“Every Southerner does.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “No other reason?”
Throat tight, I squeak out a mangled “Nope.”
Hendrix stares at me—hard. It’s dark in the cabin of the car, save for the glow from the dash, the soft blues and greens reflecting against his pale skin and hair, but I catch the exact moment he comes to some conclusion in his head. His grey eyes light up with determination, and he says, “I have a birthmark on my left ear. That’s part of the reason I keep my hair so long. To cover it.”
I blink in surprise. “Wh—”
“Your turn.”
He . . . He admitted something—something he never would have told me otherwise—to convince me to tell him something about me? Does it mean that much to him? Is he . . . interested to know more about me? Well, we are friends. This is what friends do. It’s what I did that night in our hotel room at the beginning of the season.
“Okay,” I murmur, giving in. I pick at the thread on the steering wheel and keep my eyes on the stitching so I don’t have to face him when I make my confession. “I guess I have to defend it because . . . When I was little, my mom would call me her ‘Sweet T’—like the first letter of my name. You get it. And, I don’t know. Drinking sweet tea or talking about it takes me back to those days as a child. When life was easy and enjoyable and-and not bitter. Before—well, never mind. It’s stupid.”
“Maybe.” Hendrix shrugs as I snap my gaze to look at him. “But so is a haircut to cover a freckle no one else would even notice or care about. It’s important to you, so why should it matter what anyone else thinks?”
“I . . .” am stunned you’re being nice about this, I think to myself. Out loud, I offer a simple “Thanks.”
“No problem . . . Sweet T.”
I drop my head against the seat with a groan. “Please don’t tell the team.”
Hendrix shoots me a wicked grin. “Oh, I am so telling the team.”
“I will shave your hair in your sleep. I swear I will.”
He blanches, and I laugh, sounding like I should be rubbing my hands together like a villain.
But hey, what’s a friendship without some mutually assured destruction?
CHAPTER 13
HENDRIX AVERY
Maybe letting Tahegin convince me to come to Gemini with our teammates wasn’t a good idea. The loud music, the crowded room, and the socialites trying to network are the exact opposite of what I find enjoyable. The club is full of famous people from actors to models—and I hate every second from the moment I step one foot in the door.
But Tahegin . . . I fought with myself the entire bus ride back to Los Angeles, trying to figure out if I should apologize for jerking away during the game or if I should pretend it never happened. I still hadn’t decided when we arrived at the training facility, so I’d planned to get home as quickly as possible to continue beating myself up.
It was strange. I have pissed Micah off plenty of times in the past—as roommates, it was bound to happen—but I’d never sweated over making up. We would brush it off and get over it eventually, no biggie. With Tahegin, my stomach was all in knots about fixing it. I’m secretly glad we haven’t exchanged numbers yet, or I might have sent something embarrassing on the trip home.
Then, my car hadn’t started, and I had been mortified. Tahegin had approached, and . . . It was like the awkward moment on the sideline never happened. That is why I agreed to his proposition for tonight and tomorrow—though I have no idea what I’ve signed up for in the morning. I know it can’t be as bad as this, at least.
I follow Tahegin’s bright shirt and shoes through the throng of handsy clubgoers. Our teammates spot us immediately and drunkenly wave us over with goofy smiles and loud whoops. When we reach their table, Alex slides two drinks in our direction.
“Gin sours for our Gin and Sour,” he proclaims, waving his hands kind of in our direction. “Where have you two been? You gotta get on our level!”
On his level? How old is this guy?
Tahegin sidles up to the high-top table, remaining standing without an available seat. His hand cups one of the glasses, spinning it absently, and he flashes Aleks a toothy smile, just as white as his shirt and shoes—good thing there aren’t any black lights in here. Relaxing with his elbow on the table, Tahegin calls over the music. “No one says that anymore, Kiss. Your age is showing.”
Aleks flips him the middle finger, and our teammates howl with inebriated laughter. I keep a wary eye on Tahegin. He volunteered to be our driver tonight, which I thought meant he wouldn’t be drinking, but he’s holding the gin sour—I roll my eyes at the dumb joke—with a familiar grip. If he takes so much as one sip, I definitely won’t be letting him drive that ridiculously expensive, and super sexy, Camaro home tonight.
“Chug! Chug! Chug!” At the far end of the table, Gallon is guzzling down a whole pitcher of beer, another empty one turned over on its side in front of him. The guys all join in on the chant, and while everyone is distracted, Tahegin smoothly twists to deposit the drink in his hand onto a waitress’ empty tray, flashing her a charming grin to distract from the fact the alcohol is untouched.
Hmph.
He subtly checks his surroundings. Ensuring no one saw? When his gaze meets mine, his mouth quirks up on one side. The crooked grin is almost his usual one, but something about it seems . . . off. Shaky.
He slides the cocktail meant for me a little closer to my hand on the table, and Tahegin’s smile steadies, as if I had imagined the nervousness there a minute ago. “I’m driving tonight.” The glass bumps my pinky. “Drink up.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Ugh, something tastes like ass.
Licking my teeth, I’m hit with the full force of that horrible taste and realize its place of origin is growing on my tongue. I must not have brushed my teeth last night after . . .
It comes back and flashes. Tahegin’s car. The club. The music. The alcohol.
My stomach turns. I sit up quickly to make a dash for the bathroom, but the movement sends my pulse banging around inside my skull. Desperate, I open my eyes, preparing for an assault of sunlight, and search wildly for my closest option. Drunk me must have had my best interest in mind because the curtains are closed, and there is a freshly lined trash can at the edge of the bed.
I’m puking before my feet even hit the floor.
Thankfully, it’s over as quickly as it began, and I sit hunched over my knees to ensure nothing else tries to come up. While I wait, I take stock of myself. Headache, rolling stomach, seized liver—check. I’m shirtless but still in my jeans and socks, and there’s—gag—a splash of vomit on my right pec.
What the hell happened last night?
I stumble my way to the connecting bathroom, half-blind by eye gunk and swallowing back bile. My bladder screams for release as soon as the toilet comes into view, and I barely get my dick out before I’m pissing hard enough to split rocks. If the team physician were to see the color of my urine right now, I would be benched for a week.
