I’ve somewhat handled the first part, but the second . . .
“I’m not perfect,” I murmur into the silent room. Avery doesn’t respond, and I have no idea if he is even awake, but the words are already spilling out of my mouth before I can second-guess myself. “I could pick out a lot of things, but . . . for now, I’ll tell you about my ears. My right earlobe is totally attached, but the left one swoops a little lower than where it connects. It’s called a ‘free’ earlobe or something like that. Anyway, I notice the difference every time I look in a mirror, and it makes me self-conscious.”
He doesn’t tell me to shut up, so my mouth decides to continue.
“My eyesight isn’t perfect, hence the glasses.” I gesture to my face as if he’s actually paying attention. “My top two front teeth are implants. I have a retainer that I’m supposed to wear every night. I really, really can’t sing. Like, it’s bad. Glass shatteringly bad. And I have to take— Well, I . . .” I clear my throat, unable to tell him about the bottles in my bag and unsure why I even tried. “Ah, well. That’s enough of my insecurities for tonight. I’ll shut up now.”
I can’t believe I almost told him about my medication. What the hell is wrong with me?
The hotel room falls quiet in the absence of my confessions. I still have no idea if he was awake to hear them, but my chest feels lighter having spoken my insecurities aloud. Even if it didn’t help our acquaintanceship, at least it made me feel a little better anyway.
I’ll have to wait and see what morning brings.
CHAPTER 7
HENDRIX AVERY
Damn Tahegin Ellingsworth. Damn him.
Last night when he said he brought soup for me, I immediately brushed him off—as well as I could while delirious with a fever. The fruit tart almost got me out of bed, but I resisted. It’s strange how, even though I was ignoring him, Ellingsworth helped me. He gave me fever reducers, took off my hoodie, which was trapping the heat against my body, turned on the air-conditioning to cool me off, and brought me soup. All after I’d been a total dick to him a few hours before.
I was still ignoring him when he eventually climbed into his own bed—and then . . . Well, he . . . I don’t know. I have no idea why he said all those things, but his words are the reason I got zero sleep last night. It’s all his fault.
Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what he said.
When I finally drag myself out of bed at three thirty in the morning, I dare to look in the small plastic containers sitting atop the desk in our hotel room. The first one I open is filled to the brim with chicken and rice soup, and even though I had told myself not to get my hopes up, my shoulders still sag with disappointment. Chicken soup is the most common go-to for anyone who is sick, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to see it. I check the other just to be sure—noting and dismissing the chili and hearty gumbo—and pause on the last one before the tart. I open the plastic packaged spoon and stir the soup, checking the ingredients.
Excitement has me nearly bolting from the room without even putting on a shirt, but I quickly calm myself. I slip into my hoodie—which Ellingsworth had carefully draped over the back of a chair—and take the elevator to the lobby to use the microwave in the convenience area. Then, I collapse onto the comfiest chair I can find, curl up as small as I am physically able, and sip on the vegetable stew.
I don’t realize I’m starting to doze off until I hear my name.
“Avery? What the hell are you doing down here?”
I blink blearily up at Coach Mathis. “Oh, I—” Gravel scratches my aching throat, and I break off in a fit of coughs before trying again. “Didn’t want to disturb my roommate.” I gesture at the half-eaten soup in my hand. Snot threatens to drip from my nostril, so I wipe it with the cuff of my hoodie, already crusty from me repeatedly doing the same thing yesterday.
As realization dawns on Mathis’ face, he cups his morning coffee with two hands and takes a large step backward, away from me. “You’re sick.”
“I’m fine,” I croak and fight the urge to cough again. “Excited for the game today, Coach.” My voice is tight and nasally.
Coach takes off his hat and scratches his scalp, sucking on his teeth. “Sorry, kid. The doc is gonna have to check you out before I can put you on the field today. Go rest up. I’ll send him to your room to look you over.”
My shoulders slump for the second time today. The last thing I want is to be benched for our first official game of the season. “But, Coach, I . . .” My complaint is half-hearted, and he doesn’t even have to cut me off before I do it myself. “Okay.”
“We don’t play until tonight,” he reminds me. “You might feel ten times better by then. Who knows.”
I trudge behind him to the elevator, where we ride up in silence until it smooths to a stop on my floor. He leaves me with a “Feel better, kid.”
Inside my room, Ellingsworth is still fast asleep, his breaths slow and heavy. I envy his easy rest as I climb into bed with my mind spinning, wondering if sitting out sick will affect my place on the team. Surely, the coaches are understanding if we come down with a cold or flu every now and again.
My tongue swipes over my teeth, which feel gross since I didn’t brush last night before bed or this morning before soup. For some reason, I think back to a few hours ago when Ellingsworth told me his front teeth are implants and that he has a retainer.
My teeth were never bad enough for the system to pay for braces, so the small gaps here, crowding there, slight overbite, and a bit of unevenness have stayed with me my entire life. Maybe once the football money really starts to stack, I can do the braces and retainer thing—like Ellingsworth apparently did.
So maybe his teeth aren’t naturally perfect. There is still plenty of stuff about him left for me to hate.
✧ ✧ ✧
Turns out, there are different types of earlobes. Some, like mine, dip in a U shape before connecting to the face. Others are attached at the lowest point.
I’m standing on the sideline in my team sweats after the doctor recommended rest instead of game time. His decision might have been influenced by me throwing up during his exam. The fruit tart had not settled as well as the soup.
Ellingsworth left me alone for the most part—either because he didn’t want to get close enough to catch my sickness or because he was regretting what he said to me last night. After all, I now know some of his biggest insecurities.
One of which happens to be his ears, and since I’m stuck on the sideline wearing a stupid medical mask, I’ve been passing the time by surreptitiously studying my teammates’ ears.
Which is weird. It’s a weird thing to be doing, and I wholly blame Ellingsworth for putting the useless, unnecessary information in my head. It is all his fault.
However, I have discovered a few things during my investigation.
Blow’s dark earlobes are attached, and both are pierced, though he doesn’t have any earrings in them at the moment. Tank’s are attached, too, and he really needs to rinse behind his ears because he has some shampoo built up back there. Aleks and Gallon both have “free” lobes, as Ellingsworth called them. Kit never takes his helmet off. And Ellingsworth . . .
I stand on my toes and wobble behind him, trying to compare his earlobes myself. The right is attached, as he said, and the left—oh, there’s that cartilage piercing of his. Today, he has a delicate hoop in. It’s gold, which complements his bronze skin well. He also has a clean design etched into his high fade on the left side. I double-check his right side, noting the lack of piercings or designs. I glance at his arms, and—yep—it’s his left one that has a full sleeve tattooed. It’s a . . . weird and probably useless discovery. Much like the earlobe thing.
“What are you doing?”
My eyes snap from the tattooed arm—which I hadn’t noticed had made a one-eighty—to the sapphire-blue eyes belonging to the arm’s owner. He stares at me, waiting for a response.
“Uhh.” I hesitate, the noise fading off inside the medical mask I’ve been forced to wear. My gaze unconsciously flicks to his earlobe, and I mentally curse myself for giving away my thoughts.
