Striker

"Welcome to the neighborhood."

The stranger's deep voice rippled over Max Myers's flesh. "Thanks." Using his palm as a visor against the bright afternoon sun, he squinted as the man approached. Running shoes and ankle socks took a step closer to where he sat on his stoop. His gaze tracked higher. Dark crisp hair swirled over carved calves. The man had the legs of a cyclist. Hard, tanned and long as hell. Basketball shorts rode low on his narrow hips. A thin strip of hair bisected his washboard abs and feathered below the waistband. Two defined muscles grooved his pelvis. Max's gaze followed the ridge and he stared at the soft mound of the guy's groin.

Saliva pooled in Max's mouth. The man was hot. The voice was aural sex, with a dark seductive timbre and the body promised an even greater temptation. Celtic knots inked the runner's left shoulder. The sharp black edges cut a stark contrast against his flesh as the design curved along his pectorals and ribs. Max wanted to touch the hard lines and contours of that sweat-glistening torso with his tongue, trace the intricate pattern of the tat to discover just how hot the man could get.

"I watched you move in. I live next door." The inked hottie sat on the stoop next to Max. "Riley Grayson."

"Riley Grayson as in the Riley Grayson?" Oh damn. Max's neighbor was more than a walking wet dream. Max should've recognized the two-time MLS champion at first glance, but he never would have expected his neighbor to be the star player for the Denver Blaze. His sexy next-door neighbor was hot and an athlete. The two qualities that most attracted Max. If only Riley was gay... No, his sexual orientation wouldn't matter. Even if Riley were interested, Max didn't mix business with pleasure. And while he could see limitless possibilities for pleasure with Riley's body, he definitely wanted to make Riley Grayson his business.

"With seven billion people on the earth, I'm sure I'm not the only one." Riley chuckled.

"The only one I'm interested in. With seven billion people, I get lucky enough to share a porch with the hottest forward to hit the soccer field." Shit. He hoped Riley interpreted hot to mean game play and not as a reference to the more than six feet of rippling, sweat-slicked muscle making Max's heart hammer and his cock thicken.

One of the reasons Max had come to Colorado was because it was a sports Mecca with professional basketball, football, soccer, hockey and baseball. He could write his articles from anywhere, but in Florida he hadn't been able to break into television—and he wanted television. So he'd packed his shit, moved to the Mile High City and taken a permanent assignment to make his blog home with a national online sports magazine. Now he had the potential to move into television with the magazine's local cable affiliation to give post-game commentary. He'd had to give up some creative control over From the Sidelines and now had an editor that he needed to keep happy, but the opportunity was worth it. Getting a coveted interview with Riley Grayson, the man who refused all interviews, would go a long way to cementing his position as a top sports writer. The elusive captain of the current champion soccer team just went to the top of his to-do list. Too bad it had nothing to do with sex.

"Max Myers."

"No shit?" Riley pumped his hand. "I read your blog. Hell, everyone reads your blog."