It’s Superbowl weekend, and to say I’ve been distracted is a huge understatement. Even the voices in my head can’t seem to focus on anything else. Enjoy this little interlude, and the regular story will resume where we left off next week.
“Let’s go to IHOP.”
Mike glanced up from the television to laugh at Crandall. When Crandall glared at him, Mike said, “Seriously?” He gestured at the screen with the remote. “The game’s about to start.”
“What game?” Crandall turned and frowned at the screen. “Since when do you give a fuck about football?”
“Crank, it’s the Superbowl…The Patriots are playing… You know? Boston’s team?”
“So fucking what?”
“So I want to watch the game.”
“You don’t like football. You never watch football.”
“I watched last time they were in the Superbowl.”
“When was that?”
Mike frowned, studying Crandall. He didn’t make jokes, but Mike still had a hard time believing he didn’t remember the hubbub of the Patriots in the ultimate game just four years ago.
“You’re not sure?”
Mike chuckled. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m not so sure about you though.” He shook his head and returned his attention to the pre-game show.
Crandall shuffled to the couch and flopped down beside Mike. “Why’s that?” he asked.
“Why is what?”
“You not being sure about me.”
With a sigh, Mike turned his head to stare at Crandall for several seconds before answering. “You seriously haven’t heard anything about this game for the past two weeks?”
“I don’t give a shit who’s playing what sport.”
Crandall stared at the television, but Mike could tell he wasn’t really listening to Tedy Bruschi give his opinion of Belichick’s decision to cut Underwood the night before the big game. Crandall probably didn’t realize he was staring through a man who’d played defense in the last Superbowl the Patriots played.
“Well, I want to watch it. Order take out. We’ll get IHOP afterwards.”
Crandall stood, but didn’t move away from the sofa.
“What time is it going to start?”
“We don’t have enough time to go out.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’ll order food before then.”
Crandall left the room, heading down the hall that led to the bathroom and their bedrooms. Mike let him go. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Not yet. Besides, he may not watch the games during the regular season, but he skimmed the news each week. He knew the team dedicated this season to Myra Kraft, the mother figure of the team, and the late wife of the team’s owner. That somehow made their arrival at the Superbowl even more exciting. He hoped they’d do a piece on the inspiration she brought to them. After all, how many ways could the sportscasters dissect two teams and their past match-ups? They were due for a new topic soon.
As Mike mused on the different interviews he’d watched so far, Crandall returned. He dropped something on the sofa, and then stepped between Mike and the TV. Mike dragged his gaze up Crandall’s body and frowned under his hard stare.
“You make a better wall than window, Crank.”
“Game’s not on yet.”
Mike snapped his mouth shut mid-sentence when Crandall dropped onto his lap. With a knee on either side of Mike’s thighs, Crandall arched his back and draped his arms around Mike’s neck. He pressed an insistent kiss to Mike’s mouth, his tongue prying for entry.
Mike parted his lips, welcoming Crandall’s demand for attention. A sound of pleasant surprise slipped between them. Mike drew his palms over Crandall’s thighs and up his sides. When he accidentally brushed a ticklish spot, Crandall flinched away and grabbed Mike’s hand, fixing Mike with a disappointed frown.
“Sorry,” Mike whispered.
“Were you watching that?” Crandall cocked his head toward the television.
“Not any more,” Mike said. “We’ll be done before kickoff.”
“Maybe,” Crandall said.
Mike grinned. He hit the record button on the DVR remote and then said, “Bedroom?”
Crandall already had his hands at Mike’s waist, the button of his jeans open, and the zipper snicking down in slow motion.
“No need.” Crandall’s gaze flickered to the side. Mike followed, spotting a bottle of lube and two foil squares on the cushion beside them.
“No, I knew,” Crandall said. He wrapped Mike’s ponytail around his hand and pulled him into a rough kiss.
“Yes,” Mike said, “you did.”