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on his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids, finally his lips. “And not because you can catch a football. Or because you’re gorgeous. But because I remember when you couldn’t catch anything, and when you were an awkward ugly kid trying to grow into his hands and feet. I loved you even before you were sex on legs.”
    “This week is going to kill me, isn’t it?” Bo whispered against his lover’s mouth, his body trembled under Dylan’s expert hands.
    “We have nearly seven years to make up for. And then another year to store up for. So yeah, I’m taking no prisoners.”
    “I have things to do today. Or I’ll lose my job.”
    “You might want to set an alarm or something. Or we’ll just stay up all night so you don’t forget.” Dylan sucked at his neck, pulling up a hickey Bo wouldn’t be able to explain come morning. But he didn’t care, he returned the favor.
    “I’ll take you with me. Show you off. And when I’m finished there, we’ll move you back here. Can’t believe you even checked into a hotel in the first place.”
    “And ruin the best surprise in the history of ever. Your face, oh it was priceless, at first you were all big man pissed off, and then you were this big puppy dog. I wanted to kiss you right there on the field. All those cameras. I couldn’t but I wanted to.” Dylan’s hands roamed low over his body and that’s all Bo heard. The part about kissing. And he dragged Dylan in for another long slow kiss. Clothes that were hastily donned were slowly divested. Food forgotten again. So many body parts that needed tasting, so little time.
    * * * * *
    He stood on the forty yard line holding a football that he’d snagged from an equipment stand. Years flew away and he was a kid again when practice was the only thing he knew. Practice and school. Get up in the morning before the other kids. Be on the field before the sun was even up. Throw hard and fast. Connect with Bo at the other end of the field. Do it again. And again. And again. For years. Bo was fast back then. Really fast. Big boys like him weren’t usually fast. He liked to eat and always carried a bit of a spare tire around his waist, but he could run. And he could jump. And he could eat. He could still eat. But now he worked out all the time or he wouldn’t have the body to make him a world class athlete. His freaking arms had to be registered lethal weapons.
    Dylan remembered everything from those years. He had a lot of time to play those days over in his mind. Long lonely nights to get through. He felt old. Sometimes. At twenty-four almost twenty-five. He felt so old. And alone.
    Bo was inside somewhere doing secret football things that didn’t include him. The day-after meetings and whatever they did in the big leagues. Most likely taking some serious heat for the picture on the front page of the newspaper this morning. The two of them locked in embrace, tears in Bo’s eyes. Dylan tried so damned hard not to break down when the first tear fell from Bo’s eye. He wanted to. He could see the shimmer in his own eyes splashed right there on the front page. The feel good homecoming story. Football hero and war hero together again.
    With Bo winning the Super Bowl with four touchdown runs out of the five scored, last night was his night. And Dylan was there for it. The most perfect night in the history of his life. Being there when Bo did everything Bo said he was going to do. And knowing at least one of those salutes in the end zone was for Dylan. The last one. The one when Bo pointed to the heavens with the ball in his hand. That was his move back in the day.
    “Hey, Jarhead, sling me that football.” The shout came from a hallway at the far end of the field and Dylan jumped. He hadn’t expected anyone would mind him being out on the practice field but he wasn’t supposed to be there. Regulations were regulations. Bo and a couple of other men emerged from the shadows. Dylan couldn’t recognize them, not without their uniforms