“What the hell is that?”
I let my eyebrow quirk in Tahegin’s direction. “Pizza? Yours is there.” One hand is occupied holding the lid of my pizza box open, so I use my free one to point at his on the hotel room desk.
These past few weeks, we have been figuring out how to navigate our new friendship as well as the quid-pro-quo agreement we arranged. It has been . . . an interesting experience, to say the least, but considering my only other friendship began as an unwanted roommate arrangement, this feels somewhat familiar. I mean, the cuddling is different, though not horrible. I feel like I have made progress with the whole contact thing. Last week during a game, Gallon and I exchanged bro hugs, and I high-fived Kit. It felt surprisingly good.
I haven’t gotten around to eating a meal with any of our teammates—not wanting to have to explain my dietary habits and face the judgmental questions—so the nights we stay in a hotel for an away game, Tahegin orders in with me. He still hangs out with his other friends for a bit, but he comes to the room once he sees me collecting the food delivery in the lobby.
Tahegin shoulders past me, grabbing my pizza box with a look of horror. He hadn’t stuck around with Aleks after Coach’s speech tonight. We’d taken charter buses to our hotel in San Francisco, and some of the air vents hadn’t worked. Tahegin claimed he got too sweaty and needed a shower ASAP, hence why, as he brushes against me, his bare torso leaves a trail of water on my arm. He’s in a pair of light grey joggers with the waistband of his boxers visible, and he did a horrible job drying his chest and back. Waterdrops slip down his bronze abs before dissolving into his waistband. As he turns, I absently note the way those droplets particularly favor the deep dip of his spine, practically rolling like a river. The only thing not wet is his hair, but as he passes by, I catch a refreshing scent of coconut wafting from the defined curls.
“This,” he declares, holding up my box, “is blasphemy.”
“It’s pizza,” I grumble and snatch the box back. “Thought you were cool with my food preferences.”
He just shakes his head, grabs a slice of his pizza, and takes a ginormous bite before talking with his mouth full. “Vegetarianism? Fine. Barbecue and pineapple on pizza? Hell no.”
I carry my box to my bed and pull back the sheets, assuming the familiar position we have adopted these last few weeks—my back to the headboard and legs spread wide. Tahegin joins me, settling between my legs with his back to my front. He sets his pizza box on the opposite side of mine, then presses Play on the team-provided laptop at the foot of the bed. Game clips of tomorrow’s opponents begin playing, but we’re only half watching.
“Oh, and your hot sauce pizza is any better?” I retort.
Tahegin goes on the defensive, casting me a mock glare. “It’s Tabasco, and it’s good! Try it.” A spicy slice suddenly appears under my nose, and I just barely manage to hold in a sneeze.
I push his hand away. “Nuh-uh. No way. I don’t like spicy food.”
“It’s not even that hot,” he insists.
“Dude, I can’t tolerate queso at a Mexican restaurant, okay? I’m serious.”
Sapphire-blue eyes narrow on me. “You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“I can’t tell.”
“You don’t have to because I’m telling you, I don’t like hot stuff.”
He studies me and the slice of pizza dangling from my hand propped on my knee. Darting to the side, he snags a bite of my slice, grimacing as he chews and swallows. “Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, and I hate barbecue, but I tried yours, so now you have to try mine.” He shrugs. “Them’s the rules.”
Disgust roils in my stomach as I stare at the bright red sauce on his pizza. I try to hype myself up for a bite, but then his words register and . . . “Wait. Aren’t you from Texas?”
“Yeah, why?” Tahegin stares at me, mouth open with half-chewed pizza exposed.
I stare back in disbelief. “You’re from Texas, and you don’t like barbecue?”
“Wow. Way to stereotype, Rix. Should I be saying it’s no wonder you don’t like spicy food ’cause you’re a white boy?”
“Hmph.” The sound escapes me without thought—an instinctive reaction at the taunt I have heard countless times before, only directed at my ability to run fast or jump high enough—and, of course, Tahegin homes in on it.
His head falls back onto my shoulder, but his inquisitive eyes don’t stray from mine. It feels as if he’s picking through my brain, reading every thought as I think it. “I’m sorry,” he says after a minute. “I meant it as a joke, but you’ve probably received insults about your skin your whole football career, haven’t you?”
From nearly every defender and the other receivers, yes, Tahegin, I have.
Clenching my jaw, I look away and nod, just once. “It’d be different if I was a tight end or a linebacker, a kicker or punter, even a quarterback or running back. I . . . I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I get it.” His whispered words have me turning to face him again. He’s one hundred percent sincere as he continues. “I get them, too—the race comments. I’m Black. Technically mixed, obviously, but Black is my heritage. Because my skin is a little lighter, my hair a little softer, my eyes are blue, and my family—though adoptive—are white, the other cornerbacks and safeties . . . some of them look down on me. Say I can’t keep up.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “The Black receivers I go up against? About half of them talk shit to me on the field.”
For some reason, that angers me more than when I get the insults thrown at me. “Any from San Francisco? I’ll take an offensive pass interference if it’ll rough them up a bit. Hair is free game—”
“Rix,” Tahegin chuckles and shoves his pizza in my mouth to shut me up. I immediately try to spit it out, only managing to get saliva all over the half-eaten slice. “That’s sweet of you, but—oh my God, are you okay?”
“Hot. Hot! Water. Wadder!” My words slur as my tongue goes numb from the heat. Everything burns—my mouth, throat, eyes, nose, body. Pretty sure my blood is sweating as the heat only intensifies. “T! Geddup! Moof!”
He falls into a fit of guffaws, not moving other than to hold his stomach as tears form in the corners of his eyes. If I wasn’t literally dying, I’d enjoy the sound of his carefree laughter. Instead, I struggle to untangle my legs from the sheets, swinging one over Tahegin and crushing a pizza box in the process.
I stumble into the bathroom and grab the nearest glass, which is already face up on the counter and damp inside. Ignoring the fact he probably drank out of it earlier, I fill the glass and chug, then repeat. And repeat.
What seems like an hour later, my mouth is finally somewhat normal, though my armpits are damp from sweat. I return the glass to the counter beside Tahegin’s toiletry bag, and a flash of blue catches my eye. He didn’t zip the bag all the way, so a quick peek reveals a couple of adhesive notes and . . . medicine bottles?
As delicately as possible, I shift the contents around to read the labels on the bottles. Part of me knows it is an invasion of his privacy, but the other part needs to make sure they aren’t illegal drugs. If Tahegin is putting his career on the line for recreationals . . .
My mouth goes dry when I read the labels. Two of them, I only know aren’t steroids, opioids, or narcotics. The third, I recognize, from back when he kept his prescriptions in our shared bathroom during our college days, as one that Micah takes for anti-anxiety. The labels are all in Tahegin’s name and recently filled, so I back off as soon as I’m sure everything is legal.
The notes . . . I read them one at a time, my stomach sinking with every one. I swallow hard. Each has some sort of positive saying, and one is a reminder to take his prescribed medication.
Suddenly, I feel very, very wrong. Digging through his bag is incredibly invasive, and I feel horrible for not trusting him. Of course, Tahegin isn’t using illegal drugs. It was crazy of me to have even thought he might have been.
Fuck. I am a terrible, awful friend.
“Are you alive in there?” Tahegin calls from the room, and I jump out of my skin.
