“It’ll be fine, right?”
Silence.
“Right?”
✧ ✧ ✧
As it turns out, it is possible to be ignored by someone who literally lines up helmet to helmet with you during football practice. Hendrix has somehow managed to ignore me all week, no matter what I say or do, and I hate to admit that it hurts.
I’ve tried to catch him before and after practice, but the guy has mastered the art of avoidance. Even with Aleks helping me, we haven’t been able to corner him. I can’t figure out where exactly it went wrong—he could have easily pushed me off after I fell asleep—but he clearly seems to think it did.
I’d love to say it didn’t affect my gameplay this afternoon, but I’d be lying. I was semi-distracted during the first half, came back from halftime ready to focus, looked—as I always do—for my family in the stadium seats . . . and immediately knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on the game one bit after that.
Because sitting with my parents and sister was a petite man with bright, ruby-red hair cut shaggy just above his narrow shoulders. The color matched the jersey he was wearing—the one with a giant number thirteen on it—and even though we were two weeks into the regular season, I knew the rookies had yet to get general sales jerseys. The guy turned, brandishing the stark white letters spelling AVERY, which meant that man was Hendrix’s plus-one, and he was wearing Rix’s personal jersey.
For the rest of the game, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if that guy was Hendrix’s friend . . . or boyfriend. If he was the latter, it would explain Hendrix’s silence after I cuddled him. It also meant I’d disrespected their relationship. Well, I hadn’t intentionally, and there was nothing sexual or romantic about the cuddling, but would his partner see it that way? Was guilt eating Hendrix alive for possibly betraying his boyfriend’s trust?
Aaaand that was how I missed a pick. The ball had been in my hands!
Fast-forward to now, at an early dinner with my parents after the game, and I can’t hold it in any longer. I interrupt my mom consoling me about today’s loss. “Who was that guy,” I blurt. “He was sitting with y’all after halftime? Red hair?”
Mom gives me a weird look. At fifty, she is still beautiful, though some of it can be attributed to minor corrective surgery. Her Botox is for migraines, but the high cheekbones and strong jawline are all her. Both of my adoptive parents have fair skin, a stark contrast to mine, but sometimes I look at my mom’s sky-blue eyes and pretend mine came from her—not from the birth parents who didn’t want me, who left me outside a fire station on Third Street in downtown Austin when I was five weeks old. “I knew who you were talking about before you clarified about the hair, sweetie,” she snickers lightly. “You okay? It was a hard loss.”
“I’m fine.” Or I will be once you answer my question, I add silently while drumming my fingers on the side of my sweet tea glass. “So, the guy?”
“Well, he was there by himself.” She looks at my dad, who nods along with her. “It was his first time at a professional game, and—bless his heart—he didn’t know the first thing about football. We offered to let him sit with us so your dad could teach him the basics. He was great with Willow, too. Even knew some sign language.”
I wait for more, but she doesn’t continue. “But who was he? Do you know who he was there for?”
“Oh! Well, his name is Micah. He graduated earlier this year with a graphic arts degree—he’s starting his own business, isn’t that adorable?—and he was there to watch . . . um, a newer player. Just started this year . . . Who was it? A wide receiver.”
My knee bounces so hard the table shakes, and I just can’t take it anymore. “Avery? Number thirteen?”
Dad snaps his fingers in an “aha” moment. “That’s it. Said he went to every one of Avery’s games in college. Isn’t that sweet?”
“He didn’t know about your party tonight, though,” Mom adds. “He said Avery tends to keep to himself and probably didn’t realize there was one, so we invited him for you. I hope that’s okay?”
I choke on my drink, and it causes a big enough stir that Willow looks up from her coloring. She signs something, and I have to look at my parents for the translation.
Dad is helpful, explaining the hand gestures and what they mean. “She asked if you’re okay.”
“How do I tell her I’m fine?” I bite my lip to try and tamp down the embarrassed warmth spreading across my cheeks—even press my cool hands to them to help. When my parents adopted Willow, I was already in my freshman year of college and promised Mom that between my studies and football, I would find time to learn ASL. Willow was three at the time. She’s eight now.
Dad assists me as I struggle to communicate with Willow while Mom watches, her lips in a thin line and disappointment clouding her eyes.
Yeah, this fuckup is on me.
My dad is a lot more understanding. As a businessman, he knows life can get in the way of personal goals. It was only after the incident during my freshman year of college that he stepped down from the helm of his empire to spend more time at home with Willow and Mom.
Where I can try to pretend my eyes came from my adoptive mother, nothing about my dad can link him to me. He’s pale, platinum blond, and has greenish-hazel eyes. Even so, I’ve never, ever thought of my parents as anything other than family.
And Willow? She’s been my sister since the moment Mom and Dad brought her home.
The truth is, I haven’t been the best brother—I haven’t even learned how to properly communicate with her, for Christ’s sake.
“I’ll learn,” I tell Willow. I know these particular signs by heart after using them so often, but this time, I mean them for real. Willow takes my proffered pinky with hers, and we exchange small smiles.
“Maybe that nice boy Micah can teach you tonight.” Mom puts in her two cents in that Southern way that isn’t technically rude but not necessarily nice either. It’s a fine line—one she has long since mastered, especially when it comes to this specific situation.
My stomach drops at the thought of asking Hendrix’s friend—probably boyfriend—to teach me how to talk to my own sister, and it doesn’t return throughout the rest of dinner.
Only once I’m back at my home with snacks galore spread across the kitchen countertops and teammates filling the downstairs rooms do I start to feel a little better. It’s dark out, my backyard and pool are all lit up, someone has started the outdoor grill, and softly bumping music fills the air. It’ll get louder and raunchier as the night goes on and the drinks get stronger, but for now, it’s just a chill vibe. Some guys are taking advantage of the in-ground pool and connecting hot tub, and I’m considering joining them when two people step into the backyard.
One is glowing—bright smile, fire-engine red hair, and a sparkly burgundy top that most definitely pings my queerdar.
The other is scowling, his face just as stormy as his dark grey eyes. He’s in a simple pair of ripped jeans, a black V-neck, and an unbuttoned monochrome flannel. His sneakers are old and worn, and I can’t help but think a pair of nice boots would complement the outfit well. I’m not sure he or his maybe-boyfriend would appreciate my input on his outfit, though.
I clear my throat, interrupting whatever Aleks is saying. “Hey.” I clap my friend on the shoulder without looking away from Hendrix. “I’ll be back.” Crossing the yard with one destination in mind, I keep my eye on Hendrix’s grumpy scowl and his companion’s awed expression.
The red-haired guy—Micah—looks around my home with wide hazel eyes, his mouth falling open to gape. I swear his gaze lingers longer than it should on the shirtless guys in the pool. Well, I guess it’s only too long if he and Hendrix are, in fact, together. But as Micah grips Hendrix’s arm with two hands and practically climbs him like a tree, I have a feeling my assumption is correct.
Shit. I need to apologize to Hendrix. Make amends for the other night.
Micah’s eyes get impossibly wider as I stop in front of them. “You— You’re—”
He seems to be tongue-tied—I have met plenty of fans who react the same way—so I stick out my hand and offer the best smile I can manage. “I’m Tahegin. Welcome to my house. I heard your name is Micah, right?”
At his maximum five-foot-four height, I am standing nearly a foot taller than Micah, so I clearly see the blush that settles over his cheeks and across the exposed portion of his chest as he takes my hand. “Tahegin Ellingsworth knows my name,” he breathes, and I don’t think I’m supposed to hear him.
