Chapter 2

They’d been so young—nineteen—playing in an international collegiate tournament. They’d met, lusted, and had a smoldering, three-night affair. It hadn’t been Greg’s first time with a male, but it was the first and only time it had meant more than sex to him.

During the days, it was a wonder they could swing a club at all after staying up most of the night talking and fucking their balls off, but, even though shaky, they’d managed to finish the course. And play well. At night, they’d laughed themselves silly over how out of it and yet how successful they’d been. Then the laughter would fade into a blend of hungry mouths licking, kissing, and nipping, hands touching and rubbing, of cocks pulsing as sensual ecstasy thundered through them in utter abandon.

When the tournament had ended, so had the affair. They’d returned to their respective countries and universities, separated by almost five thousand miles. Like so many guys that age, they weren’t into writing, but Greg had sent two or three brief letters. When there was no response, he hadn’t written again. Or called. An overseas call didn’t fit his wallet, and he wasn’t eager for another rebuff like the unanswered letters.

He’d always thought the loss of this friendship was because he’d beaten the gifted Vargas in the final round of the competition. It had given Team USA the win over runner-up and rival Team Madrid. Years had slipped by, yet, still, he’d wake from a dream in the night and the image, the feel, and taste of that lover would be there. Sometimes he’d lie in the darkness for hours before he could claim sleep again.

When the Americans had learned what Riomeant in Spanish, they’d nicknamed him “River,” and that was how Greg still thought of him. Now, he drank in the sight of him as thirstily as the desert was soaking up the rain. Six years had passed, but the man’s serious, dark looks and the smooth skin, the encompassing smile, were the same. The strong fingers swirling the brandy glass were all too familiar.

Greg looked down at his lap to be sure his linen napkin covered a crotch threatening to rise as his balls tingled for action.Holy Moly. What in hell’s this? I’m not a sex-hungry kid anymore. Against his better judgment,he looked for a ring on Rio’s finger. There was no sign of one, and from this distance, he couldn’t see any paler skin where one might have been.

The Spaniard was standing next to a man Greg didn’t recognize, but he looked European. German, maybe?Vargas’s full attention was on whatever he was saying. Greg remembered that about him—the ability to shut out everything else as if what you thought, whatever you had to say, was of major importance, and, by connection, youwere a person of worth.

It was one of the traits that caused men and women to fall in love with River. Aside from the caressing hands on Greg’s balls and River’s thick, hard dick satisfying his carnal needs as it pumped into or onto him, it was one of the reasons Greg had fallen in love with him, too.

Who knows whothe man is today, he told himself. Those hot nights under the sheets could’ve been mere experimentation to settle the angst for him of whether or not he was truly gay. They’d never discussed it. They’d simply played golf hard during the day and shed their fatigue by vigorous night activity and unimaginable positions that might have been a compilation of all the books on gay sex. Happy sex. Happiest he’d ever experienced.

Greg sighed. For all he knew, Vargas could have decided he preferred women.

Damned if his dick wasn’t beginning to stiffen. If he didn’t leave now, it just might stand up and wave hello. Pulling his thoughts out of the past, Greg made a final swipe at his hands with the napkin and left without reintroducing himself. There were some acquaintances it was best not to renew.

He returned to his room and checked his watch. It was still early enough to call his financial advisor. Once that call ended, he then had to endure the usual restlessness he experienced before every tournament. Some men barfed or had diarrhea. He felt lucky his anxiety didn’t inflict those annoyances. He’d have dinner in the hotel, and his food would stay in and down without causing any problems. Same for breakfast, too.

A twinge in his right knee stabbed. Surgery for a torn meniscus had kept him off the circuit for six weeks. Now he was back and playing well, but the knee still protested at the end of a day of golf or practice. The orthopedic surgeon had assured him this would pass. Now, Greg took the plastic liner from the ice bucket, walked down to the ice machine to fill it, then wrapped a few cubes in a towel and held it over his knee.