“This one?” I look down at it as if just remembering it’s there. “Nah.”
He absently picks at his carton of fries, lost in his own world. I take the chance to save this moment to memory—his wind-swept hair, the cute devil horns he hasn’t taken off, the far-away look in his stormy eyes, and the feel of his muscular bicep resting against mine. Of all the runaway thoughts I have about this man, I wouldn’t trade a second of this, wouldn’t risk a single moment of our comfortable companionship, for anything.
Taking off the lid of his drink, Hendrix slowly begins tearing the plastic edges between his fingers. When he’s halfway around its circumference, he releases a shaky exhale and mutters, almost inaudibly, “I was ten when I went into foster care.”
The night goes impossibly still, impossibly quiet, as if the entire world is waiting on bated breath to hear his confession. He hasn’t said much about his childhood, hardly any at all, so I drop everything to listen. Even my heart slows its beating to make room for his words.
But he doesn’t say anything else. He also doesn’t look up from the broken lid between his fingers.
Ever so gently, I pluck the plastic from his hand and replace it with mine, my palm against his, our fingers entwining. He takes up sliding the pad of his thumb on his free hand over the smooth crests of my fingernails, and I bite my lip to cover my elated smile at the small gesture.
“They—my parents—walked me into the family services office and . . .” He trails off, full-on tugging at my pinky nail now. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze, trying not to jump to conclusions before he can tell me his story, but . . . I think I know where it is going. “They told the receptionist they were leaving me there,” he whispers. “They didn’t want to keep me any longer.”
Rage. Absolute blinding fury. For me, being left as an infant, I can convince myself that maybe my birth parents were young. Maybe they weren’t ready for a kid, and they gave me up as soon as they could. For Hendrix, though, his parents had kept him, raised him, made a commitment to him, then abandoned him at an age significantly less likely to be adopted—and he hadn’t been. He’d aged out of the system without a family to claim him.
“Fucking assholes,” I explode, turning my body to face him. Our hands rotate with the movement, but I hold his palm and refuse to let go. My grip is probably incredibly tight from the emotions trying to overwhelm me, though Hendrix doesn’t complain. He doesn’t do anything, actually. Just sits there, sad eyes locked with my fiery ones, lips slightly parted at my outburst. “How shitty of a person do you have to be to abandon your child like that? There is a special place in hell for those bastards, mark my words.”
Hendrix gapes. “I— What? Tahegin, there was a reason. I wasn’t a great kid. I talked back and refused to do chores. Accidentally let it slip at school that they did drugs. Complained when I got tired of tuna sandwiches for every meal. Then I got Alpha-gal and had to figure out a whole new diet. There’s a reason I didn’t get adopted, too. I’m not . . .” His voice lowers, and I have to lean in to hear him whisper, “I’m not someone people want to be around.”
My free hand finds the nape of his neck, holding tight, pulling until we’re nearly forehead to forehead. “I want you, Hendrix. I want to be around you all the time. Micah and our teammates—they want you, too. Your birth parents are assholes, and the foster system makes it almost impossible for middle-class families—who would be able to provide for and love an adopted child just as well as rich families—to even be considered because of the ridiculously expensive legal processes, which significantly brings down the number of homes available to foster kids.” I rest my forehead on his. “Listen to me. Your birth parents failed you. The system failed you. You. Are. Not. A. Failure.”
Remaining silent, Hendrix just stares at me in disbelief.
I close my eyes, unable to look at the despair in his stormy grey eyes. “You didn’t fail, Rix,” I whisper. “Look at you. Look at what you’ve done and where you are. You have a meaningful degree, and you’re playing in the NFL.” Letting go of his hand, I clasp his head between my palms, pulling him even closer. Our noses brush. “You are so successful. You will never want for anything. You made it, against all odds. And you are amazing. My God, Hendrix, you are the most supportive and understanding person I know. The kindest, too. Maybe not in conversation—sometimes you can come across abrasive—but, dude, you brought me soup when I was sick, before we even became friends. You made sure Micah was safe tonight. You taught me sign language for no other reason than to help—didn’t even let me pay you. You. Are. Perfect.” The last word of my spiel holds so much emotion, trying to convince him to believe me and see what I see in him, that our lips brush. It’s an unintentional, barely there touch, and it’s over just as quickly as it happens. I pull away so he doesn’t get the wrong idea. This isn’t a come-on, not when I need him to understand how serious I am.
Our eyes catch and hold. Hendrix licks his lips, then rolls them between his teeth. “Hmph.”
Blinking against the moisture that has gathered in my eyes, I let out a bubble of nervous laughter. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Tahegin.” He murmurs my name in an awed voice. “For once, I’m not keeping my thoughts to myself. That ‘hmph’ was because I genuinely don’t know what to say. I . . . I’m speechless.” His palm cups my jaw, thumb swiping gently under my eye. “Thank you, T. I don’t see myself in that way at all, but when you say it, I can almost let myself believe it.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Despite the busy football season, I always make time for my sister’s birthday. It helps that it usually falls around Thanksgiving, and for most NFL teams—those who don’t play on the holiday—the coaches let the players spend the day with their families.
My parents’ house in Los Angeles is much like the one in Austin where I grew up. It’s an old-fashioned brick home with more rooms than they will ever need, expensive tile floors, high ceilings, and countless chandeliers. The only thing more rich than the house is the love my parents put inside it. When I was a kid, they spoiled me rotten. With Willow, they are even worse—in the best way, of course. Dad was always busy with work when I was younger, but now he’s retired, so they both spend every moment with Willow.
Since Willow is homeschooled, she only has a few friends she’s made at the local community center for the deaf and hard of hearing—two kids her age and an older tweenager who honestly kind of scares me with her all-black clothing, chains hanging from her pants, and severe makeup, all pale or black, nothing in between. She’s constantly frowning—a little like Hendrix in that way—and her signs are nearly emotionless. Still, Willow insisted on inviting her, seeming to enjoy conversing with the brooding girl.
When I arrive, Willow and her friends have already spent a few hours together watching movies, playing games, and snacking, but as I walk into the game room and Willow spots me, she abandons her game to run toward me. I drop to my knees to hug her, squeezing tight, and when I pull back, I sign a perfect “Happy Birthday, Willow.” I know it is perfect because I spent an hour last night video chatting with Hendrix to get it right. I even sent him a recording this morning to make sure I didn’t forget it after sleeping for eight hours.
“Thank you!” She beams widely at me. “You learned some signs?”
My face hurts from grinning so hard in return. Why did I wait so long to learn to communicate with her? “I learned so many signs,” I tell her. “My teammate has been teaching me. Micah’s friend.” Micah has been coming to every home game, sitting with my parents and, more often than not, sporting a jersey with Aleks’ number on it. Since Halloween, those two have been . . . hooking up, I guess? It seems neither are looking for anything serious, but they’re having fun together.
“I want to dye my hair like Micah,” Willow confesses. “But Mom said no.”
I ruffle her curly brown hair, giving her a silly look. “I like your hair the way it is. Don’t change a thing.”
“Tahegin?”
Looking up from my conversation with Willow, I lock eyes with my mother standing in the doorway between the game room and the kitchen. Her blue eyes are filled with wonder and awe as she watches me communicate with my sister. I hadn’t told any of them that I was learning to sign—just in case something happened and I epically failed. I still forget some things, but I figured today of all days, I wanted to talk to Willow. To wish her a happy birthday.
“Hey, Mom. Dad.” Smiling, I cross the room to hug my parents, savoring the familiar scent of home and childhood.
Mom still looks stunned as I pull away. “Did I just see you and Willow . . .” She trails off, brows furrowed as she points in the direction of the game room.
I spread my arms wide, then grin wider. “Surprise!”
“I’ll say,” she responds with a note of wonderment. “When did you—”
I’m saved from an awkward conversation as the doorbell rings. Mom gives me a look that says we will finish this later before heading to greet the newcomers who, if my watch is correct, should be some of my teammates. The loud commotion that follows the door opening is enough to assure me that is the case.
“Who’s ready to swim?” The loud holler of my best friend sounds a moment before the guys appear in the doorway. Kit, Blow, Aleks, and Gal all came to my sister’s birthday party last year, and this time, they have brought Tank as a new addition. Behind them is Loudmouth—I mean, Aleks—followed by a mauve-headed Micah and—
I swallow hard. A series of home games accompanied by a bye week has done nothing to resolve my body’s severe response to Hendrix’s presence—dry mouth, heat simmering below every inch of my skin, and a pulse that would send our training coach into an early grave.
All kinds of excited at the appearance of more guests, my sister races across the room to engulf my teammates in hugs—even Tank and Hendrix, whom she does not yet know. And, be still my heart, Hendrix introduces himself and Tank to her in a flurry of confident signs. It doesn’t escape me that he introduces himself as “Rix” and as Micah’s friend. At that, she turns to Micah and hugs him, too.
Mom waits for all the pleasantries and introductions to finish before waggling a finger at Aleks. “Presents first,” she says and signs for everyone to understand.
At the mention of presents, Willow makes a mad dash for her chair, making grabby hands at the stack of gifts on the nearby table. My friends dump their offerings on the already packed table before spreading out to watch Willow open them. Each one she grabs, I approach the giver to thank them, making a point to check in with a few of the guys I have been neglecting.
Like Micah, who tells me his freelance graphic design business has begun to take off. Vaguely, I have been aware of his profession, but I never stopped to ask exactly what it is he does. When I do, he smiles widely, clearly proud of his work, and shows me an image on his phone. He’s used some computer art software to draw Hendrix in his Rubies helmet and jersey, with multiple poses including still and action shots. It looks eerily similar to the ones used during our aired games. I can see the nuances that set his artwork aside from the televised ones and, if I’m honest, make his better.
“Holy shit, man. These are amazing,” I tell him honestly. And then, “Hey, I have a connection at the league’s graphic station. Let me put in a good word for you?”
Micah positively lights up at the offer. “Yes! Please,” he adds quickly.