Page 81 of Last First Kiss

“Thatyousupplied.”

Jamie inches closer. His eyes are dark, endless pools of brown. Around the edges of Jordan’s vision, he sees the corners of Jamie’s mouth twitch. This is dangerously familiar. He should gravitate away from it, but logic fails to exist whenever he’s with Jamie.

Jordan counts the beats until Jamie says something.

But it’s the burly, sunburnt white man two rows above them that speaks first.

“Come on, number eight! Quit losing us the game!”

Jordan’s attention snaps away from Jamie. He glances toward the field.

Mikah stands in the middle, rubbing the back of his head. He’s alone, shoulders drooped. His teammates chase the opposing players toward their goal.

Jordan whips around to Sunburn Guy. “Hey!” he growls. “Back off.”

“Why? Thatyourkid?”

A retort rises in Jordan’s chest. He considers throwing a punch. God, what would Kami think if he got banned for life from Mikah’s soccer games? It doesn’t happen though. Jordan’s not fast enough.

Rather, Jamie’s faster. He reaches into Jordan’s lap. Threads their fingers together before lifting their hands above his head.

“He’sourson,” Jamie announces.

Sunburn Guy blinks rapidly. Jordan does too.

In the stands, more than a few people watch carefully.

Unfazed, Jamie carries on. “Can’t you tell? He’s got my hair and my husband’s aristocratic jawline.”

Sunburn Guy’s beady blue eyes shift from them to Mikah andback. Whispers break out around him. He raises his hands, apologetic. “I didn’t mean—I’m not… he’s really good. Your kid. Fast and, uh. So-sorry.”

Jamie gives him one final glare. Sunburn Guy wilts. Jordan clenches his ass tightly to stop himself from laughing.

A chorus of “Let’s go, number eight!” bursts forth from the others.

Grinning, Jamie turns to the field. He ducks his head with a whisper, “People get super uncomfortable when you call them homophobic in public. Or racist. Transphobic. Ableist. Fatphobic. Sexist. You get the picture.”

Jordan does. “What the fuck is an aristocratic jawline?”

“I don’t know! I heard it in a rom-com.”

“What, like a Regency film?”

“Maybe? Some Jane Austen adaptation?”

Jordan rolls his eyes to stop from cracking up. His brain concentrates on what’s happening in his lap. Where Jamie’s still holding his hand. The soft grip Jordan hasn’t pulled away from.

He probably should.

Right now.

Or, like, in a minute. After the tips of his fingers finish tracing the veins on the back of Jamie’s hand.

Or when he hears Kami’s distinct voice call, “Jordan! Jamie!”

Jordan jerks his hand away. He wipes sweat andwhatever that wasonto his joggers. He watches as Kami and Suraj make their way over.

Hugs and handshakes are exchanged. Suraj brushes off the open seats just below Jordan and Jamie before Kami sits down.