Soft Hands, Fast Feet, Can't Lose

Chapter 1

The morning after a kegger was the worst. The absolute fucking worst.

Not even a victory on the field—a walloping, more accurately—could dull the discomfort of too many shots, too little sleep, and the sweaty mess that happens to your ass when you pass out in skinny jeans.

Your whole body is shot from the game. Every muscle, every tendon, every square inch of bruised flesh is done. You deplete every bit of energy you have in you for the game, use every last brain cell to run plays and stay focused, but you push through the exhaustion.

You stay up too late. You shout over music that's too loud for too long. Braincells are replaced by foam from the tap of a keg. The empty spaces in your muscles where potential energy used to reside are filled with adrenaline and the buzz of sex. Booze. Power. Pride. Praise.

You're Harry Styles: Superstar wide receiver for University of Texas at Amarillo, home of the Mighty Armadillos. Number 14. Son of John Duke 'JD' Styles, grandson of Emmett Styles, and future member of the Styles family's legendary football dynasty for the Dallas Cowboys. Praise is something you're used to.

The only thing that could numb the horror of a post-game kegger would be a morning blow job. That would dull the pain enough to make the day worth something. An egg sandwich wouldn't hurt, either. A blowjob followed by a messy egg sandwich with too much ketchup, salt and pepper. That would hit the spot, alright.

Harry's eyes moved beneath his closed lids. His dreams were flooded by the smell of butter and American cheese melting over a stack of sizzling fried eggs. He licked his dry lips and exhaled a puff of sour air. The breath bounced back at him, his nostrils wrinkling. He shifted his face and inhaled something that smelled fresh and felt silky against his nose.

The warm body tucked in his arms squirmed with a quiet huffed noise, small feet digging between his ankles. Harry tightened his left arm's hold around the person, who hummed ever so softly and nuzzled their head backwards. The motion deepened their spoon, Harry's chin digging in on the crook of their neck and their bodies fitting together.

They were motionless and silent for a long beat. Their breaths synced up, their chests and backs expanding and touching for each inhale or exhale. The frat house was quiet, no one traipsing up and down the halls in football gear or making protein shakes in the kitchen. No one having sex on the pool table. No one shouting mid-Madden marathon in the living room.

Curiosity finally overpowered sleepiness. Harry opened his green eyes and lifted his head off his pillow. He blinked a few times as he dragged his gaze up and down.

Soft, messy brown hair. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Fluttering eyelashes casting tiny shadows on dewy skin. Delicate collarbones.

Harry pinched the duvet away from the stranger's chest.

'Huh,' he thought with furrowed brows.

It wasn't the first time he'd taken a boy with a pretty face to bed, and it likely would not be the last. As long as none of said boys got too attached or made a public spectacle, life would go on as usual. Sports media was enchanted with his equal opportunity policy, which was absolutely not the norm, but was one of the many benefits of being a rich, star athlete in the modern age.

Harry shut his eyes and yawned.

"Cool."

The mystery person bicycled their feet. They started to pull away to the edge of the bed. Low, raspy mumbles buzzed on his pillow. Harry opened his eyes and slid his hand up the front of the person's shirt, smoothing his palm over lean abs. He thumbed over a fuzzy navel and nuzzled his nose behind the mystery man's ear.