The hands stop, so I glance up to see who is using ASL at a football game . . . only to stop dead in my tracks. Of all the tens of thousands of people here, I had to be eavesdropping on Ellingsworth’s perfect family. His father continues to give the little girl beside him a play-by-play of the game while I stand flabbergasted.
His father isn’t deaf or hard of hearing, that much I am pretty sure of. Not because I’ve seen him talk in a segment of Ellingsworth’s documentary, but because his mouth is moving with his hands as if he is talking as well—which is usually a telltale. The girl studies his hands intently, not even looking at his lips. I have no way of knowing if she is only hard of hearing or entirely without sound since the roar of the crowd would make it nearly impossible for her to listen and supplement with lip reading. Either way, I’m shocked to my core that I managed to find ASL in this crowd and that it just happens to be his family.
Tipping my head far back, I groan—and cough—at the sky. Why? Why me? Why them? Why him?
Well, it changes nothing. Really. The information doesn’t make me suddenly like Ellingsworth or want to be his friend or want to meet up with him after practice tomorrow. Hell, I don’t want to meet with him during practice. I’d be perfectly fine if he got traded to another team far, far away. He won’t be, of course. He still has the rest of this season on his draft contract, so unfortunately, he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Still, a man can dream.
I collapse on the sideline bench, numbly watching the rest of the game. My body hurts, exhaustion fills my bones, and I want nothing more than to be at home in my bed—even if my feet hang off the end and the springs dig into my back. I’m just . . . so tired. And sick. And thinking about that vegetable stew from this morning. I guess it was . . . nice of Ellingsworth to bring me some.
Ugh, my fever must be coming back if I’m actually delusional enough to think he was being nice for any reason other than to make himself look good. He probably made sure to announce to all our teammates at dinner that poor Avery was too sick to get his own food, so he was getting some for me. It’ll probably end up in his next documentary under the charity section or some shit.
It’s neck and neck until the fourth quarter, where we pull ahead with two touchdowns. We win our first game of the regular season with me sick on the bench, and I want nothing more than to be on the field celebrating with my teammates.
I watch my teammates hug each other—hug stupid, perfect Ellingsworth—and I realize I want to be a part of it. I’m not a hugger, haven’t been since the foster homes banned us from holding each other, but in this moment, I want it.
But does Ellingsworth really have to be a part of it?
CHAPTER 8
HENDRIX AVERY
I reluctantly trudge up the stairs of the ridiculously expensive mini-mansion. Behind me, my beat-up Civic sticks out like a sore thumb in such an affluent neighborhood. I am honestly half expecting it to be towed in the next five minutes by some vengeful HOA who thinks it isn’t up to code for their lovely little cul-de-sac. If they do, I’m making Ellingsworth pay to get it back.
Aleks had looked at me like I was crazy when I stopped him after practice to ask for Ellingsworth’s address, but I’d heard he was out sick and assumed it was my fault. He was fine at the game yesterday, so I suspect it appeared all of a sudden the way mine had. I’m actually almost one hundred percent better today, which means I most likely had a twenty-four-hour bug.
I figure the least I can do is return the soup favor. After finding Robby’s office and talking with him about getting Micah a pass for our upcoming home game, I went home to make some soup from scratch for Ellingsworth.
The huge front door opens after a few knocks, and I’m greeted by a man wearing a pastel yellow polo tucked into khaki pants. He looks a lot more put together than I do in my athletic tights, workout shorts, and sideless tank. A Rubies cap sits backward on my head, and I take it off as if that will make me look a little less relaxed, running my hand through my wet hair to try and tame it. I’m pretty sure all my efforts are in vain.
“Uh, I’m looking for Tahegin Ellingsworth.” I somehow manage to make the statement sound like a question. Does this guy call him Mr. Ellingsworth? That is, if he works here. He may just be a really well-dressed boyfriend. Jesus, Ellingsworth may have taken a sick day to have some sexy time that I am currently interrupting. I should have called—not that I even have his number. I guess I could have gotten it from Aleks. Fuck, this is a stupid idea.
The guy makes a weird face and looks behind him as if someone will magically appear to tell him what to say. “Are you . . . a friend? Sorry, I’m just a housekeeper. I don’t usually answer the door, but Mr. Ellingsworth is sick—”
“Yeah,” I jump in, holding up the stainless steel thermos in my hand for him to see. “He wasn’t at practice today, and I heard he’s not feeling well, so I brought him some soup.”
Ellingsworth’s maid—the dude has a freaking maid—eyes the soup and the Rubies cap sandwiched between my fingers and the thermos. “Well, you don’t seem like a crazed fan . . .”
“I’m Hendrix Avery,” I tell him flatly. “I play for the Rubies. Wide receiver. You can google me.”
“Oh, good idea!” He slides his phone from his pocket and types away. Then, he pauses, looking back and forth from me to the phone screen. “Ha. Look at that. Number thirteen. Ooh, man. That’s unlucky, huh?”
I stare blankly in response.
He shrugs off my rudeness. “Okay, you can come in, I guess. He’s in his bedroom. Upstairs.” He points. “First door on the left.”
Not bothering to thank him, I shoulder my way into the ginormous house, locate the—ostentatious—staircase, and take the steps two at a time. The upstairs landing looks to be some kind of game area with every console any one guy could ever want. I ignore the excessive flaunt of wealth and turn to the closed bedroom door.
Ellingsworth answers my two soft knocks with a weak “Come in.”
I take a deep breath to steel myself for being nice. Even practice a small smile before quickly dismissing the absurd idea.
“What is it, Grant?” he asks as the door slowly swings open. A cough breaks up his words, and I wince as it’s confirmed that I did get him sick. He must have whatever I did—whatever I gave him.
“Not Grant,” I say, peeking around the door and taking stock of the large, pristine bedroom, all spotless white and hues of blue.
He’s curled on his side beneath the bedsheets and scrolling on his phone but sits up when he sees me. The blanket slips down, revealing an expanse of bronze skin and toned muscle. I can only hope he has shorts on under those sheets. “Avery? What are you doing here?” He sets his phone on the nightstand in exchange for a pair of glasses, which he slides onto his nose.
Clearing my throat, I step further into the room and replace my backward cap just for something to do. “You missed our date . . .” My attempt at a joke falls flat, so I try to smile as a last resort. Pretty sure it looks like a grimace. “Okay. Um. I brought you some soup. Just . . . paying you back . . .” I trail off when I notice the half-eaten bowl of soup already on his bedside table.
Awkward.
But Ellingsworth looks anything but discouraged. In fact, his eyes light up with interest behind the thick-framed glasses I have only seen him wear between the hotel bathroom and the bed. “Please tell me you got it from somewhere that doesn’t count macros. I love my nutritionist, but that soup was horrible. Don’t tell Emma I said that.”
A maid and a personal nutritionist. Of course.
Be nice, I remind myself.
I look at the thermos in my hand. “Well, it’s healthy, but I wasn’t paying attention to carbs or calories when I made it.”
He sits up straighter. “You made it? Gimme, gimme.” The grabby gesture he does kind of makes me want to chuckle, so I hesitantly let the sound fall from my mouth.
“Haha, yeah.” I nervously adjust my cap. “I didn’t know your dietary preferences . . . If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”
“I’ll eat pretty much anything,” he admits with a carefree shrug. “What kind is it?”
I pass him the container of soup and watch as he carefully opens the lid before pulling the spoon from his discarded bowl. “It’s vegetable. Like the one you got at the hotel. Which I never thanked you for. So, um, thank you.”
“No worries, man.” He gives me a genuine smile, one side a little crooked. “Is it your favorite? I noticed you didn’t try any of the others I got.”
