Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End by A. M. Riley Read Free Book Online Page B

door until they finally jostled through and stood watching two wet, muddy men rolling in a grassy mud puddle in the middle of the yard.
    A slick, mud-covered football popped straight out of the knot of man bodies, did a slow arcing twist in the air, and fell with a plop into a puddle.
    “Mine!” yelled Scott, and his mud-covered torso leaped from the twist of bodies. Scott was small but compact, and his body hit the puddle like a large rock. Water and mud splattered everywhere.
    Jim looked down at his shirt, and his eyes narrowed.
    Scrabbling and slipping and spraying mud everywhere, Scott came up from the ground, mud ball tucked under his arm, and started zigging and zagging across the yard, a muddy Brian, long dripping jersey and all, running, yelling behind him.
    “And score!” shouted Scott, doing a victory dance.
    It was quite a dance. Scott was soaking wet, his clothes stuck to him like he’d been sprayed with brown paint. That compact, well-endowed body did a little shaky butt dance, and Brian stopped running and stood gaping instead.
    He whistled.
    Scott turned, mud on his face, those eyes glowing beneath it. He tossed the football to the ground and spread his arms, giving the whole wet, muddy package a little shake and roll.
    “You want some, Goldilocks?”
    Brian whooped and leaped on him.
    Jim made some noise of protest.
    Paul glanced at him. “Okay!” he yelled, clapping his hands. When Brian, who was now on top of Scott and groping sort of randomly, didn’t respond, Paul put his fingers into his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle.
    Both men stopped moving.
    Scott chuckled, grinning up at Brian. “Personal foul?”
    “Not in my book,” said Brian. He’d found a perfect place for his pelvis, and he twisted a little there.
    “All right, you two. There’s just enough time to clean you off before the second half begins,” said Paul, picking Brian up by one arm like he was just a stuffed doll. He placed Brian firmly on both feet and pointed at the house. “Shower,” he said.
    “But…”
    “Now,” said Paul.
    “Why shower when we can just hose off out here?” said Scott from behind them, and Paul turned to see what Brian was grinning at. Scott had stripped his shorts and shirt off and stood in his muddy sneakers, arms and legs muddy but torso relatively clean.
    “Where’s that hose?” Scott said.
    “Between your legs!” screamed Brian. “Oh, man, look at you.”
    Scott’s equipment was not in proportion to the rest of his compact body. He shook it and then turned his back and gave everyone another little show as he leaned over to pick up the hose. It was a pretty, if muddy, sight. Scott straightened, obviously fully intending to do a little backyard impromptu Flashdance with the hose and nothing else, but Jim was there and had hold of his arm. “I don’t think so.”
    “Wha—”
    Half lifting, half dragging, Jim pulled Scott across the yard and into the house.
    Paul and Brian could still hear Scott’s protests after the screen door had slammed shut.
    “What did he do?” said Brian. He turned on Paul and stamped his foot.
    Paul gave him a discerning look. “I think you know, Brian. But go take a shower. We’ll talk after the game.”
    Brian’s lower lip protruded a bit, and he may have stamped once in a puddle as he went across the yard, but he didn’t want to risk missing the second half of the game, so he went.
    * * * *
    Brats on crack.
    Jim looked grimly down at the two wet-headed wrestling men at his feet and thought that was exactly what he and Paul were having to deal with.
    For about the fiftieth time, Scott pinched Brian. Or Brian elbowed Scott, and shoving and wrestling and kicking occurred. When Paul snapped, “That’s enough,” both voices claimed, “He started it,” and then they had a few minutes of peace.
    Then Brian elbowed Scott. Or Scott pinched Brian.
    The game ended, Brian jumped up and down, hooting. Scott jumped up and down and stuck an elbow in Brian,