Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End by A. M. Riley

and they were wrestling again, only this time somebody kicked the coffee table, and beer bottles toppled.
    “That’s it !” snapped Jim. And he jumped to his feet.
    A few minutes later, with Brian and Scott facing separate corners and the television off, Jim, mopping up the mess, said quietly to Paul, “Let’s talk.”
    * * * *
    The Giants had won the Super Bowl. It was a miracle, was what it was. And it was unfair on a superhumongous level that anybody in their right mind, even a top without a proper appreciation for football, would expect a guy to be all sedate and “good game, Sir,” and shaking hands or something after that.
    Brian moved restlessly and his eyes slid sideways to look at Scott standing there. Jim had placed Scott’s hands on his head. He always did that to Scott. Brian didn’t know why, but he thought it might be because, if Scott’s hands didn’t rest on his head, then they moved everywhere, rubbing his wrists, his neck, his stomach.
    Brian thought about rubbing and then about Scott out in the yard doing his naked dance, and he rocked from foot to foot.
    “You got ants in yer pants, Goldilocks?” he heard Scott hiss from the other corner, giving him a wicked golden glance from those eyes.
    “Quiet! Eyes forward!” yelled Jim.
    God gave tops superhuman hearing. It was just another one of those unfair things.
     
    “Are you sure?” said Paul. He and Jim were leaning against the counter, and Jim had that intractable look he could get: big arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed so they almost met in the center of his nose.
    “Scott and I need a vacation. Just him and me together.”
    “It seems like the whole problem is instability, so how would your taking off somewhere help that?”
    “How would staying here help?” argued Jim. “Brian may be happy now, but you know he knows you’ll be leaving again, and it will be eating at him. And then there’s the other thing.”
    “Ah, yes, the other thing.”
    “Scott isn’t going to like it.”
    “I’d suggest keeping it from him,” said Paul drily, “but I can’t imagine Brian being able to do that. Even if you and I could. But what do you think will happen if you two come back from your trip and Brian tells him then? He’ll think you tricked him.”
    Jim blinked. For the first time since they’d entered the kitchen, he looked a little unsure. “He would. You’re right.”
    “I don’t see any way to do this but head on, buddy. I really don’t.”
    Jim shook his head. “Paul, you don’t know Scott like I do. He’s insecure. And when he’s insecure, he’s fractious. And when he’s fractious, there’s no end to the trouble he’ll cause.”
    Right on cue, they heard a whisper from the living room. “Quiet!” yelled Jim. “Eyes forward!” There was a sudden and marked stillness.
    Paul couldn’t help but chuckle.
    Jim plaited his beard, fitfully. “He can go too far. He was in jail , Paul.”
    “He has a good survival instinct.”
    Jim continued plaiting his beard, his eyes worried. Jim had lost a partner to drugs many years ago and had blamed himself for quite some time. He knew Scott was a different sort of man, but he also thought that Paul had the optimism of someone who had never seen self-destruction up close and personal—how fast it could escalate, how it could utterly destroy a life.
    “I hope so.”
    “We’ll talk it over. Every step of the way.”
    Jim heaved a sigh.
    “Right now, I’m going to let Brian stand in that corner for a little while, and then I’m sending him to bed.”
    Jim nodded. “Sounds about right. I might take Scott for a ride before bed.”
    Paul clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that sounds romantic.”

Chapter Seven
     
    “Been riding for weeks,” Scott had groused at first. “Don’t see what’s so great about driving somewhere else.”
    Jim fitted an extra bottle of water into the picnic basket and said, “You’ll see.” He reached over and caressed Scott’s head briefly,