“Yeah.” I clear gravel from my throat. “Just had to hit the head. Be right out.” I actually do take a leak, rinse my hands, and then steel myself to act as if everything is okay when I return to the room.
Tahegin is still on my bed, no more spicy pizza in sight. He’s lying flat with his eyes closed and hands tucked under his head, and I feel . . . strange as I stare at him.
He’s still the same Tahegin. Still shirtless with smooth, bronze flesh and chiseled abs on display, but I can’t help but wonder what I’m missing. Why does he need anti-anxieties, other pills, and positive notes? The guy is always smiling, always the center of attention, and friends with literally everyone—including me, the guy everyone calls Sour. I could ask, but . . . then he would know I snooped.
So, I guess I will just have to convince him to tell me. Somehow.
Usually, I avoid initiating contact, leaving that task to Tahegin, but now, I throw caution to the wind and dash to the bed before leaping on top of him.
He shouts in surprise, breaking off with a grunt as my full weight hits him. “Rix,” he laughs. “What are you doing?”
“That pizza was so spicy,” I tell him. “I was literally sweating.”
“Wow. You really are a lightweight.”
“Yeah, and now you’re stuck with my smelly armpits.” I wrap an arm around his head, ensuring my pit is right by his nose. My deodorant from this morning is still working for the most part, so I know I don’t smell just awful, but it’s fun to watch him squirm.
“Nooo,” he complains half-heartedly until my other hand finds his side, fingers grazing his exposed ribs. He tenses, and then giggles spill from his lips.
I hum with interest. “Ooh, ticklish, are you?” I dig in on his sides, abandoning the armpit agenda altogether. His laughter is contagious and takes me back to my younger years in some of the better foster homes. Kids came and went, getting adopted or moving homes due to behavior, but most of them enjoyed a good tickle session. It was always a laugh, no matter what kind of day we’d had with the strict foster parents. Tried and true method for—momentarily—forgetting we were all unwanted kids. At least, until we got caught and put in time-out for breaking the strict “no contact” rules in place.
Tahegin eventually manages to catch my wrists, and then he is grinning up at me, and I realize I’m straddling him, also grinning. He blinks, breaths calming. “You should smile more.”
I stop.
“No, no. I’m serious. You have a nice smile, and no one ever gets to see it.”
With no idea how to accept a compliment, much less one I know isn’t true, I roll my eyes and turn it back on him. “Yours isn’t so bad.” I tilt my head as if contemplating, then add, “For a hockey smile.”
He gasps theatrically. “A hockey smile? How dare you!”
Suddenly, I’m the one beneath him, my wrists gently pinned to the bed.
“Take it back,” he hisses.
“You know, if you ever go somewhere with black lights, those two teeth won’t glow like the rest of them. Planning to go to any clubs soon?”
“That’s it. You’re gonna get it now.” His hands leave my wrists to fumble at my sides, and I—
Do nothing.
Tahegin sits back and pouts. “You aren’t ticklish?”
He’s straddling me, his bare torso on full display, and there’s a soft, warm pressure on my—
I flip us before innocent, accidental stimulation can lead to any awkward moments. My gaze settles on Tahegin’s, so pure and open, and I let my gut lead me, only realizing what I’m doing once I begin speaking. “I aged out of the system,” I admit softly. Neither of us is technically pinning the other anymore, but we’re not making any effort to move. “Every time I asked about braces, my social worker said my teeth weren’t ‘bad enough’ to warrant the state paying for them. I’d look in the mirror every day and pick out everything I hated—my overbite, the gaps over here, the crowding over there. I convinced myself that if I didn’t want to see my smile, no one else would either. So, I stopped.”
“Hendrix.” He whispers my name, and I feel his hand on my side. It slips under the hem of my shirt to rest comfortingly against my bare flesh. He’s warm, his skin is soft beneath my palms, and he smells like sweet coconut. It’s pleasant. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Still. It sucks.” His thumb sweeps gently across my hip. “Were you in from birth? Did you ever try to find your biological parents?”
“No, I—” My throat tightens painfully. I’ve never told anyone about my birth parents and . . . I don’t think I’m ready to start just yet. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I slide off his hips to sit on the rumpled bed, propping myself up on one hand.
Tahegin follows, and we’re eye-to-eye once more. “Of course. I’m sorry for bringing it up. I hope I didn’t trigger you in any way.”
He looks so upset with himself it feels completely natural to reach out and run a finger over the back of his hand. I’ve noticed he does it to me when he’s feeling nervous, so I figure it will reassure him now. “You didn’t know. It’s . . . It’s okay.”
Big blue eyes blink at me—I hadn’t realized we’d moved so close—and then he looks away. “It’s getting late. We should go to sleep.”
I nod in agreement, and five minutes later, we’re lying in the dark hotel room in our respective beds. The silence stretches between us, somehow comfortable with the words we’d said and heavy with those we hadn’t.
✧ ✧ ✧
The football game begins like any other, but there is something in the air. Adrenaline fizzles in my veins, and it’s as if the rest of the team feels it, too. The weather is cool and cloudy, the stadium roaring with fans. We know the Dragons are going to give us a run for our money, and we’re ready to fight for a win.
We take the field for our first play, a disguised running play. A defensive player lines up in front of me, and I give him my best acting. I pretend to eye my quarterback, then spot specific points down the field. From the corner of my periphery, I catch the defender making some kind of gesture to their defensive play caller, and some shuffling happens on their line as they predict what we will be doing once the ball is snapped.
Aleks catches my eye and winks.
Taking my stance, I prepare for the snap, running like hell once it’s called. At the beginning of the season, our offensive coach had pulled me aside. “I know you’re excited to be playing in the big leagues,” he’d said. “But on the fakes, you need to preserve more of your energy for the real plays. Your opponents won’t be fooled half the time anyway. One guy on the side of the line isn’t gonna be the reason the defense gets it wrong. Understand?”
I had told him, in no uncertain terms, that, no, I did not understand. I didn’t join an NFL team to half-ass my plays. If I’m a decoy, I am going to be the best damn decoy anyone has ever seen. If I start to burn out, then being a professional athlete must not be for me.
When the Dragons’ defensemen fan out to cover a pass play, I don’t dare risk looking back to make sure Kit has an opening. I fake out my matchup until the official’s whistle blows, signaling the end of the play.
The cornerback covering me stumbles to a stop, and he spreads his arms in confusion. He squints at me. “You trick me, man?”
