Matchup (Playing the Field #3)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

HENDRIX AVERY

Damn Tahegin Ellingsworth. Damn him.

Last night when he said he brought soup for me, I immediately brushed him off—as well as I could while delirious with a fever. The fruit tart almost got me out of bed, but I resisted. It’s strange how, even though I was ignoring him, Ellingsworth helped me. He gave me fever reducers, took off my hoodie, which was trapping the heat against my body, turned on the air-conditioning to cool me off, and brought me soup. All after I’d been a total dick to him a few hours before.

I was still ignoring him when he eventually climbed into his own bed—and then . . . Well, he . . . I don’t know. I have no idea why he said all those things, but his words are the reason I got zero sleep last night. It’s all his fault.

Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what he said.

When I finally drag myself out of bed at three thirty in the morning, I dare to look in the small plastic containers sitting atop the desk in our hotel room. The first one I open is filled to the brim with chicken and rice soup, and even though I had told myself not to get my hopes up, my shoulders still sag with disappointment. Chicken soup is the most common go-to for anyone who is sick, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to see it. I check the other just to be sure—noting and dismissing the chili and hearty gumbo—and pause on the last one before the tart. I open the plastic packaged spoon and stir the soup, checking the ingredients.

Excitement has me nearly bolting from the room without even putting on a shirt, but I quickly calm myself. I slip into my hoodie—which Ellingsworth had carefully draped over the back of a chair—and take the elevator to the lobby to use the microwave in the convenience area. Then, I collapse onto the comfiest chair I can find, curl up as small as I am physically able, and sip on the vegetable stew.

I don’t realize I’m starting to doze off until I hear my name.

“Avery? What the hell are you doing down here?”

I blink blearily up at Coach Mathis. “Oh, I—” Gravel scratches my aching throat, and I break off in a fit of coughs before trying again. “Didn’t want to disturb my roommate.” I gesture at the half-eaten soup in my hand. Snot threatens to drip from my nostril, so I wipe it with the cuff of my hoodie, already crusty from me repeatedly doing the same thing yesterday.

As realization dawns on Mathis’ face, he cups his morning coffee with two hands and takes a large step backward, away from me. “You’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” I croak and fight the urge to cough again. “Excited for the game today, Coach.” My voice is tight and nasally.

Coach takes off his hat and scratches his scalp, sucking on his teeth. “Sorry, kid. The doc is gonna have to check you out before I can put you on the field today. Go rest up. I’ll send him to your room to look you over.”

My shoulders slump for the second time today. The last thing I want is to be benched for our first official game of the season. “But, Coach, I . . .” My complaint is half-hearted, and he doesn’t even have to cut me off before I do it myself. “Okay.”

“We don’t play until tonight,” he reminds me. “You might feel ten times better by then. Who knows.”

I trudge behind him to the elevator, where we ride up in silence until it smooths to a stop on my floor. He leaves me with a “Feel better, kid.”

Inside my room, Ellingsworth is still fast asleep, his breaths slow and heavy. I envy his easy rest as I climb into bed with my mind spinning, wondering if sitting out sick will affect my place on the team. Surely, the coaches are understanding if we come down with a cold or flu every now and again.

My tongue swipes over my teeth, which feel gross since I didn’t brush last night before bed or this morning before soup. For some reason, I think back to a few hours ago when Ellingsworth told me his front teeth are implants and that he has a retainer.

My teeth were never bad enough for the system to pay for braces, so the small gaps here, crowding there, slight overbite, and a bit of unevenness have stayed with me my entire life. Maybe once the football money really starts to stack, I can do the braces and retainer thing—like Ellingsworth apparently did.

So maybe his teeth aren’t naturally perfect. There is still plenty of stuff about him left for me to hate.

? ? ?

Turns out, there are different types of earlobes. Some, like mine, dip in a U shape before connecting to the face. Others are attached at the lowest point.

I’m standing on the sideline in my team sweats after the doctor recommended rest instead of game time. His decision might have been influenced by me throwing up during his exam. The fruit tart had not settled as well as the soup.

Ellingsworth left me alone for the most part—either because he didn’t want to get close enough to catch my sickness or because he was regretting what he said to me last night. After all, I now know some of his biggest insecurities.

One of which happens to be his ears, and since I’m stuck on the sideline wearing a stupid medical mask, I’ve been passing the time by surreptitiously studying my teammates’ ears.

Which is weird . It’s a weird thing to be doing, and I wholly blame Ellingsworth for putting the useless, unnecessary information in my head. It is all his fault.

However, I have discovered a few things during my investigation.

Blow’s dark earlobes are attached, and both are pierced, though he doesn’t have any earrings in them at the moment. Tank’s are attached, too, and he really needs to rinse behind his ears because he has some shampoo built up back there. Aleks and Gallon both have “free” lobes, as Ellingsworth called them. Kit never takes his helmet off. And Ellingsworth . . .

I stand on my toes and wobble behind him, trying to compare his earlobes myself. The right is attached, as he said, and the left—oh, there’s that cartilage piercing of his. Today, he has a delicate hoop in. It’s gold, which complements his bronze skin well. He also has a clean design etched into his high fade on the left side. I double-check his right side, noting the lack of piercings or designs. I glance at his arms, and—yep—it’s his left one that has a full sleeve tattooed. It’s a . . . weird and probably useless discovery. Much like the earlobe thing.

“What are you doing?”

My eyes snap from the tattooed arm—which I hadn’t noticed had made a one-eighty—to the sapphire-blue eyes belonging to the arm’s owner. He stares at me, waiting for a response.

“Uhh.” I hesitate, the noise fading off inside the medical mask I’ve been forced to wear. My gaze unconsciously flicks to his earlobe, and I mentally curse myself for giving away my thoughts.

Ellingsworth narrows his eyes. “You were awake last night, weren’t you?”

“Um . . .”

He steps closer, well within the bubble everyone else has been keeping from me. “You’re looking at my ears, aren’t you?” His voice is low, just for me to hear.

“No.” My eyes betray me again.

“Stop it.”

“I’m not?—”

“You did it again.”

“I didn’t mean to?—”

“You’re looking at them right now!”

“Stop it!”

“You stop!”

“I—” Thankfully, a coughing fit takes over, saving me from certain death by embarrassment.

He’s still standing too close, still staring too hard, when I can finally breathe normally again.

I clear my throat. “It’s, uh. It’s not noticeable,” I mumble into the cloth mask across my face, gaze darting anywhere but his direction. My cheeks suddenly feel warm. Is the fever returning? Doc gave me some immune health boosters, but maybe they haven’t kicked in yet. “I would have never known.”

His smile is so bright, it blinds me. I curse those stupid implants. “I know,” he says, voice low to keep his words between the two of us. “The only people who have ever noticed were my bullies in fifth grade. Kids are fucking ruthless.”

I wince beneath my mask. I had been one of those ruthless kids back when I was that age. Eventually, I grew out of the bullying mentality and into the I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude I wear now.

Suddenly, Ellingsworth’s smile grows a hundred times bigger. He gives an exaggerated wave to someone behind me, all of his focus on them.

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot three people grinning and waving back at him. I immediately recognize his adoptive parents—the rich and famous ones, of course—but not the little girl planted between them. I can only assume based on her age that she is a sister of some kind, either also adopted or by birth.

Ellingsworth looks so . . . happy . I suppose I would be, too, if my family came to watch me play several states away from where they live. He blows a kiss, bright eyes sparkling, and I manage to hate him that much more. Perfect life, perfect family. Perfect Tahegin Ellingsworth.

I cross my arms and face the field again. So what if some might call it pouting.

“We play in our stadium next week,” Ellingsworth states, and I guess he’s talking to me again. “Do you have anyone coming to watch?”

I refuse to look at him. “Why?” Does he need the extra seats for more of his family or friends?

“My parents come to every game.” No shit. “They said your seats have been empty, so I’m just trying to make sure you know they’re there. Have you met Robby? He handles all that stuff—tickets and passes and whatnot. I can show you his office if you need?—”

“No,” I cut him off, chin held high. I refuse to be pitied because I don’t have anyone who . . . Well, Micah had mentioned wanting to come to a game, but he was probably only using that as an excuse to joke about checking out my teammates’ asses. Right? He wouldn’t actually want to come. Would he? “Um, maybe. I might have . . . someone. But I’ll find Robby’s office on my own.”

He moves to stand beside me facing the field and nudges his padded shoulder against my bare one. “Oooor,” he drags out annoyingly. “I can show you after practice tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Mm, that’s fine because I know so.”

Can’t this guy take a hint? “That was me politely telling you no.”

“I get the feeling you have never been polite a day in your life.” He’s back to grinning, holding the collar of his pads with two gloved hands, and he bumps his hip against mine.

The move throws me off-balance, and I’m mortified when Ellingsworth steadies me with an arm across my back. My sick body must mistake his solid, warm hold for comfort because it instinctively leans closer into him. Once I realize the mistake, I pull away, albeit belatedly. “Um. What were we talking about?” I ask, still dazed from being touched and not immediately rejecting it.

On the field, our punter sends the ball far into the Minnesota Nightmares’ territory, and Ellingsworth bounces on his heels in anticipation of returning to the game. “Monday,” he says while sliding on his helmet. “You. Me. Robby’s office. It’s a date.”

“No, it’s not—” But he’s already running onto the turf, war face on. I sigh to myself. “It’s not a date.”

The game resumes with us on the defensive, and I catch myself following Ellingsworth instead of the ball. I watch him size up his opponent, watch him play the ball and nearly catch a pick, watch him jump higher and run faster than any other player.

There is a reason why the commentators keep their eyes on him, why they say his name twice as much as any other player. Ellingsworth is damn good, I reluctantly admit to myself. So good, in fact, I begin to wonder if all the times we have gone head-to-head in practice, had he let me get past him? When he moved before the snap that first day, was he just giving me false hope to keep my spirits up?

I can ask him tomorrow, I suppose . . .

No. I am not going anywhere with him tomorrow. I don’t need his help.

Trying to forget everything to do with Stupid Perfect Tahegin Ellingsworth, I turn my back to the game and let my gaze wander over the crowded stadium. Plenty of fans are all dressed up for the occasion—ours a wave of ruby red and the Nightmares’ a sea of black. The getups are always interesting to look at, always eye-catching and exciting, but my eye keeps being drawn to familiar movements. I spot someone’s hands moving in rapid fire, and after four years of living and studying the language, my brain unconsciously translates.

“ Offensive pass interference. Now, it’s second and fifteen. ”

Another set of hands, smaller than the first. “ T? ”

“ Yes, but he’s okay. He’s tough. ”

The hands stop, so I glance up to see who is using ASL at a football game . . . only to stop dead in my tracks. Of all the tens of thousands of people here, I had to be eavesdropping on Ellingsworth’s perfect family. His father continues to give the little girl beside him a play-by-play of the game while I stand flabbergasted.

His father isn’t deaf or hard of hearing, that much I am pretty sure of. Not because I’ve seen him talk in a segment of Ellingsworth’s documentary, but because his mouth is moving with his hands as if he is talking as well—which is usually a telltale. The girl studies his hands intently, not even looking at his lips. I have no way of knowing if she is only hard of hearing or entirely without sound since the roar of the crowd would make it nearly impossible for her to listen and supplement with lip reading. Either way, I’m shocked to my core that I managed to find ASL in this crowd and that it just happens to be his family.

Tipping my head far back, I groan—and cough—at the sky. Why? Why me? Why them? Why him ?

Well, it changes nothing. Really. The information doesn’t make me suddenly like Ellingsworth or want to be his friend or want to meet up with him after practice tomorrow. Hell, I don’t want to meet with him during practice. I’d be perfectly fine if he got traded to another team far, far away. He won’t be, of course. He still has the rest of this season on his draft contract, so unfortunately, he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Still, a man can dream.

I collapse on the sideline bench, numbly watching the rest of the game. My body hurts, exhaustion fills my bones, and I want nothing more than to be at home in my bed—even if my feet hang off the end and the springs dig into my back. I’m just . . . so tired. And sick. And thinking about that vegetable stew from this morning. I guess it was . . . nice of Ellingsworth to bring me some.

Ugh, my fever must be coming back if I’m actually delusional enough to think he was being nice for any reason other than to make himself look good. He probably made sure to announce to all our teammates at dinner that poor Avery was too sick to get his own food, so he was getting some for me. It’ll probably end up in his next documentary under the charity section or some shit.

It’s neck and neck until the fourth quarter, where we pull ahead with two touchdowns. We win our first game of the regular season with me sick on the bench, and I want nothing more than to be on the field celebrating with my teammates.

I watch my teammates hug each other—hug stupid, perfect Ellingsworth—and I realize I want to be a part of it. I’m not a hugger, haven’t been since the foster homes banned us from holding each other, but in this moment, I want it.

But does Ellingsworth really have to be a part of it?