Hendrix snorts. “Not after Micah informed me of your type.”
That is not the response I expect to receive. “My type?”
“Your family is apparently very talkative.”
Mortified, I collapse backward on my bed with a loud groan, arms covering my face. “My parents did not tell your friend about my dating preferences.”
“Actually.” He smacks his teeth. I feel the bed dip beside me, but I don’t bother removing my arms, not even to pull my shirt down where it has ridden up my torso. “I think it was your sister who spilled the tea about Micah looking like one of your ex-boyfriends.”
“So, you’re taking dating advice from an eight-year-old deaf girl?”
“Eight-year-old girl who is deaf.”
I peek at him from beneath my arm. “That’s what I said.”
“Hmph.”
“No, no, no.” I prop myself up on my elbows and meet his enigmatic gaze. “Don’t do that shit where you don’t care enough to tell me what you’re thinking. I thought we were past this, Rix.” Leaning to the side, I nudge him with my shoulder and give him a crooked grin—the one I hate but that comes more naturally to me. “Say it.”
He sighs but nods in acceptance. “When it comes to someone and their disability, it is correct—and polite—to use people-first descriptions. The disability does not define the person, so why would we address the disability first?”
I take a second to go over his words and the different ways we both said what had seemed like the same thing. Is there . . . really a correct way to refer to my sister and her deafness? Why didn’t I know that before now? “She’s been my sister for nearly six years. How did I not know that?” I fall to my back once more, unable to hold myself up in light of this realization, and put my hands over my face. “Fuck. I am a horrible brother. I haven’t even learned sign language yet. I— Hey!” I sit up—so fast my head rushes—and quickly pin Hendrix with desperate and pleading eyes. “Do you think Micah would teach me? Mom suggested it, and I . . . I need to learn. It would be easier with a teacher. I’ll pay him.”
Surprise flickers in his stormy gaze. “You don’t know ASL?”
I shake my head with shame. “I’ve been meaning to, but college was so overwhelming. Then I was drafted, and football took up so much time . . . It’s no excuse, hence my being a horrible brother. Do you think he would help me?”
“Oh, he would swipe up the chance immediately,” Hendrix snorts as if the idea amuses him. “But Micah only knows basic stuff, plus he’s busy with trying to kick-start his business.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I could teach you.”
I shoot him an incredulous look. “You know sign language?”
He has the nerve to look indignant as his hands come up and move so assuredly I have no doubt he knows what he is doing.
I take a moment to stare at him, awestruck. “Holy shit, dude. What the hell did you just sign?”
“I said—” He repeats the gestures, slower, while interpreting them aloud. “My name is Hendrix Avery. I have a bachelor’s degree in ASL.” He grins—actually grins. “I will be your teacher.”
A bachelor’s in sign language? That’s a real thing? And my teammate—my newly made friend—went to college to study the very thing I need to learn in order to communicate with my sister. What are the odds . . .
Hendrix’s hands fall to his lap. “Micah was my roommate through college. We became friends—reluctantly on my part—and some nights, he would stay up late to help me practice some signs. That’s how he knows a few things. Enough to get by.”
“Wow, that’s—” I’m not even sure what I want to say, too shocked to form a solid sentence. “Will you teach me?”
His right hand raises and . . . knocks on air?
“What does that mean?”
“Seriously?” He gapes. “It means yes. It’s literally one of the first signs they teach you. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Can we start now?” Inspiration—and anticipation—has me amped up enough to lean over and lay a hand on Hendrix’s knee. It’s a harmless gesture, but I catch his slight flinch. I quickly pull my hand away. “Sorry, sorry.”
“No—” He catches my wrist and moves it back to his knee. It’s an . . . odd move since I wouldn’t have normally left my hand there for any amount of time, but I understand what he is trying to express. “I still need help getting used to contact, and you need an ASL teacher. So, we can help each other. Right?”
I nod eagerly. “Yes, and sorry for suggesting starting now. I know there’s a party going on downstairs, which is way more fun.”
Hendrix scrunches his nose in disgust, and it is honestly the cutest thing he has ever done. “I’d rather not be downstairs.”
“Oh.” I remember he came with someone to the party, even though that feels like hours ago. “Will Micah be okay by himself down there?”
He lets out a bark of laughter, and it’s so contagious that I give a half smile in return. “We left a flaming gay with multiple shirtless NFL players.”
A moment passes where we both stare at each other, and then together, we announce, “He’s fine.” That has us chuckling, Hendrix flashing a nice set of teeth I rarely get to see and—holy shit—a dimple.
Screw whatever Willow told Micah—she has only met one of my boyfriends, and he was a college fling—Hendrix is my type. I have thought so since the day I saw him at tryouts. Finding out he’s straight is a sad moment for all the gay and bisexual men of the world.
Still, the knowledge settles the question in my gut, and I know our friendship will always remain just that. Friendship.
Which means cuddling can be fair game.
“Okay, so we’re helping each other. Starting now?” I ask a little too excitedly and squeeze his knee.
Hendrix tips his chin, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like an I-don’t-care-to-answer nod but like a regular okay-let’s-do-it nod.
“We can work on contact while you teach me. I’m going to change into some comfy clothes. Do you want pajama pants or athletic shorts?” I slide off the bed and step inside my closet to dig through my dresser. I’m slipping on a pair of joggers when Hendrix says he’ll take a pair of lounge pants.
When I return to the bedroom, I toss a pair of simple black pajama pants his way. I’d guessed at his preferred type and am rewarded with a tiny smile for my efforts. Small victories.
Sharing locker rooms with guys is one thing. It’s a different headspace, it always smells, and the atmosphere is very public. It is nothing like now, as Hendrix shrugs out of his flannel and slips off his jeans. He’s wearing long boxer briefs, the kind that hug tight to the thighs, butt, and—
