Illegal Contact

MM Sports Romance
by Chase Power

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Pairing: MM

Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno

Tropes: Teammates to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Closeted Captain, Forced Proximity, He Falls First, Possessive Hero, Coming Out

“No one can know about this. Ever.”

Derek Shaw is the captain. Thirty years old, ten years in the league, everything earned through discipline and image. He’s never allowed himself to cross the line. Not once. The walls are too high, the stakes too real, and the locker room doesn’t have doors you can lock.

Tyler Knox is the new wide receiver. Twenty-four, fast, fearless, and immediately fixated on the one man he shouldn’t touch. He knows the risks. He just refuses to let fear run his life.

The weight room doesn’t have privacy. The showers don’t have walls. The team bus doesn’t have secrets. And none of that stops them.

What starts as a desperate collision in an empty facility becomes something neither of them planned for—a secret that grows more dangerous with every stolen encounter, every locked door, every whispered word that can’t be taken back. The closer they get, the harder it becomes to hide. And the harder it becomes to stop.

Now the season is on the line, the team is watching, and Derek has to decide: keep performing the life he’s built, or risk everything for the man who finally made him want a real one.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Team captain × rising star receiver MM romance
✅ Closeted athlete falling for the man who sees through the walls
✅ Secret locker room encounters that escalate from desperate to devastating
✅ A best friend who figures it out and says “Figure your shit out, Shaw”
✅ 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotionally obliterating
✅ 93K words of slow-burn tension, forbidden heat, and an earned HEA
✅ Book 1 in the League Rules series

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes), strong language, depictions of internalized homophobia and anxiety about sexual identity, and the emotional toll of closeted life in professional sports. Intended for readers 18+.

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Chapter One: Captain’s Quarters

I was the first one in the building. Always was.

Five-fifteen in the morning, Austin still dark, the training facility lit up like a surgical theater against the Texas sky. My truck was the only vehicle in the lot. The security guard waved me through without checking my badge—ten years of showing up before dawn buys you that kind of currency.

I liked the facility empty. The hallways still smelled like industrial cleaner instead of sweat. The lights in the weight room hummed on when I hit the switch, fluorescent and unforgiving. No music, no chatter, no one performing for anyone. Just me and the iron and the quiet.

Preseason camp started today. Full squad. The roster was mostly familiar—guys I’d been throwing to for years, guys I trusted with my blind side, my career, my body. A few new faces coming in. Trades, draft picks, free agent signings. Every year the machine cycled in fresh parts and spit out the ones that wore down.

I was thirty years old, and in football years, that made me ancient.

But my arm was still a cannon. My reads were faster than they’d ever been. And I’d earned every inch of what I had—the captaincy, the franchise tag, the jersey sales, the face on the billboard off I-35 that I tried not to look at when I drove past it.

Then he walked in.

He was late—not egregiously, maybe forty-five seconds behind the last introduction, but enough that the door opening drew every eye. He slid in with a “my bad” nod to Coach Harding that carried exactly the right amount of contrition without being groveling, and took a seat in the second row.

Tyler Knox. Wide receiver. Traded from Jacksonville in the offseason.

I knew his stats. I knew every receiver’s stats—it was my job. What the stats didn’t capture was the way he moved. Not walked—moved. He sat down in his seat with a fluid, unhurried confidence that made the chair look like it had been placed there specifically for him. Lean build. Tattoo sleeve on his left arm. Jaw that could cut glass. Smile that came easy when the guy next to him leaned over to introduce himself.

I watched him for about three seconds longer than I watched anyone else, and then I looked at the screen.

Nothing. That was nothing.

There was one play in the second hour. Deep post. I dropped back, felt pressure from the left side, stepped up in the pocket, and launched the ball forty-five yards downfield. Tyler was sprinting down the seam, two steps ahead of the corner, and the ball dropped into his hands at full stride like it was magnetized. He caught it in the end zone, turned, held up the ball.

Our eyes met across sixty yards of artificial turf.

I pointed at him. He pointed back.

That’s all it was. Football. Communication between a passer and a target. Nothing personal.

Except my hand was still pointing at him a beat after it should have dropped.

I went inside. Didn’t eat. Didn’t watch film. Got in bed. Clean sheets. Empty bed. The same empty bed I’d slept in for three years.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t think about Tyler Knox.

I thought about Tyler Knox.

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Derek wakes up in his own bed with Tyler’s arm across his chest. For the first time, he doesn’t leave. What follows is the slowest, filthiest, most emotionally devastating morning of his life—sunlight, skin, and the first time he says “I love you” without being afraid.

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