“Want a beer?” I ask too quickly, practically cutting him off. Without waiting for a response, I stand, carefully weave through the mess of boxes on the floor, and grab two bottles from the fridge. We’d stopped by my old apartment to grab what few belongings I needed to bring here. Though I left my raggedy mattress behind, I wasn’t about to leave my beer. It’s the one vice I allow myself around my strict athlete diet, so I try not to waste it if possible.
Sitting on the couch again, I pop the caps off using the edge of my new coffee table, eyeing the tiny dents they leave behind in the wood. I mentally check off “break in new furniture” from my list and ponder the next way to leave my mark on the new place. Maybe toothpaste splatter on the bathroom mirror . . . I absently take a heavy swig of beer while sliding the second bottle across the table for Tahegin.
I half stifle a burp, blowing the heat of it over my shoulder furthest from Tahegin to be polite. On the TV, the gameplay clips of our opponents for Sunday continue, and I feel my eyebrow quirk in interest as one of their tight ends makes a beautiful route. “Damn. That guy is going to be tough to cover. Is the D-line ready?”
When Tahegin doesn’t respond, I glance to my right to see him sitting motionless, eyes locked on the beer bottle in front of him. His lips are parted, as if he’d frozen a moment before speaking, and I swear he hasn’t blinked since I opened the refrigerator.
“T?” I ask, waving my hand in front of his face. “Hello?”
He startles and snaps his gaze to me. “Huh?”
Gesturing at the screen with my beer bottle, I reiterate my question. “That Pirates tight end—Kennedy. Is your D-line prepared to cover him? Dude’s a missile on the field.”
“Oh. Yeah. He and Conroy are legends. It’ll be tough,” he replies but still seems lost in his own world. Usually, when we talk opponents, he is in it one hundred percent, especially if we’re talking about household names like Kane Kennedy and Nathaniel Conroy. That dynamic duo is the best this league has seen in a while. The Pirates are always a for sure when it comes to playoff contenders. A few years ago, before they lost a couple of strong players, they even won the Super Bowl.
I eye Tahegin, wondering why he isn’t contributing more to the conversation. Is he nervous about the game? His gaze keeps flickering to the bottle on the table, so maybe . . . “Do you not like light?” I point at the beer. I personally don’t prefer light, but with what I do for a living, it’s better to drink it instead of regular. Still, I do keep some on hand for when I’m in a particular mood. “I might have a regular—”
He waves a hand dismissively and pushes the bottle closer to me. “Nah. You go ahead. I don’t—ah . . . I don’t need it.”
“Dude, if any day is a cheat day”—I shake the carton of stir-fry in my hand—“it’s today. One won’t kill you.” To prove my point, I take another large gulp, savoring the creamy, bitter taste. I let out a satisfied “ahh” and lick my lips.
All of a sudden, Tahegin goes from sitting statue-still to leaning forward, elbows on his knees as his hands drag over his face. “One—” He releases a dry and bitter bark of laughter far from humor. “It might.” His voice is a pained whisper and partially muffled by his palms.
What— Oh. “The anxiety meds?” I hesitantly ask, remembering Micah had once said something about not drinking in excess while taking them. He’d never turned down just one beer, though.
Tahegin’s eyes snap to me, posture stiffening. “How do you—”
“I saw them,” I admit sheepishly. “Your bag was unzipped on the bathroom counter at the hotel. I thought—um, well—I thought maybe they were—ahem—performance enhancing . . . I wanted to make sure you weren’t . . . using.” I wince. “It sounds worse when I say it out loud, but I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need help or anything. The bottles had your name on them, so I put them back as soon as I realized. I recognized one of them as an anti-anxiety Micah takes. I don’t know about the others—just that they aren’t narcotics.”
“You’re right. They aren’t.” He sits back and crosses his arms, rubbing his biceps. It isn’t at all cold, so I can only assume he is unconsciously seeking comfort. In an act of . . . something—feelings, I don’t know—I scoot over on the couch until our thighs touch and put my hand on his knee the way he has done to me countless times to be supportive. His glassy blue eyes snap down to look at my hand before shooting back up to my face. He worries his lower lip between his teeth. Searches my eyes. Rubs his arms. Then, shocking the absolute shit out of me, he blurts, “They’re antidepressants.”
I blink and—God help me—can’t stop my gaze from dropping to his arms. Stupid, stupid. I am such an idiot. I know depression doesn’t automatically mean someone self-harms or has harmed themselves in the past, and I know Tahegin’s arms are completely smooth, save for the raised veins running up and down them. He doesn’t have any scars. I know that. I don’t know why I looked.
Because you’re an idiot, my brain helpfully explains.
Tahegin, of course, notices the glance. He smiles wryly. “No. Self-harm wasn’t my vice. It was . . .” Blue eyes drift to the beer bottle on the table.
The one I had gotten for him.
And now he’s saying . . . “Fuck me,” I breathe. “I am a fucking asshole, aren’t I? Literally the worst friend.”
“You didn’t know.”
Standing abruptly, I gather both bottles and stalk to the trash can, throwing them away, as well as the ones from the fridge. No more booze around Tahegin.
“Rix, no. You don’t have to—”
“Our teammates call you Gin,” I interrupt as the realization hits me. “Is it because they— Well, if they knew, they wouldn’t call you that, would they? But how do they not know . . .”
He shakes his head. “They don’t know. I’ve—uh—I have been s-sober—God, even after all this time, it’s still hard to say out loud—five and a half years.” I start to mentally tally that, but Tahegin beats me to the punch. “My freshman year of college.”
My mouth is suddenly impossibly dry, as if the beer did more harm than good. I rest my hands on the kitchen counter, needing the extra support all of a sudden. “Was it . . .” I have to pause to clear gravel from my throat. It doesn’t work, so I grab a mug—I don’t have any glasses yet—from the cabinet, fill it with tap water, and guzzle it down. “How bad?”
“Bad,” he croaks in a broken whisper, hanging his head.
One won’t kill you.
It might.
“And you’re fine with the team calling you Gin?” I ask, aghast. “If it was me, that would be a stab to the back every time.”
My question is met with a hard gaze, more malice than I have seen from him even on the field during an intense game. “Did I say I like the nickname?” he hisses. “But how could I have told them that four years ago without telling them about . . . Anyway, it’s been so long, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“T . . .” My words fail me, and then I’m crossing the distance between us, and I’m bending at the waist to put my arms around him, fumbling to find a comfortable hold. After a second, I settle with my biceps resting on his shoulders, a hand on the back of his head, the other between his shoulder blades.
See, I can be a good friend. I can be supportive.
His face presses into my chest, eyelashes fluttering against my collarbone, and he wraps his arms around my waist, crossing them at my lower back. It’s an awkward angle for both of us, but I don’t dare pull back yet. Tahegin is my friend, so I will be here as long as he needs me to be. The hug is . . . different, though the way we have been practicing contact—sitting in bed together while I teach him signs, bro hugs on the field, and even high fives—has warmed me up a bit to being this close to him.
It’s quiet, save for the gameplay softly spewing from the television. My back complains at the awkwardly bent angle of my body, but I’m still not pulling away. Not when Tahegin’s hold is getting tighter. Not when the rise of his back stutters ever so gently. Not when a drop of something warm lands on my collarbone.
“Dammit, T,” I mutter. “Don’t cry. I don’t know what the fuck to do when someone cries.”
His arms tighten across my back even more, hands splaying on my hips, gripping like I’m the only thing holding him to the present. “This,” he whispers into my chest. “This helps.”
I clear my throat, not sure how to phrase my next question. “And . . . what does one do when their back hurts while doing”—I shrug my shoulders—“this?”
Without a word spoken, Tahegin crushes me in his arms, and I barely manage to keep myself upright as he leverages my body up while leaning back into the couch pillows. I scramble for purchase, releasing one hand to grab the back of the couch. My knee knocks his before settling on the cushion beside him. The other . . . It’s either half kneel on the couch with one foot extended or bring my awkwardly hovering knee to the other side of him and straddle his lap. Before I can choose one or the other, Tahegin tugs me even closer, and I’m forced to lift my remaining leg from the floor. I carefully set my knee on the cushion, body tense with uncertainty. The stiff position is not any better on my back.
