CHAPTER 24
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
On Saturday, we start our divisional game as the number one seed—and we lose. Our opponents, the Seattle Emeralds, despite being ranked fifth, give us a hell of a run for our money. I’m not sure if it’s because our team had a bye week that messed up our rhythm or if my being injured, and thus unable to play, throws off the team dynamic. Either way, the Emeralds beat us by a field goal. It’s humbling and disappointing.
I’m on the sideline, and even if we had advanced to the next round, I wouldn’t have been able to play. Maybe in the Bowl, if we’d made it that far.
It’s been five days since I overexerted my hamstring. The team’s physical therapists have been busting their asses coming to my house to check on me, administering shots to help the muscle heal, massaging the achy area, and coaching me through easy strength training exercises. I have been exhausted from the effort and hadn’t even left my house before the game today. The crutches suck, as do the cameras constantly watching me where I sit on the bench.
The loss . . . The loss hurts worse.
How we came in on top for the regular season only to lose to the fifth-ranked team in our conference, I’m not sure, but it leaves a sour taste in all of our mouths. Between that and my leg, I inform Aleks that I won’t be going out to commiserate with our teammates tonight.
“Thank God,” Hendrix groans when I inform him as he undresses in the locker room after the game. For years, I have never had an issue keeping my eyes to myself in sweaty, smelly, dirty locker rooms. Our stadium and practice facility both have separate locker rooms available for any players who aren’t comfortable changing and showering in front of others, and as far as I’m aware, no one uses them. Still, they are there just in case. Now, though, I’m reaching a creepy level with the way I ogle Hendrix. His sweat-damp arms covered in turf rubble, his abs peeking from beneath the hem of his jersey, his ass in those football pants . . .
I lick my suddenly dry lips. Hendrix is saying something about how he didn’t feel like going out anyway, but then his jersey comes off to reveal his muscular torso, sporadically sporting forming bruises here and there from the game, and I want nothing more than to trace every salty divot with my tongue. God, his belly button? It goes completely dark in the center, clearly deeper than my nearly flat one, and I want to know just how far it goes. How far my tongue—
“Jesus Christ, Gin. You look like you’re about to eat Sour!” At Aleks’ exclamation, catcalls sound from around the locker room, and if my flesh was as fair as Hendrix’s, I would be as red as our team jerseys. One brush of my cool fingers to my cheeks reveals how heated they are beneath my bronze skin.
Trying to play it off, I cock a smirk and an eyebrow in Hendrix’s stupefied direction. “Hey, man. If you ever decide to switch to the queer side, I’ll show you a good time.”
“I’ll show you a better time,” Aleks pipes up, knowing he fucked up by making that comment when Hendrix and I are trying to keep our relationship a secret. The last thing we need is our teammates putting two and two together. “They don’t call me ‘Kiss’ for nothing.”
“Yeah, it’s ’cause you’re a kiss-ass. Y’all hear the way he praised Coach for his speech earlier?”
Laughter follows my snarky comeback, and Aleks looks thoroughly abashed. Good. That’s what he gets for almost outing Hendrix and me.
Dressed in Rubies sweats and a backward cap, Hendrix turns to face the room and then stares in our direction. At the attention, he just shrugs, casually stuffs his hands in his pockets, and says, “Nah, I think I’d prefer Kit over you old guys anyway.”
Kit, turned facing his locker as he dresses, lets out a guffaw that has him rearing back to send his laughter into the ceiling. I’m not old by any means, but Kit is a young guy and looks even younger due to his baby face and short stature—though Hendrix only has two inches on him. His small body is what makes him a slippery son of a bitch on the field, and why he is going to be one of the best running backs this league has seen. “Oh, Sour,” he singsongs without turning around. “They may be too old for you, but you are way too young for me. I like my men like I like my wine—finely aged.”
“Like Larson,” someone quips, and a chorus of “oohs” flood the locker room.
The attention is—for now—off Hendrix and me, and when I catch Aleks’ eyes amidst a battle of towel whipping between some of our teammates, he mouths an apology. I nod that it’s okay, but one look at Hendrix’s tense shoulders has me worried otherwise.
A few minutes later, I’m hobbling on my crutches out of the stadium, a silent Hendrix beside me. We’d ridden to the game together in his car, so I don’t bother trying to talk before we’re tucked inside and on the road. Part of me wants to make sure we’re okay after what happened in the locker room, but a smarter part tells me to move on and distract him from it.
Tapping my fingers nervously on my thighs, I clear my throat, deciding to bring up something I have been meaning to talk to Hendrix about. “Hey, just checking. You have an agent, right?”
His eyebrow twitches upward.
“Not the rep from the team, but your own agent,” I clarify. “Someone to negotiate your contract for next year. You pay them, and they make sure you’re getting good deals.”
He shrugs, outwardly nonchalant, though I can tell I’ve thrown him off with my question. “Can’t I just sign on the line like I did with that lawyer guy last summer? That worked fine.”
I shoot him a look. “Rix, babe, you can double your contract salary simply by having an agent. That’s double what you got this year, understand? An agent can negotiate all that shit, and you pay them to make sure you get a good deal. I can give you my agent’s information. I haven’t had any complaints with her.”
Hendrix nods, so I send my agent’s contact info to him. He still seems out of it as he parks in a free space in my garage and climbs out of the car. As has become a habit since I injured my leg, he crosses to the passenger side and helps me out of the car, handing me the crutches from the back seat. We travel through my dark house, Hendrix flipping on a few light switches as we go.
“How do you feel about a shower?” I’d noticed he hadn’t taken one earlier after the game, so hopefully, he will want to take one with me now. For the last week, we have been showering together in swim trunks, only taking them off at the last second to clean our junk while carefully avoiding each other in the large tile shower. We haven’t outright discussed it, but I feel the careful separation is due to the fact we might jump each other’s bones and damage my leg worse should we let our hands wander.
Doesn’t mean I’m not always hard during the entire process.
Doesn’t mean Hendrix hasn’t been either.
At my suggestion, Hendrix pauses just inside the dim living room, his lips parting slightly to allow the tip of his pink tongue to dart out and wet them. His gaze flicks down over my body, and while everyone else makes me feel self-conscious of the crutches, he makes me feel like me. Like he sees me beneath the football jersey and injured muscle. To him, I’m just Tahegin—his boyfriend. His attractive boyfriend. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice raspy.
I prop my crutches against the nearby wall and cautiously apply pressure on my leg. It’s sore, but using it for its intended purpose actually does wonders for making me feel better. Taking a hesitant step toward him, I chuckle when he gasps and darts to my side to hold me.
“What are you doing?” He demands.
My hand finds his, interlocking our fingers so we are in more of an embrace than a supportive hold. “It doesn’t hurt too badly, and the physical therapist said I can start putting weight on it.”
Hendrix frowns as if he doesn’t like the idea of me being in pain or straining myself, and I earn one of his signature “hmphs” when I head for the hallway to the guest room we’ve been showering in. As we pass the perfectly made bed, I contemplate suggesting we sleep there tonight. Hendrix hasn’t left since I injured my leg earlier this week, and save for last night when he slept on my living room floor mattress with me, he has been sleeping on the sofa to keep from jostling my leg. Having him in the same room at night has been comforting and familiar, but last night was so much better. We didn’t do anything—not even make out or hardcore cuddle—and it was still one of my favorite nights ever.
Geez, I am such a fucking simp for him.
While Hendrick’s back is turned as he starts the shower, I make quick work of stripping to my boxers. The swim trunks we have been wearing while washing are hanging on a towel rack beside the bathroom counter, and I internally shudder at the thought of donning the cold, stiff material.
As he turns to face me, Hendrix’s eyes drink in my nearly naked body, the apple in his throat bobbing when he swallows. “Trunks?” he asks in a husky voice, making no move to grab them.
I give him a wicked grin and don’t reply. Reaching out, I mow my hands through his soft blond hair beneath his backward cap, knocking it to the ground at his heels. He’s got a bad case of helmet hair, and the sweaty strands remain standing wildly while my hands drift down his body. I take my time rubbing my palms down his front, admiring the feel of his hard muscles and rigid abdomen even through the thick ruby-red material of his hoodie. At the hem, I sneak my fingers inside, lightly scrape my nails along the skin above his waistband, then slide my hands up and up, taking the hoodie with me. My thumb ghosts over the rim of his navel. My fingers trace the defined dips between his abs. My large palms settle on his pecs, nails lightly tipping his peaked nipples.
“Fuuuck, T,” he exhales shakily.
Looking up from his exposed torso, I notice how his pupils have blown wide, how his cheeks have flushed an attractive cherry color, and how his lips are dark and wet from his tongue. A strangled groan slips out as I imagine what he tastes like with desire on his lips and tongue. I give in to the impulse and dart forward to take his bottom lip into my mouth, nipping and sucking. It’s everything I’ve imagined and more; he tastes like salty sweat and Gatorade and a man who has just worked his ass off on a football field; he feels like hard muscle and need and a perfect place to press my body against.
I get my fill of his lips, then push my tongue inside to glide along his hot, velvety one, another burst of his flavor igniting my every taste bud.
