“A—” I try my best to stifle my laughter, pressing my lips tight together. Some slips out despite my efforts, but Hendrix’s deadpan glare sobers me quickly. “ Sorry for laughing . . . It’s just— You are a professional football player. You were on live television earlier. Your stats are printed on rookie cards and sold in every supermarket.” The back of my hand thumps his chest as he continues to look incredulous. “You’re googleable. With Wikipedia and ESPN pages, man.”
“Your point?”
“You’re famous.” I flash a toothy grin. “Time to start living like it.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t need a McMansion—”
I cut him off with a snort. “Honey, a rookie doesn’t make McMansion money, no offense, but we can definitely budget in some upgrades. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re gonna grab your stuff and come back to my place tonight. We’ll get a tow truck to drop your car off, and you can decide what to do with it later. In”—I check my watch—“an hour and a half, we’re going to meet up with some of the guys at Gemini to relax for a bit. You’ll come back to mine for the night, we’ll run an errand for me in the morning, and then we’ll spend the afternoon shopping for you. Sound good?”
“No—”
“Great!” Snatching his duffle from the back seat, I bolt from the disabled car. “Let’s go.”
Surprisingly, Hendrix only huffs once before exiting his car and following me across the parking lot to my truck. I’ve already called the nearest tow company and given them my address by the time I drive us out of the parking lot. Hendrix broods in my passenger seat, but I can tell he’s not as upset as he is trying to portray.
“Our first sleepover without a game the next day,” I babble to fill the silence as I drive. “You get a room to yourself this time, though. Unfortunately, you’ll still have to wake up early in the morning.”
He gives me his signature scowl, and I snicker because the guy is seriously not a morning person. Only took one away game for me to realize that. “Why?” His question is wary and no-nonsense.
I flash him a quick smile before focusing on the road again. “I’m doing something for you, so you have to do something for me.”
“And the club later? That isn’t for you?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the P. “That’s for both of us. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.”
He doesn’t seem convinced. “Will it?”
I don’t respond, letting my smile do all the talking. Going out with my teammates is always fun, even if they end up going to a bar. Usually, I spend time beforehand reading over my affirmations and reminding myself why alcohol and my meds don’t mix. Once I mentally relive that traumatic experience, I don’t have a problem going out and ordering drinks without alcohol. I can still have fun and enjoy my night without putting myself at risk, and if I volunteer as a designated driver, the guys are too busy seeing who can get drunk the fastest to bother asking me why I don’t have a beer in my hand.
It’s only once I’m parking in my garage that Hendrix looks down at his dark sweatpants and Rubies hoodie. “Uh, dude. I don’t have clothes to wear to a club.”
“You’re fine,” I lie. Badly.
His stare clearly says he doesn’t believe me.
I sigh and gesture to the luggage in the back. “You got jeans in there?” We’re a good five inches different in height, so my pants would be way too long on him, but . . . “I can loan you a shirt.”
With a nod, Hendrix exits and grabs his duffle out of the truck bed, along with my suitcase. My masculinity isn’t fragile, so I simply thank him for the polite gesture. Unlocking the door, I quickly reset the alarm before it gets angry at me.
“Do you want a downstairs guest room or upstairs?”
Hendrix shrugs.
And sue me, I take the opportunity of having someone else stay in my giant house and show him to the upstairs guest room nearest mine rather than having him far away. It’s not often I have someone spend the night, especially someone I am so interested in. “It has an en suite,” I tell him as I open the door to show him inside. “I figured you’d prefer that over using the half bath downstairs.” One of the downstairs rooms also has an en suite, but I don’t tell Hendrix that.
Not one to often give a verbal thanks, he nods and enters the room. I stand in the doorway beside my suitcase as Hendrix rifles through his duffle bag for a pair of jeans. He turns around once he has them in hand, the faded and ripped fabric recognizable as the ones he always wears.
I wonder if he needs to go wardrobe shopping, too?
“A shirt?” he grouses, still standing there holding the pants.
“Right.” I snap out of my thoughts. “Let’s go to my room and find one.”
We cross the hall to my bedroom, and I search the closet for a shirt he can wear. Our legs may be different lengths, but our torsos are relatively the same—if the way his chest lines up with my shoulder blades when we sit in bed together is any indication.
“What are you thinking?” I ponder aloud, somehow knowing he won’t respond. I can feel his presence at the closet doorway, as well as his ever-present silence. “Let’s see . . .” I’m practically talking to myself, but I know he is listening. He’s always listening, just like that first night I began telling him my secrets. “I’m guessing something dark. Black? No, grey. I have this nice grey button-up. You can wear it over a black V-neck like you did at my party last month.”
At that, a soft “hmph” fills the quiet closet.
“Rix,” I singsong without looking away from searching my hanging shirts. “We’ve talked about your ‘hmphs.’”
“I’m just . . . surprised you remember.”
Turning, I toss the two shirts in his direction, using his momentary distraction to think about what to say. What is the best way to tell him that night is permanently ingrained in my mind? That everything about him telling me he wasn’t dating Micah, telling me he is straight, teaching me the alphabet in sign language after stripping in front of me, and us sitting back-to-chest for the first time—not a single second of that night has escaped me, has not become the slightest bit blurry despite how many weeks have passed since then.
Hendrix reaches back to fist his hoodie between his shoulder blades and pulls it over his head. Without a shirt underneath, I have no time to prepare as my eyes are immediately assaulted by a long torso and the kind of severely defined abs that are a side effect of being a professional athlete. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, exposing the deep arrow pointing down, down, down . . . God, Rix has fucking dangerous come gutters. There’s not even a hint of boxers, so either they are riding low beneath his waistband or . . .
“You have a good memory, huh?” Hendrix continues when I still don’t respond. He slips on the black V-neck, and I can magically think again.
“Like an elephant,” I laugh awkwardly, my voice a little higher than normal. I open my mouth—to say what, I’m not sure, just something to fill the lapse in conversation—but then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and yanks them down in one fell swoop, and a strangled noise catches in my throat. I glimpse muscular thighs, slightly less tan than his strong calves, and sharply whip around as fast as possible before he can straighten up to reveal anything else.
God, he is going to go out like that. Commando. Completely bare beneath those ripped jeans, and this time, the quarter-size hole on the thigh near the pocket will reveal softly furred flesh instead of the fabric of his boxers.
Trying to corral my untamed thoughts, I snatch a shirt from the rack and pull it on. The material stretches tight over my chest, and I realize the white polo I’ve grabbed is from a few seasons ago. My muscles have grown since I bought the shirt, but a peek at my wall of mirrors reveals that the tight fit doesn’t look bad at all. The shirt is taut around my biceps and chest, the white fabric nearly see-through, and the lower portion hangs a little looser at my narrow hips. For pants, I choose a skinny-fit pair in a light grey color with the hems rolled an inch or two at my ankles. I finish the look with a limited-edition pair of solid white loafers, internally wincing when I think about how much they cost and the fact I’ve not worn them once since buying them last summer.
When I meet Hendrix in my room again, I notice he’s paired his outfit with some black combat boots—and, yeah, that tracks. The fit is . . .
“Let’s go,” I not-quite squeak out of a tight throat to force myself to look away from how attractive he is right now. I offer to drive us, not just because getting a car service at night can be difficult, but because I genuinely enjoy driving. Especially when I’m driving my cherry-red Camaro equipped with all the bells and whistles.
