I collapse backward onto Micah’s bed, covering my face with my hands and groaning. The completed playoff bracket in my hand crinkles as I mistreat it. “Micah, I know how the schedule works. I mean, how could this happen? Us versus the Treasures . . . in the Super Bowl.”
“Well, the Treasures were the number one M&M, so it was kind of—” He breaks off as I cast him a sideways glare and nervously taps his bloodred fingernails—the same shade as his shaggy hair—together. “. . . expected.”
“I can’t do this,” I whine pitifully.
Micah scoots closer, patting my knee in an attempt to comfort me. Yesterday, my team won—as Micah put it—the Skittle championship, and the Treasures won theirs. That put both LA teams in the Super Bowl together. I hadn’t believed it, so I’d filled out an empty playoff bracket to be sure. I needed to see it, and now that I have . . .
Last night, Tahegin slept at his house, and I stayed at the middle house. I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him, but I’m also not sure how to face him. We thought we were done going head-to-head, at least until next season. The relief off our shoulders after the last game against each other in November was enormous. And now, the stress has returned tenfold.
My relationship with Tahegin has been amazing with that stress gone. After resting his hamstring during the Treasures’ bye week, Tahegin returned to the line and kicked ass, helping to earn his team the top spot in the playoffs. We continued switching off houses, staying together when we could. When Willow’s birthday came around, I wrote her a second princess book to go with the first, even adding some helpful pictures instructing how to sign words she might not know yet. I spent Christmas morning with Micah’s family, as usual, but I ended the day exchanging gifts with Tahegin under the giant tree in his living room, junk food wrappers scattered around us as we realized neither of us had bought any groceries to cook with and all nearby restaurants were closed. On New Year’s, we attended Aleks’ inclusive party at his house, then left to celebrate our official one-year anniversary where it all began—in the back of his truck in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour burger joint. It was perfect for us.
When January came around, it was all football, all the time, so our communication has suffered slightly. We still make time to video chat at away games and call at least once a day, though.
“Hey,” Micah coos, patting my knee. “It’s okay, buddy. You guys already played two games this year. What’s one more? It can be practice for next year.”
“The Super Bowl is not practice, Micah.”
“What’s the big deal? You guys can’t have friendly competition in your relationship?”
“It’s not just that.” I stare at the ceiling above me without really seeing it. “Tahegin and I are almost always going to be matched up—as in, he is the one running with me when I go after the ball,” I tack on when I realize Micah probably doesn’t know what a matchup is. “But I am one of the only people who knows exactly where Tahegin’s hamstring twinges, how his range of motion is affected, and what move always has it acting up. How do I use that information? Do I play less aggressively to keep my boyfriend uninjured? Or do I play to exploit my opponent’s weakness? He could have a career-ending injury when we play, and I would always feel responsible.”
Micah whispers a quiet “Oh.”
“I’ve seen their playbook,” I confess. “I know their routes and the way they line up. I could use that knowledge to run where I know there will be a gap. It’s an unfair advantage.”
“I see—”
“What if Tahegin has so many interceptions that he only needs one more to break a record? Am I supposed to ignore that? Or do I give it to him?”
“Um—”
“Or—”
“I get it!” Micah cuts me off with a shout. He waves his hands in the air as if to wash away my negativity. “I understand where you’re coming from, but you and Tahegin are going to have to work this out before the game, which is in two weeks. You need to nut up and talk to him.”
Did Micah—my sweet, flamboyantly gay best friend—just tell me to “nut up”? “Dude, when did you grow a pair?”
He lets out a dramatic gasp, feigning hurt with one fake-nail-tipped hand clutching an imaginary set of pearls on his chest. “How dare you? I will have you know, Zeke has introduced me to a whole dictionary of words and phrases.”
“Oh, has he?” I roll my eyes, but internally, I’m happy that my friend and his man have gotten closer, though I’m still not sure how serious they are or if Micah has told Aleks about his . . . extracurriculars.
“The man makes way too many ‘ass over tits’ jokes,” he insists.
I laugh because— “That is a little on the nose for you, isn’t it?”
Micah makes a face at me. “Ha ha. Very funny. It’s an honest living, okay?”
My gaze circles the room, tracking every needlessly extravagant piece of furniture. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s good for the economy!”
Raising my hands in surrender, I grin at my best friend and the ridiculous floor-length silk robe he is wearing. “I’m sorry I woke you,” I apologize, sobering up. “I know you probably had a late night.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He waves me off. “I’m always here for you, Rix. No matter what.”
I hold my hand out for a fist bump. “Love you, bro.”
It’s the first time I have ever said those words to him, and I immediately regret it because he squeals and attacks me in a giant hug. I’m stuck with a twink-sized koala attached to my torso until my phone begins to ring.
It’s Tahegin. Wondering when I will be home.
✧ ✧ ✧
I am complete and utter chicken shit.
I’ve avoided talking to Tahegin about our game, and now it is only hours away. These past two weeks, we have shared the middle house every night, living like domesticated partners. I have learned so much about Tahegin these last few months—enough to know I want to keep doing this. Living with him, here or at his house or wherever. His contract is up for review at the end of the season, and mine will be up next year, so who knows where life is going to take us? All I know is I want to be with Tahegin wherever we end up.
Messy habits and all.
Tripping over a pair of abandoned shoes in the hallway, I roll my eyes to myself as I toe them closer to the wall, out of the flow of foot traffic. I cross the living room, ignoring the pile of clean laundry on the recliner—this man has been so spoiled his entire life with housekeepers he struggles to pick up after himself without them—and follow the amazing smell of breakfast leading to the kitchen.
Tahegin is standing at the stove, cooking something. Pots, pans, utensils, and various food items litter the counter all around him. My lips twitch into a small smile because the clutter means Tahegin is here with me. The days I wake up to a clean kitchen are the days I know I will miss him the most.
I eye Tahegin’s ass covered only by a pair of thigh-hugging boxers and can’t help but give him a good slap on a cheek, gripping it tight. “Mm,” I hum in his ear. “Have I ever told you how much I love waking up to you cooking breakfast practically naked?”
Chuckling, he turns his head to kiss me. “Nope. You’re usually too busy sleeping, and I have to wake you up with breakfast in bed.”
“Love that, too,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around his bare torso. My chin settles on his shoulder, and Tahegin widens his stance just a bit to lower it to a more comfortable height for me. “What are you making?”
