Matchup (Playing the Field #3)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH

“You can’t ignore me forever,” I declare without preamble as I plop down in the empty seat beside Avery.

Everyone gets an extra seat whenever we fly to away games, but most of us end up sitting with our friends anyway. Usually, I’ll meet up with Aleks, and the others will flock to us, but not today. As soon as the seat belt light went off, I bolted for Avery.

He started ignoring me after our first game, and the cold shoulder has only worsened the longer the season progresses. If I have anything to say about it, I won’t spend another night in our shared hotel room in awkward silence with him. I’ll pester him throughout our entire flight to Minnesota if that is what it takes.

Skipping my morning pills that first game had not been a good idea. It’s a good thing the coaches were letting other guys get some field time because I did not feel like my normal self again until over a week after I’d resumed my regular regimen. My therapist was not happy with me for that stunt.

Avery is wearing this year’s team hoodie and a pair of holey sweatpants. The deep red of the hoodie stands out against his fair skin, complementing the pale mocha freckles dusting his nose and cheeks—which also have a rouge tint today as well. Though his hair is in its usual messy style, it’s somewhat limp and duller beneath his hood, as if he didn’t wash it this morning. When he eventually lifts his eyes to me, I spot the dark half-moons just below them.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask reflexively, forgetting all about my reason for coming over.

Those stormy greys stare unblinkingly at me, only a quarter of the amount of scorn as usual. He must feel really bad if he can’t manage to summon his signature scowl.

I reach out and press the back of my hand to his forehead.

He jerks back violently as if I’ve electrocuted him.

“I think you have a fever.”

Pulling a Bluetooth earbud—that I hadn’t noticed—from his ear, he curls the side of his lip at me. “Why are you touching me?”

“You have a fever,” I repeat.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, but the words are nasally, as if his sinuses are stuffed with cotton.

“Oh, so you can hear me.” I cross my arms and smirk in triumph.

“Go away.”

“Not until you tell me why you have been pretending I don’t exist. It’s quite awkward. And annoying.”

Avery lets out a grumbly “hmph” under his breath.

I turn to face him as well as I can in the small airplane seat. The arm between us bites into my side, so I raise it out of the way. Without the barrier, my knee, which is settled on the seat to even out the half twist of my body, brushes the side of his thigh, right near a quarter-sized hole in his sweats. Black boxers peek from the gap, and I can’t help but think the color choice perfectly matches his personality. “Don’t do that.” At the twitch of his eyebrow—which I take to mean “do what?”—I continue. “Don’t ‘hmph’ like you have something to say but are too scared to say it. Talk. Yell. Do something. Don’t hold it in for . . . whatever reason. So you don’t hurt my feelings?” I guess.

He snorts as if I’m being absurd, but I count it as a win since he hasn’t replaced his earbud. And, better yet, he speaks. “Oh, I don’t mind offending your delicate sensibilities one bit. I just don’t particularly care to expend the energy to do so.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Big bad football player like yourself doesn’t have the energy? What are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two? I feel sorry for your girlfriend. Or future wife. Or husband,” I quickly tack on because we are all inclusive here. If playing football has taught me anything, it is how to goad an alpha male into giving a reaction.

Insulting a man’s sex drive almost always does the trick. And Avery falls hard for my bait.

“I was going to say that you are annoying,” he growls, though his stuffy nose takes away from the attempted menacing tone.

I roll my eyes at the childish comeback before adding my own. “Yeah, well, your mom’s annoying.”

Instead of continuing to joke like every other normal person, Avery snaps his jaw closed and clenches it tight, nostrils flaring and emotion—the most I have ever seen from him—flooding his ocean eyes. He looks away and, in a carefully controlled voice, grits out, “Leave me alone.”

His unexpected reaction has a knot forming in my belly. I’ve fucked up somehow. Something about his mom, maybe? My hand unconsciously finds his arm and gently clasps it. “Hey, wait. I didn’t mean?—”

“I already said don’t touch me,” Avery hisses, jerking away from my hold.

My hands ball into fists on my lap, and I let out a huff of frustration. “No, you asked why I touched you. You didn’t say anything about not doing it. I’m sorry if my comment offended you. I didn’t mean it seriously, and I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories or anything like that. Your mother?—”

This time, he cuts me off by getting in my face. “Don’t talk about her, Ellingsworth,” he whispers harshly enough to send spittle flying onto my chin. “You know nothing .”

“I know .” Moving closer, I whisper, too, but my tone is apologetic, an extended olive branch if he will just fucking accept it. “I know that you and I are total strangers. I know we never talk despite the amount of time we are forced to spend together. I know you hate me, but I don’t know why . Because you won’t talk. You won’t say anything for us to get to know one another. Maybe we have stuff in common, Avery. Maybe I won’t accidentally upset you if I know just a tiny fraction more about you than I do now.”

“Poor, pitiful Ellingsworth,” he mocks, sitting back some so we can see each other without our vision blurring. “So used to being America’s favorite that you can’t stand one person not liking you. Is that it?”

Around us, a hush has fallen in the plane cabin. Fifty of our teammates listen to our argument, waiting on bated breaths to hear what insults we spit next. Tension hovers in the already thin air, but no one dares to break it. They all just wait—some openly gawking and others pretending to be busy doing something else.

I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm, and slowly ease my fists open. My voice is even, nearly monotone, when I reply. “Are you so cynical that you can’t believe for one second that someone might actually want to get to know you as a friend or at least an acquaintance?”

“Don’t you have enough fans—I mean, friends?”

“Aren’t you tired of being an asshole all the time?”

“Aren’t you tired of always pretending to be nice? No one in the world is genuinely as happy as you act like you are.”

“I—”

“What?” He cuts me off, then doesn’t even let me respond. “You are always happy? I would be, too, if I was as perfect as you.”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. Where did that come from? “Perfect?” I parrot in disbelief.

His hand flies up, nearly smacking me in the face as he gestures to . . . all of me. “Perfect hair. Perfect eyes. Perfect teeth and smile. Perfect childhood, perfect family. Everything in your life has been handed to you on a gold platter, so excuse-the-fuck-me if I have a little bit of resentment. Not everyone has had such a perfect run of it, okay?”

Sometime during his rant, my mouth fell open, so I have to pick it up off the floor before attempting to sputter a response. The words don’t come, though. Awkward friction fills the space between us as he stares at me, eyes blazing with the proof of his hatred toward me. I should be angry at his harsh words, but the truth of them covers any heat in my blood. He’s right, probably more so than he even knows.

In the absence of further argument, Avery gathers his few carry-on belongings and stands. He scans the seats full of now-whispering teammates before choosing a deserted spot in the back of the plane. Stalking to it, he sits, settles his things in the seat beside him, and replaces the single earbud he took out at the beginning of our encounter.

I remain where I am, stunned speechless. A few guys not so subtly eye me as if to gauge my reaction, but the joke is on them because I . . . don’t have one. Somehow, Avery knows the truth about me—the cold, hard truth I have been trying to run from for years . I have done everything in my power to portray myself as this happy-go-lucky guy, and it has made me forget how to be me . How to be genuinely upset about something. Old me would reach for a b?—

No. I can’t think of it. I won’t think of it.

Instead, I plaster on my rehearsed aloof smile and distract myself on my phone. When someone lowers themself on the seat beside me, I have a brief moment of panic that Avery has returned to berate and expose me again, but when I peek from beneath my lashes, I see it’s only Aleks. I don’t mean to release the sigh of relief that escapes my chest at the realization.

“Hey,” my friend murmurs softly enough that none of our other teammates can listen in. “Are you okay?”

My smile goes crooked and wry. “Didn’t you hear? I’m perfect.”

Aleks inhales sharply. “Gin, no . . . I’m going to talk to Coach and get our rooms switched so you don’t have to deal with that sour asshole.”

“No, it’s okay.” I reach out to give his hand a reassuring touch, and I hate that I actually have a moment of hesitation—as if my friend will suddenly jerk away and yell at me the way Avery did.

Damn it, Sour. Why can’t you be easy to get along with?

“I’m not giving up,” I announce with finality, only knowing I have made the decision once I voice it aloud. “He’s stuck with me for the rest of the season. I’ll get through to him eventually.”

“He can’t talk to you like that and get away with it.” Aleks has always been the type of guy who isn’t afraid to say what he believes and support anyone he thinks needs it. He’s our team captain because not only is he a leader, he is a fierce protector. “I’ll trip him in warm-ups. I swear I will. Won’t even apologize either.”

I peek over my shoulder to look at Avery, mentally picturing Aleks going just that. But then he sniffles, wipes his reddened nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, and coughs pitifully . . . and I remember that he is human and fallible—just like me. “No,” I whisper. The quirk of my mouth isn’t fake this time. “Don’t interfere, okay, Kiss? Just let me try. Give me some time to get through to him.”

He gives me a highly skeptical look. “You think you can find something sweet inside Sour?”

I tip my head side to side, considering. “I think . . . I think Sour just needs someone to be sweet to him, and maybe underneath that hard exterior, he’s actually a decent guy.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“And if he is?”

Aleks shakes his head as if he can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. Honestly, neither can I. “You’re crazy, Gin. I’ll keep my tripping foot free just in case.”

“I sincerely hope you won’t need it.”

? ? ?

All throughout dinner at the hotel, my mind runs a thousand miles a minute. I’d like to say I leave the restaurant with a foolproof plan to win Avery over, but that would be a lie. I have absolutely no idea where to begin. No one has ever hated me the way Avery clearly does. Not anyone I’ve met, anyway.

I have always tried to be a good person—even before my rock bottom in college—and having a positive attitude seems to help me, not hurt me. I regularly check in with everyone on the team, making sure their home and personal lives are going okay and offering support where I can give it.

Avery seems completely averse to me asking any personal questions about him, which only makes my task harder. How can I prove to him that I genuinely care about his feelings and want to know him as a person?

I have to go off what I know, which isn’t much. Basically, I know he hates me because he thinks I’m perfect, and also that he is coming down with something, even if he won’t admit it.

The latter, at least, I can try to show my compassion for. The restaurant downstairs had soup on its menu. As soon as I saw it, my mind went to Avery, who I saw disappear into the elevator immediately following Coach’s speech in the conference room. He’d looked even worse than he had on the plane, eyes watery and nose an angry red from the near-constant rub of his sleeve over it.

I’d placed a to-go order of soups during dinner, and they brought them out to me after dessert. I also snuck a bit of my fruit tart in a plastic container in case Avery has a sweet tooth, though I’m not holding out hope that he will eat anything I offer to him.

When I enter our hotel room, the lights are off, the air is warm and stale, and there is a man-sized lump under the far bed. I softly close the door behind me while carefully balancing the to-go containers. Setting the soups and leftover tart on the desk at the front of the room, I flick on the dim lamp and double-check the small trash can. There isn’t anything in it, so I assume Avery went straight to bed without eating.

Steeling myself for his wrath, I lower myself onto the edge of his bed and nudge his shoulder. “Avery? Have you eaten?”

He groans and rolls to face me. Despite still being in his hoodie and beneath the comforter, he’s trembling, teeth literally clacking together. Other than the movement, the only response he gives to having heard me is a low, pitiful moan.

I feel his forehead, which is scalding to the touch. Ah, he’s cold because he has a fever. He must have turned up the thermostat to try and get warm. “Hey, man. You can’t bundle up like this when you have a fever.”

“Wh-at?” he chatters, eyes barely opening.

“You have to cool down if you want to break it. Come on, skin the cat.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Avery grumbles but lets me pull him into a sitting position.

“Oh, good. The fever hasn’t altered your cheery disposition.”

Grabbing the hem of his hoodie, I pull it up and over his head, revealing the pale skin of his chest. It’s flushed from the fever, and I catch sight of those lovely shoulder freckles before violent shivers begin to rack his body. Goose bumps cover his flesh, and his nipples pebble despite the warmth of the room.

“Okay. Stay here. Do not lay back down.”

Standing, I turn the thermostat to a reasonable temperature, and then I dig in my toiletry bag for my over-the-counter all-purpose medicine. The bottle says it works as a fever reducer, so I check the recommended dose, count out the tablets, and fill one of the glasses from the bathroom counter with water.

I return to the bedroom to find Avery lying under the comforter with his red hoodie draped over him. With a sigh, I force him into a sitting position again and put the pills and glass in his hands. “It’s a fever reducer,” I tell him so he doesn’t think I’m trying to roofie him.

“I’m familiar,” he grouses in a snarky tone, but it’s hard to take him seriously with snot crusting his chapped nostrils. He takes the medicine without argument and finishes the water.

I catch him when he starts to sway back as if to lie down again. “Hey, I brought you soup in case you’re hungry.”

Avery grunts or groans or . . . something. All his weight tips backward, his body boneless, and I’m forced to let him fall into a prone position on the bed.

“Well.” I smack my teeth in reluctant defeat. “It’s on the desk if you want it. And half of a fruit tart. Feel free to take whatever you want if you get hungry.”

He releases a long, feeble moan, the only response I get to let me know he’s heard me.

Slipping into the bathroom, I quickly do my nightly routine and change into my pajamas before climbing into bed. I leave the dim lamp on in case Avery needs to get up in the middle of the night to puke or something.

I have no idea how he plans to play in the game tomorrow.

Only the soft sound of Avery’s breathing can be heard as I lay flat on my back under my blankets, but the noise in my head is louder than ever. Every brain cell is analyzing the times Avery and I have spoken, which isn’t much, trying to figure out how to get through to him.

Like I’d already realized, the only thing I know about him is that he’s currently sick, and he hates me for being “perfect.”

I’ve somewhat handled the first part, but the second . . .

“I’m not perfect,” I murmur into the silent room. Avery doesn’t respond, and I have no idea if he is even awake, but the words are already spilling out of my mouth before I can second-guess myself. “I could pick out a lot of things, but . . . for now, I’ll tell you about my ears. My right earlobe is totally attached, but the left one swoops a little lower than where it connects. It’s called a ‘free’ earlobe or something like that. Anyway, I notice the difference every time I look in a mirror, and it makes me self-conscious.”

He doesn’t tell me to shut up, so my mouth decides to continue.

“My eyesight isn’t perfect, hence the glasses.” I gesture to my face as if he’s actually paying attention. “My top two front teeth are implants. I have a retainer that I’m supposed to wear every night. I really, really can’t sing. Like, it’s bad. Glass shatteringly bad. And I have to take— Well, I . . .” I clear my throat, unable to tell him about the bottles in my bag and unsure why I even tried. “Ah, well. That’s enough of my insecurities for tonight. I’ll shut up now.”

I can’t believe I almost told him about my medication. What the hell is wrong with me?

The hotel room falls quiet in the absence of my confessions. I still have no idea if he was awake to hear them, but my chest feels lighter having spoken my insecurities aloud. Even if it didn’t help our acquaintanceship, at least it made me feel a little better anyway.

I’ll have to wait and see what morning brings.