot. We can’t play this game forever.”

“Hey, at least rook is better than the kid,” Riley said.

“Who calls you that?” Jem looked confused as they headed out onto the field for warmups. “Not Landry, right?”

“My idiot brother.” Riley rolled his eyes. “No, not Landry.”

“Didn’t think so,” Jem teased.

“It’s not—” Riley was going to say again that it wasn’t like that between him and Landry. But before he could, Jem interrupted him.

“Yeah, it probably is. But hey, that’s cool. We told you it was.”

“You and Deacon did, yeah. But…” Riley trailed off as they reached the center of the field.

“No buts,” Jem said firmly. He patted him on the shoulder again. “You’re good, rook.”

“I’m…I am good.” Riley grinned wildly. He did have this. Didn’t he have all the tools he needed? Didn’t he believe—at one point, more than anyone else—he possessed all the skills he’d need to succeed in the NFL?

He was going to prove everyone wrong.

Starting with his brother.

“You just got this super fierce look in your eye,” Charlie said after he jogged over. “Should I be afraid right now?”

“Not you,” Riley said. “But the Commanders? Yeah, they should be fucking terrified.”

“Yeah, they should be. You’ve been tearin’ it up in practice,” Charlie said. “You ready to warm up?”

“Yep,” Riley said. “I’m ready now.” And he felt like he really was.

The nerves hadn’t melted away, but he was using them as fuel now.

They finished warming up, Riley tossing passes back and forth to Charlie, and then he joined the running backs for their own drills, making sure his muscles were awake and ready to go at a moment’s notice.

Then they returned to the locker room for one last word from Coach Kelley before they entered the stadium.

Riley knew before, during the Tom Taylor era, the Condors had been hard-edged and aggressive, picking the Beastie Boys’ Sabotage for their entrance music.

It had felt appropriate for so many reasons, considering how many terrible stories had come out of that time.

But Grant Green, the new owner of the Condors, had done a total sweep, changing even the team’s entrance to the field.

It had been enough of a spectacle—the lyrics so appropriate to the situation—that even deep in his playing time in Pittsburgh, he’d heard about the change.

After the first game, Green had given an interview, talking about why they’d selected this particular song. “We have a lot to prove, a lot to overcome,” he’d said. “We aren’t going to sabotage anyone, not anymore. That’s not our new way. Our way is to take a chance and achieve what I believe we’re capable of. That’s why I changed the music to We Own It because we have to own what happened before we can rise above it.”

The owner’s words had resonated with Riley, and when he’d met Green in person—who’d refused to let him call him Mr. Green, but suggested Mr. G instead—had insisted that he wasn’t just interested in building a winning team but a winning team who took responsibility for their choices.

The Condors couldn’t change who they’d been before, just like Riley couldn’t change his size—but they could rise above it.

As they returned to the locker room, he caught sight of Mr. G leaning against the far wall, looking like one of their younger coaches, or even a fan, not like the owner of the team. Riley could sympathize with the way his body looked tense with nerves, his dark eyes intensely focused on the center of the room as Coach Kelley walked in.

“Gather up,” Coach said, and everyone did, drawing in closer so they could hear their coach. He wasn’t a particularly tough or blood-thirsty guy, which Riley liked. But he was competitive. He wanted to win. Just like Riley. “Maybe this is only a preseason game, but each time we take the field together, it matters. Your intent matters. Your execution matters. Your play matters. So make each down count. Remember, we’re rising above it. No matter what crap people say to you, I don’t want to see any bullshit penalties, okay?”

Riley leaned over. Carter was sitting next to him, staring at the floor. “That happen?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh yeah,” Carter said in a flat voice. “You know, it’s all that regular bullshit, plus extra. People really didn’t like the shit that came out about the bounties the defense took out on some of the Piranhas players.”

“But that’s not…that’s not us,” Riley said. He hadn’t expected this, but he supposed he should’ve. The NFL, in general, had turned against the Condors during the last season, and then there had been that last playoff game against the Piranhas when they’d gone after them with a fury that you rarely saw on a football field.

Players had gotten injured. And that, apparently, had been the last straw for the NFL because they’d stepped in. Forced the team to be sold, and then Mr. G had bought it, vowing to turn the culture around.

Riley supposed some players didn’t want to let go of their anger.

“I thought it would get better this year. Sort of,” Carter said with a shrug. “But it’s okay. Like you said, it’s not us.”

In front of them, Coach Kelley was wrapping up. “No bullshit penalties,” he repeated. “If you’re being targeted, let me or one of the coaches know. We want to know. We want to combat this the right way. And with that in mind, Deacon’s going to say a few words to you, too.”

The big defensive end took the floor next.

“Coach Kelley is right,” Deacon said slowly, his voice carrying in a way that Coach Kelley’s didn’t. It reached every corner of the big locker room. “Last year was fucked. Not everyone thinks we’ve changed, but I was here last year. I know we’ve changed. I know it in every bone in this body. Every fucking muscle. I know we’ve got a ways to go, but that doesn’t mean we can give up now. This is the beginning. Let’s make it a good one.” Deacon raised his fist. Riley’s blood pumped harder, faster. He felt the push now, not just the nerves, but the determination that took him over every single game. “Fly Condors!”

Riley had always thought the Condors’ catchphrase was kind of stupid, but hearing it in Deacon’s voice, the fervent belief in this team’s possibilities obvious in his voice, it was so easy to get caught up and chant it right back to the team captain.

When they rushed out onto the field, Riley found himself believing, too. Believing in the idea of redemption.

Of second chances.

Of first chances.

Because this was his.

And he was going to make the most of it.

It seemed like Riley wasn’t the only one.

When he took the field for the first time, the rest of the offense surrounding him, the sheer noise from the crowd was almost deafening.

They think you can do this, Riley told himself, and then he narrowed his focus on the task ahead of him.

The defense had done their jobs during the first drive, forcing the Commanders to turn the ball over around mid-field.

After the Commanders punted, downing the ball at the fucking two-yard line, Riley eyed the remaining ninety-eight yards to the end zone.

One yard at a time.

That was one of Aidan’s favorite sayings, and at least in this moment, it fit.

Coach Oscar called in the play through Riley’s headset, and after he listened to it twice, making sure he got it, he leaned into the huddle.

“Hey, guys,” he said, and there were a few nervous chuckles around him.

He got it. He was new, and while he might’ve been running practice the last three days, nobody knew what to really make of him yet.

Riley met Landry’s gaze. “You got this,” he said quietly with undeniable certainty.

He called out the play. Met every player’s eyes one by one, making sure they understood. Because while he might be the newest guy on this team, he was indisputably their leader now.

Something Aidan had hounded into him until he felt like he could repeat it in his sleep.

You run the plays. You run the team. You got this. If you don’t got it, then everyone’s fucked. So you got this, you hear me, Riley?

He heard.

Challenge accepted.

The huddle broke up and they got set, Riley getting the first look at the defensive scheme they were setting up against him. Not surprisingly, the Commanders were loading the box, expecting he’d hand the football off to Darius or run himself.

They didn’t think he had the balls to throw.

And checkmate.

Cole Johnson, the center, snapped the ball, and they’d worked together enough over the last few days that it landed perfectly in Riley’s hands, and his mental clock started ticking down.

He only had a few precious seconds to throw.

But right off the bat, the Commanders’ defense dug into the trenches, pushing hard, the offensive line moving backwards, forcing Riley to shift to the left, and then the right, eyes scanning the field for his first option, then the second, and then the third. Landry had fallen into blocking coverage. Carter was stuck in a serious double-team, and Nick was only slightly more open, but he was the best choice Riley could see.

He dodged further left, evading a defensive tackle coming in to flatten him like a pancake, and the weird roar of the crowd nearly stopped him up short, but he threw the ball anyway, watching as it arced over the defensive line, falling right into Nick’s hands.

“Yes!” Riley screeched, fist-pumping as he nabbed the first down.

But there was something disconcerting in the way everyone’s eyes wouldn’t quite meet his, and they weren’t celebrating.

“Dude,” Carter said, slightly out of breath as he ran back towards where all the players gathered after the play, “you stepped right out of the end zone.”

Riley stared at him.

Stared at the ref, who was currently bringing his hands over his head in the dreaded position that didn’t mean touchdown. Nope, it meant that the Commanders had scored a safety, because Riley had been too fucking stupid to stay in the field.

“What, no,” Riley said in disbelief, but as he looked upward, towards the huge video screen currently replaying his dumb ass blunder over and over, it was undeniable.

To avoid being tackled by that last defender, he’d stepped a few inches out of the back of the end zone.

Instead of giving the Condors a first down, instead of taking all his nerves and his preparation and all the work he’d done for so many years, he’d made them and him, an embarrassment.

“Hey, it’s alright, you know, shit happens,” Carter said. He shrugged because, for Carter Maxwell, shit did happen, and happened regularly.

“I know,” Riley snapped, humiliation coalescing inside him in one nauseating ball.

Shit did happen, but not now, not like this, not to him.

Not when he needed to prove that the Condors had done the right thing signing him.

Not when he was trying to prove Aidan had been one hundred percent fucking wrong about him.

“It’s all good,” Cole said. “Let’s regroup. Come on.” The big center led them to the sideline, where Coach Kelley tried to put a good face on it.

“Riley, listen,” he said, putting his arm around Riley, who felt torn between crying and throwing up. “It’s all right. It’s going to be just fine. We’re fine. Right guys?”

Riley looked around as the players around him nodded in agreement.

His first NFL pass, and he’d stepped out of the back of the end zone, not even like a rookie might…like a freaking idiot might.

He was going to be on every Sports Center highlight reel from now until the end of time. He’d be the laughingstock of every late-night show and sports podcast. And then there was the inevitable email from Aidan…

Riley drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He was good at brushing things off. He’d had to learn to be. But this felt different, so much bigger than him, much too big to simply let go of.

“Hey,” a voice next to him said, and it was sharper than he’d expected.

He looked up, and Landry was there, and he’d pulled his helmet off. “Hey,” he repeated, reaching out and gripping his arm. “I need you to focus on me right now.”

“What?” The crowd’s screams nearly drowned him out, but Riley was pretty sure he’d heard him right.

“Focus on me,” Landry said.

Riley did, and the look in his brown eyes felt like a hand reaching out. There was sympathy there because Landry didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but also, there was an undeniable intensity.

Focus on me. What Landry had really meant was we need to focus on the game. Don’t let this overwhelm you.

It nearly had.

He’d just been about to head down a black hole spiral, and Landry reaching out made him realize it.

“Right,” Riley said and turned back to the players gathered around him. “We’ve got this. I’ve got this. Let’s get some work done.”

They only had a few moments to talk about adding in another tight end to help with blocking the defense, and then it was time for them to take the field again.

Landry watched as Riley shook off his frustration and anxiety and re-focused on the game.

It wasn’t easy to do that.

In fact, he didn’t know any quarterback who could’ve done what Riley had done and dealt with it so quickly.

Of course, he’d helped. He’d seen the panic and embarrassment in Riley’s face, seen the terror that he’d be laughed at forever, and Landry had known exactly what lay at the bottom of that spiral.

Nothing good.

And goddamnit, Riley was not only his quarterback and the de facto leader of this team; Landry cared about him. He wanted him to succeed, not just because his success was tied, inevitably, to the Condors’ success.

He wanted Riley to be able to shove his achievements into the faces of everyone who’d doubted him.

Even his brother.

Okay, who was he kidding? Especially his brother.

Riley called out the play, voice steady and eyes calm.

Landry took his position down the line and decided that, in some ways they were better off now, even though they were down by two points. The Commanders had pinned them to the two-yard line before. This kickoff hadn’t been nearly as successful as their prior punt, and the Condors were beginning this drive on the twenty-five-yard line. With lots of room for Riley to make some magic happen and not go out of the field of play.

Not that he’d ever do that again.

Cole snapped the ball, and Landry pushed forward, at first using his big frame and strength to block one of the defensive ends coming for Riley.

Then when the end was shuffled off, away from Riley, Landry planted and took off in a quick sprint down the sideline, crossing over into the flat, and he had a fraction of a second to position himself after his turn before Riley threw the ball.

It was a tricky play to call so early on in their relationship because it depended almost entirely on timing, and they hadn’t had much practice time together yet to develop that, but Landry already had an instinctual feel for how Riley played.

He turned, and then the ball flew through the air, one of Riley’s fucking perfect spirals, and he caught it.

Turning up field, he shucked off the safety and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the corner change direction, and begin to cross over.

Ten yards. Twenty. The distance ticked off in Landry’s head as he pushed his legs hard. He wasn’t the fastest guy on the team—not even close—but he could make it happen when it counted, and he wanted a big play here to prove to Riley he could do this.

Sure, the stats were nice for him, too. And he wanted to see the Condors win, but this play mattered so much more than that.

This was Riley’s pride on the line, and Landry discovered as he faced off with the corner coming for him that, in this moment, nothing was more important to him than that.

He shoved out an arm, hoping to stiff-arm the corner into submission, but the guy took a different angle than Landry had anticipated. Instead of being able to deal with him from the side, he was coming from the front, and he grabbed Landry by the middle and brought him down.

Still, Landry thought, trying to catch his breath as he lay on the turf, that was a fifty-yard play, easy.

A hand reached out to help him up, and to Landry’s surprise, it wasn’t the corner, but Riley, grinning wildly. He must’ve run all the way down the field to be the first one to celebrate with him.

“That was unreal,” Riley told him as they huddled up again. “That stiff-arm was sick.”

“Could’ve been sicker,” Landry said. Didn’t say I think I could’ve scored if I’d gotten that guy the right way. Because it wasn’t like a fifty-yard gain was anything to sniff at.

But he’d done what he’d intended, and those shadows, hiding in Riley’s gaze, were gone.

He was clear-eyed and confident again.

Ready to take the Condors into the red zone and score.

Landry watched him as the huddle broke up.

This is just the beginning of the Riley Flynn era.

Three plays later, as Riley threw a gorgeous fucking pass to Carter in the back corner of the end zone, every player on the team and every fan in the stadium believed it.

I believed it first, Landry noted with satisfaction as they headed back to the sideline after the touchdown.

“Sorry,” Riley said to him as they reached the bench.

“What? Excuse me?” Landry couldn’t believe he was apologizing. For the safety, still? Or something else?

Riley shrugged. “I wanted to throw it to you. Get you the touchdown you didn’t get on that long pass. But Carter was open…”

“Riley.” Landry turned to face him and put his hands on Riley’s shoulder pads. “No.”

“No?”

“You don’t get to apologize. Not for that. Ever. Okay? I don’t care how many touchdowns I get. Carter was open. Unbelievably. Miraculously. You should’ve thrown to him.”

“Right.” But there was a glimmer of something Landry recognized in Riley’s eyes as he sat down on the bench next to Charlie, who held out his Gatorade with one hand and a tablet with the other, so they could start reviewing the plays on that drive.

It was the same thing he’d felt when he’d caught the ball and had wanted so goddamn bad to erase the bad taste in Riley’s mouth. Not just because it would help him focus better and would help the Condors win.

No, he’d needed it so much more because, more than anything else, he wanted to see Riley’s face light up with that smile. The one that said I did it, even though nobody thought I could.

Landry never wanted that look to leave Riley’s gorgeous face.

I knew the whole time he could. Landry wanted to crow that to everyone on the team.

But he didn’t.

Until the final minutes were ticking down in the game.

They were leading twenty-four to five, and Riley was flushed and happy with success. Landry’s fingers itched, he was so desperate to reach out and just touch him.

Then, finally, after everyone had had their moment with the new star quarterback of the Condors, he approached Landry.

Saving the best for last?

God, Landry hoped so. He wanted to think he wasn’t alone in this. But he wasn’t sure, and that kinda killed him.

“Great game,” Riley said modestly, his smile betraying how much of an understatement he knew that was.

“Hey, I’m not the one who threw three touchdowns, passed for over two hundred yards, and ran for another seventy-five.”

“Aw, you memorized my stat line,” Riley said, his smile so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. Those eyes Landry never wanted to look away from.

How had this happened?

Riley had been here in Charleston less than a week, but already it felt like he was personally responsible for every beautiful thing in Landry’s life. The reason why he woke up in the mornings. The excuse for his heart to keep beating.

“It’s hard to miss with how much they keep flashing it on that board over there,” Landry explained, feeling himself flush with embarrassment. Had he been too obvious?

“Oh?” Riley even had a dimple when he smiled that hard.

Landry wanted to trace it with his tongue.

“Yeah,” Landry said. Feeling like he’d just been exposed.

Riley put a hand on his shoulder. Tucked himself in close. This wasn’t so different than the way he and Carter had embraced earlier, after their second touchdown together. But Riley didn’t move away. Instead, it felt like he leaned in closer.

“Hey, you were instrumental today, you know? I couldn’t have done it without you.” Riley’s voice was soft. Earnest.

“Nah,” Landry insisted. “This was all you.”

“You don’t think I saw how many times you blocked guys away from me?”

“That’s my job,” Landry said. It was.

“But you’re great at it. So let me say thank you. You gonna take it, or is this going to be just like my apology earlier?”

“No, I…you’re welcome.”

It was his job. But it had felt like so much more than just a job.

It had felt like his personal responsibility to keep Riley on his feet.

“See?” Riley’s dimple deepened. “That wasn’t so tough, was it?”

“Tougher than you’d imagine.”

“Yeah, I get it. You’re just used to being so awesome,” Riley teased.

“I’m—”

“Yeah, you are awesome,” Riley insisted. “Super duper awesome with a helping of awesome on top.”

Maybe he wasn’t alone in this helpless crush that seemed to take him over whenever Riley was near.

He remembered what Logan had suspected earlier. That way back, Riley had a crush on him. But they’d barely talked recently; he was practically a stranger now. He didn’t really remember Riley’s behavior during those college years when he’d occasionally come home with Aidan.

Maybe he had had a crush on him.

But Landry was hardly as sure as Logan had been.

“Thanks, I think?” Landry said.

Riley laughed. “Geez, take a compliment, Banks.”

“Well, you’re pretty awesome yourself.”

Understatement of the century.

“Come on,” Riley said, tucking a hand around Landry’s waist like it belonged there, tugging him towards the center of the field as the last second ticked off the clock. Landry could feel the heat of it there, like a brand, even through several layers of pads and fabric. “Let’s go celebrate.”

Celebrating sounded pretty damn good to Landry.

But then it turned out that celebrating actually meant Riley and Carter goofing off around the locker room, half-dressed and gorgeous like neither of them had any idea the effect they had together, as they danced to the victory soundtrack Deacon had turned on the speakers.

“Hey, we won. You’re not supposed to be frowning,” Deacon said as he dropped down next to him.

Was he frowning? Were his jealousy and displeasure that obvious? Landry felt a pulse of embarrassment at the thought they could be.

Maybe they were written all over his face.

Logan had seemed flabbergasted by the idea Riley could be into Carter Maxwell, but there was no denying he had a certain charm.

And Riley seemed caught by it now as they spun around together, weaving their bodies together as they danced and faux-rapped to the Notorious B.I.G. song on Deacon’s playlist.

“I’m not frowning,” Landry lied. “It was a great game. Great win.”

“Exactly. What’s your issue?” Deacon gestured towards Riley and Carter. “You jealous?”

“No,” Landry said vehemently. If Riley wanted Carter…well, he just hoped Carter realized how goddamn lucky he was and didn’t fuck it up. Which, since this was Carter Maxwell, seemed like a highly likely possibility.

How many high-profile hookups had Maxwell gone through?

Way too many.

Riley should know better, but then Landry was evidence that sometimes a person yanked off their helmet in front of you, and you just couldn’t do anything else but want them. Even if it was hopeless. Even if it was a fucking terrible idea.

“Right.” Deacon did not sound even remotely convinced.

What would he do if Riley discovered his envy and called him on it like Deacon was doing?

God, that would be beyond humiliating.

Landry wasn’t sure he’d survive that. Not if he had to continue living with Riley, being in his space all the time, feeling the fire of his casual touches, and eating the meals he cooked for them.

“Well,” Deacon drawled, “you think about it, okay?”

“Think about what?” Landry asked, but Deacon had already risen and was heading towards the locker room door.

What had he meant?

Did he mean: think about you and Riley together? Think about what might happen if you told him the truth?

Because, frankly, he wasn’t doing anything else but thinking about it, and it was making Landry a little crazy.