“What do you mean?”
“Between Saturday morning when you hated me and this afternoon when you decided we could be friends, what changed?”
I fall back again, studying the nonsensical designs on the textured ceiling so I don’t have to look at his face. His open, honest, and emotional face. I might go my entire life not making facial expressions as expressive as the ones that come so naturally to him. “I’ve kept people at a distance for a very long time. It’s practically instinct now. Yesterday when we won, I saw everyone hugging and smiling and celebrating together . . . and I realized that even if I had played, I would have been standing off to the side instead of with everyone else I don’t . . . I don’t want to be on the outskirts forever. I want hugging to come naturally. To smile without it looking like a grimace or feeling like someone else is puppeteering my mouth.”
Tahegin shifts slightly beneath the sheets before asking in a soft voice, “Why me?”
Now, I turn to gaze at him. Watch him bite his bottom lip and crack his knuckles. He might be nervous to ask that question, but his eyes aren’t. Sapphire blue burns me with such solid contact that I want to look away, but I’m trapped. “You were nice to me,” I confess. “And I think . . . you’ve always been nice to me. I was just too stubborn to realize it.”
He shifts again, this time slipping from beneath the sheets as he takes off his glasses and sets them aside. Thankfully, he’s wearing shorts, but he’s coming closer, his chest still bare as I fight my automatic recoil when he enters my personal space and doesn’t stop.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“We’re going to get you so used to hugs you won’t feel awkward at all around our teammates.” He smiles as if this is a perfectly normal thing.
“I— You, um. I don’t think—”
“Good.” He grins. “Don’t think.” And then he’s hugging me, but I’m still lying down, so it’s more like we’re cuddling. His head rests on my shoulder, the tightly coiled hair atop his head tickling my chin. One arm is thrown over my waist, and the other is tucked beneath the shoulder he’s lying on.
Me? I’m frozen, stiff as a board, unsure what to do. “T—”
“Rix. Just relax, okay? Friends hug. Teammates hug. Get used to it.”
“I really—”
“Shh. Just let it happen.” His voice is a soothing whisper as he nuzzles closer. I remain motionless beneath him, not sure what to do with my hands. When I suggested I get used to touch, I was thinking more along the lines of high fives, back slaps, and bro hugs. This . . . This is way more than I ever considered. Hell, I’ve never even spooned with a hookup after the fact.
What seems like five seconds later—but could really be five hours for all I know in my state of awkward shock—soft snores begin to fall from Tahegin’s mouth, hot breath fanning over the sensitive flesh of my neck. I’m warm where he’s touching me, which reminds me that he is sick, so I can’t hold it against him for falling asleep. I practically fell asleep in the hotel lobby chair while holding a to-go container of soup; I understand his exhaustion.
Truthfully, I know I can slip out from beneath him. Tahegin is a big guy, but he’s only halfway on top of me and listless with sleep. Knowing I can leave whenever I want and that there isn’t a foster parent downstairs who will get angry if they find us alone in a bedroom together makes it easier for me to relax slightly. My hands fumble to find comfortable purchase, another reason I’m glad he is asleep, so he doesn’t witness my awkward flailing.
But then my arms magically fall into place—confident and natural. The one without Tahegin’s weight drapes up and over me, cushioning my head, and my bent knee on that side relaxes against the mattress. My other arm, the one beneath him, wraps around his back and over his waist, my fingers lightly trailing my stomach.
After a weekend of being sick and practice earlier today, I can totally go for a nap. Especially when I realize how fucking comfortable and warm Tahegin’s bed is. Well, the warmth is his fault, but the mattress is holding its own on the pedestal of greatness in my mind. No springs are digging into my back, and my body isn’t slowly being pulled low into a well-worn crater.
It’s so heavenly I don’t feel one bit awkward or like I’m overstaying my welcome as my eyes drift closed and I drift into a peaceful rest.
CHAPTER 9
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
“Wait, wait, wait. Stop the clock.” Aleks whistles and makes the hand signal for a time-out. We’re sitting on opposite ends of my living room couch, our bodies turned to face each other. An array of snacks is spread between us, and the messy eater that is my best friend has already managed to get Cheetos dust on my white couch. “Sour brought you homemade soup yesterday? As in, not only did he bother to check in on you, but he cooked food just for you?” He snaps his head around the room, eyes wide. “Am I being pranked right now?”
I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “No, you aren’t being pranked.”
He shoves a handful of Cheetos in his mouth, talking around them. “Then I’m dreaming and can eat as many of these delicious snacks as I want without repercussions.”
“Your love handles don’t seem to mind.”
Aleks gasps and frantically pats down his sides, waist, and hips. When he realizes I’m just giving him a hard time, he narrows his eyes on me menacingly. “You aren’t funny.”
“Avery thinks I’m funny,” I singsong. Part of me wants to say fuck it and call him Rix, as a friend would, but another piece of me selfishly wants to hoard the nickname for myself, the same way a dragon does with its sacred treasures. I’m choosing to agree with my internal dragon. “I made him laugh,” I declare, proud and smug, chin a little higher. “He laughed so hard he had tears.”
“You’re fucking lying.”
“Nope.” I pop the P, still grinning ear to ear because I did that. I got through to him, and I made him open up—made him let down his guard and laugh. I’m damn proud of it.
Aleks gapes at me, orange tongue fully exposed. “How the hell did you manage that?”
Now, my smile falls into a grimace as I recall the story that cracked his stone exterior. My stomach rolls at just the thought. “I told him the app”—gag—“about the st-rawberry apple—” I break off with a stifled dry heave.
“Ew,” Aleks complains, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Yeah, the applesauce story. Got it. That actually made him laugh? I can’t believe he let you get through the whole thing without telling you to stop. You have a serious gagging problem when it comes to applesauce.”
“I can’t help it!” I exclaim because he always talks shit about my queasy stomach. It got old after the fifteenth time, but have I ever gotten revenge? No. Today, though, I am. “At least I don’t gag hard enough to puke while giving head.”
“That was one time! Okay, two. But not in a few years.” He falls back against the cushions with a look of dismay. “I can’t believe you brought that up. I told you in confidence.”
“And I told you about the applesauce in confidence.”
“You have literally told everyone we have ever met.”
“Whatever.” I cross my arms.
“Aw, you pouting now?”
“Shut up.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll shut up, but only if you tell me how the rest of your bonding sesh with Sour went.”
