Bromosexual Read Online Daryl Banner

Categories Genre: Funny, M-M Romance, Romance, Sports Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)

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Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Daryl Banner

Book Information:

Stefan Baker, who used to be my best friend and bro, is a totally cocky bastard. And he knows it too.
With his backwards cap, lopsided grin, and ripped bod gifted from the gods, he struts around town like he owns it. But I won’t let him own me, no matter how hot he's gotten over the past eight years since he went off to become a pro baseball player in the major leagues - and since we had our brutal falling out and everything fell apart.
And I definitely won't stare at him no matter how many times he parades in front of me wearing next to nothing. What a cock tease.
But when a hard night lands him at my front doorstep - desperately in need of a place to stay - I get one look into those rich blue eyes of his ... and realize our story is far from over.
My former "bro" and I are about to define a whole new term for the steamy, beautiful mess that's about to happen between the two of us.
* This is a stand-alone, angsty, slow-burn M/M romance with a guaranteed HEA and no cheating.
Books by Author:

Daryl Banner Books



This whole mess began with two boys, a smelly old catcher’s mitt, and a boner.

Isn’t that how it always starts?

Enter boy number one: Stefan. He was the cockiest, loudest, and fittest kid on our Little League baseball team. He wore his baseball cap backward with a flip of his short, light brown hair poking out of the front. He was lean as a cat and fast as a pistol to its bullseye on the field. All the other kids knew it, too; Stefan was the golden boy in every way—a born-and-bred athlete.

And I couldn’t stand it.

I’m boy number two, by the way. Ryan Caulfield. The skinny thirteen-year-old with acne and a mop of black hair that covered my ears. Every game, I had to endure the look of pride on that pompous kid’s face—the kid who all the other boys admired. “Whoa!” they’d shout as his bat cracked into every ball pitched his way. The balls never seemed to touch the ground again.

I would just sit there and glare. For nine games, the whole spring and into the summer, I hated him more and more. He didn’t even have to try, not like I did. He just strutted up to bat, swung, and miracles sang across the field as he soared over the bases like lightning.

We won every damned game, and still my stubborn animosity flourished like a fever. Why didn’t I like the kid? What was my problem? I had no real reason to hate him.

Not until after the tenth game—the first one we lost—when the smelly old catcher’s mitt hit my face in the boy’s bathroom of the baseball field we were at. “The hell is up with you, Caulfield?”

It was Stefan who threw the mitt at me. I caught it halfway to my lap and turned my startled eyes to him. Seven other boys in the bathroom were busy cleaning up or changing back into their clothes like I was, dejectedly griping about how awful the game was. No one seemed to be paying attention.

Until I marched across the bathroom—in just my boxers and blue-and-white baseball socks—and shoved the mitt into Stefan’s chest. He was still fully geared. “You’re a cocky shit, that’s what’s up with me!”

The bathroom fell silent. Stefan was so taken aback by my words, it was like he’d never been insulted in all his life. I was the first one to ever not praise his godlike athletic ability.

Despite the force with which I came at him, I felt my resolve shrinking inside. Maybe it was the attention of half the team watching us now. Maybe it was my fast beating heart.

Maybe it was the intense way Stefan was staring at me.

Then: “What did you just call me?”

His words were icy and sharp, piercing my chest and causing my breath to stop. I tried to say something back, but found my mouth filled with invisible pretzels. Extra salty pretzels.

Extra salty for the extra salty little shit I’d become.

Stefan wasn’t finished. “You’re the reason we lost, Caulfield. You swing the bat like a girl.”

If my sister had heard that, she would have shown him just how strong a girl can swing—hard enough to knock those words right out of his mouth.

I couldn’t just stand there in front of the world in my boxers. I had to say something back.

And naturally, I picked the worst possible insult that a proper thirteen-year-old could muster: “Shut up, faggot!”

Stefan’s eyes flashed at once. He was rendered speechless as a murmur of shock chased its way through the bathroom.

Sweat gathered in my pits. My legs shook. I was queasy.

I couldn’t believe I’d said it. My words kept ringing over and over in my muffled ears—muffled by the scandal that still echoed off the bathroom tiles from my teammates’ gaping mouths.

Stefan tackled me so fast, I didn’t see it coming. I made one worthless effort to grip a nearby sink, then felt all of his weight as he crashed against me and took my body to the cold, hard floor. The back of my head hit the tile so hard, the world shattered into multicolored stars and circles for an instant.

The team was hollering all around us. I couldn’t tell if it was cheers of excitement or screams of fear.

Fear is all I knew. I was terrified of what I’d said, and I was even more terrified of what Stefan was going to do about it. My life was over. This was when I would die.

My eyes met Stefan’s. His teeth were grinding in his sharp, angular jaw, and his eyes were seething and fierce. The only thing I could see in Stefan’s eyes was my imminent end. He was going to beat me until there was nothing left but sweat and cleats.

Yet he didn’t. He only held me there in a schoolboy pin, his face hovering over me and his furious eyes burrowing into mine.