Soft soil gives way as I drive the post holer deep into the ground, using my boot to shove it as far as I need it.

I've built so many fences and paddocks that it's become almost an automated process in my brain. I know how far apart to space the posts; I haven't needed to measure in years. I know exactly how much pressure to exert to get the depth I need. I know how many nails I need, how much give the wood allows, and the myriad of ways to simplify what should likely be a two-man job.

I know how to do what needs to be done, and I do it with quiet efficiency. Unlike Jake, I don't see it as some kind of social failing to decline help. I have a system that I could never explain as thoroughly to anyone else. Maybe that system isn't completely optimized, but it works for me, and it's always felt like the best option for my ranch.

Usually, at least. Until today.

Right now, as the sun starts to inch past the hills and sweat starts to bead on my skin, I wish I had someone to keep me on task; some manager who would bark at me whenever I slow down.

My mind keeps drifting back to that disaster of a day I had yesterday. It started out great. I was up early and made the rounds with plenty of time to draft up a plan for the new paddock and head to the hardware store right after it opened. Knowing I wouldn't really be able to start on the project, I decided to take care of my other errands.

And that was where it started to go downhill.

I'd seen the man from across the produce section, though it took him another few aisles to notice me. He was tall and muscular, his gray t-shirt clinging to his toned arms and chest. I'm a sucker for a guy with nice, powerful arms, and I'll admit I discreetly watched him as he reached for what was apparently an elusive, perfect bell pepper.

Later, I'd kick myself for not recognizing him, but he doesn't look that much like Jake. Only his bright blue eyes give him away as a Morrison, and he had those covered by dark, designer sunglasses that probably cost more than my old truck.

The meeting we had in Aisle 1 was almost… sweet. Until I'd felt his gaze roving over me, and then sweet was the last thing I'd call it. Living in a small town in the south, I've learned how to discreetly check out other guys, but there was nothing subtle about Travis. His gaze even lingered on my crotch—long enough to make me wonder just what we could get away with in the middle of a grocery store—and I'd gladly returned the favor.

Better sense had won out, pulling me away from my fantasies. And while I thought about him after that—mostly while ignoring my aching cock—I hadn't expected anything to come of it. The fact that fate had other plans had been enough to get me to give him my number, agreeing to a date we both knew was just a formality.

I'd thought about it as I drove over to Gracie's Place. We'd get a cup of coffee, talk for a little bit, and then I'd have him in the cab of my truck, out of view from anyone passing by as his soft lips closed around my cock.

I don't really like bringing guys back to my home, but with the heat I'd felt between us, I might have followed him back to his. I would've let him fuck me, no question about it. And depending on how good he was, I might have stayed for round two after a shower or something.

The fact that at any point I could've walked bare-assed out of Travis' bedroom and run into Jake was what eventually threw the brakes on all of those thoughts, even more than Travis' attitude. Arrogance can be hot in the bedroom, but your best friend knowing his brother was balls deep inside of you is less so.

I wish I could say one frustrating night was enough to get it out of my system, but I'm still thinking about it now, even as I work. Every time my muscles strain and tense with the effort of digging out those holes, I imagine him watching me. Coming up to me, the front of his hard body pressing to the back of mine, the thick rod of his erection nestling against the cleft of my ass. It's a huge problem—no pun intended—and one I'm hoping I can cure by seeking out the company of a stranger who's as hard-up for relief as I apparently am.

Glen Springs is a very inclusive community. Several of the businesses are owned by members of the LGBTQ community, including Gracie’s. But it's still a small town, and if you don't want to hook up with a guy you're guaranteed to see the next day, you have to cruise in Lexington.

I set my mind toward meeting some anonymous guy in a bar, but just as I begin to let go of the fantasy of Travis, my back pocket starts to vibrate. The ringer goes off just a few seconds after, and my heart stops as I realize I gave him my number.

He could still be calling on the off-chance I'll change my mind about that coffee date. And I'm not completely positive I'll refuse him.

I reach for my phone, fumbling to swipe it with my gloved fingers. My breath is ragged and I'm hoping I can play it off as work strain when I answer.

"Hello?"

Jake's voice greets me and I let out a breath. "Hey, you busy?"

"Just getting the new paddock dug out," I say, striking the post holer into the ground and leaning against the top of it. "What's up?"

"I'm positive I told you to wait on that 'til the weekend, man. The kids could’ve helped."

We have this talk with every new addition, and I give him the same answer every time. "It's fine. Won't take me long to finish up."

The line's dead for a second, then I can hear the sound of people talking softly in the background. He must be in the teacher's lounge.

"Hey, so I have a counter-offer." The uncertainty in his tone unsettles me a bit. "Let Travis help you."

"…What?"

I feel like I've been caught not only with my pants down, but with my hand wrapped around my dick.

"I know things were a little strained…"

"Strained?" I ask with a laugh, wiping the sweat from my brow. "You were there last night. No way you missed the vibe."

"Yeah, Trav told me what happened after you left."

I freeze at that, a shiver racing up my spine despite the fact that it's a million degrees out here.

"But seriously," he continues, "if you think that was awkward, you should've been at the house last night. We barely said two words to each other, and I'm pretty sure we both tried."

I let out a puff of air, an ache starting to settle behind my temple. "You want me to get him out of the house so you don't have to deal with him?"

"No!" As empathic as he sounds, I actually believe him. "I just… I think it'll help. He wants to make amends, and I told him to call you later about helping out on the ranch—"

"Jake…"

"—It can just be a one-off project. I think he's a little lost right now. He needs something to focus on. I know you get that, Shane. Don't act like you don't."

I glare daggers at my phone, as if he can actually see me. Pulling out the 'I know about your past' card to win an argument is dirty, even for Jake.

But he's not wrong.

"I have to get back to work, but think about it, okay? I told him to call you around five tonight."

He waits, and finally I say, "I'll think about it," before hanging up.

My gaze moves to the far pasture, where Apollo is grazing. The last thing I need right now is a distraction on this ranch. There's no world where I can say yes to Travis, but if fielding his call makes both of them feel better, I guess it's a small price to pay.

* * *

Around two in the afternoon, it gets too hot to keep working on the paddock. I duck inside, draw some water from the ice maker, and decide to boot up my laptop to deal with some of the emails I've let get backed up. It's mostly people interested in the horses I've got, but there are a few owners getting back to me about selling, too.

As I knock out some replies, I find my attention drawn to that empty tab at the top of my browser. Something in me wants to search Travis Morrison, if only to be better prepared to deal with him.

I finish the email I'm working on and finally give in to temptation. A Wikipedia article is the top result, followed by his official NFL profile. Neither of those catch my interest, though. Instead I find myself clicking on a news story published this month. The headline reads, Storm, Jaguars Scramble to Rescind Offers After Morrison Sex Scandal

I know I should just stop right there. Nothing good will come of this. But I keep reading, skimming the paragraphs about how no one will apparently touch Travis with a ten-foot pole now.

Instead, I seize on the details of the "scandal," one particular paragraph sticking out:

The forty-five minute video which features explicit conduct between Morrison and event coordinator Jeremy Pierce, first appeared on free pornography sites or "tubes" last Friday. Since then, the NFL and Morrison's representatives have filed seventy-four takedown notices, only to see the videos re-uploaded minutes later in an endless cycle that's become a nightmare for all parties involved.

I have no idea what compels me to open a new tab and navigate to Pornhub. Some kind of morbid curiosity, probably. It's that same curiosity that leads me to type in Travis' name, and a momentary lapse of sanity that makes me click on the first video result.

Internet being what it is out here, it takes a while for the video to even load past a black screen. Plenty of time for me to close my laptop and walk away from this. But I don't. I stare at the loading spinner until a grainy, pixelated image fills the screen.

Travis' bare back and ass, his muscles flexing as he reaches for his partner.

I stare at that image, waiting for more to load; waiting for Travis to move. I want to see his muscles strain, his ass-cheeks dimple as he thrusts forward. I want to hear him growl out commands. I want—

My phone rings, and I immediately slam my laptop closed, my heart threatening to pound out of my chest. Not thinking, I reach for the phone and answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, is this Shane?"

It's not the deep growl I was hoping for from the video, but Travis' voice is unmistakable.

"Yeah," I manage, pushing my hair away from my brow.

"This is Travis." He pauses. "Jake's brother." Another pause. "The douchebag who accused you of being a crazy fan."

"I remember," I say, my gaze cutting to my laptop.

"Okay, you're still pissed at me. You have every right to be. But I was hoping I could make it up to you. Jake said you're trying to get a paddock built, and I've got nothing but time. I'm happy to—"

"Fine."

The word comes out of my mouth before I can even think about it. My eyes fly open and I find myself wishing there was a way to delete spoken words the way you can delete them while typing.

Why would I say that? Why would I give him the go-ahead?

I look down my body at the slight bulge in my jeans, knowing the answer.

"…Fine?" he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

Now's my chance to say no. I'll come across as an asshole, but it's better than whatever I'm setting myself up for now. I open my mouth to tell him I've changed my mind, but that's not what comes out.

"Be here at seven. Jake can give you directions."

The words are gruff. Unpleasant. I hang up right after I say them.

But they aren't a no. They're as far from a no as you can get, and as I sit there with a phone I'm afraid to touch and a laptop I'm afraid to open, I know I'm going to have to spend the rest of the night thinking of ways to get Travis off my ranch before I do something I'll regret.