The whole internet knows that Armando Diaz and I are the perfect example of male friendship.

They’re not entirely wrong.

Diaz is my goalie, my best friend, and the one person I trust with everything.

He’s also straight.

Ish.

When a threesome goes sideways and ends with one little bro-job between friends, we agree it doesn’t mean anything.

Just a guy thing. No big deal.

Then we win our next game, finally breaking our losing streak.

Diaz is the most superstitious man alive, and everyone knows you don’t change anything that works.

So obviously we have to do it again.

For the team.

Except the Hammerheads keep winning, and somewhere along the way our good-luck ritual turns into actually hooking up.

A lot.

Which is how I find myself falling in love with my best friend while continuing to remind myself that he’s straight.

Sure, his dick has been in my mouth.

Multiple times.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

Probably.

The problem is, our winning streak has to end eventually.

And when it does, I’m terrified Diaz won’t need his good-luck charm anymore.