Matchup (Playing the Field #3)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH

“Wait, wait, wait. Stop the clock.” Aleks whistles and makes the hand signal for a time-out. We’re sitting on opposite ends of my living room couch, our bodies turned to face each other. An array of snacks is spread between us, and the messy eater that is my best friend has already managed to get Cheetos dust on my white couch. “Sour brought you homemade soup yesterday? As in, not only did he bother to check in on you, but he cooked food just for you?” He snaps his head around the room, eyes wide. “Am I being pranked right now?”

I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “No, you aren’t being pranked.”

He shoves a handful of Cheetos in his mouth, talking around them. “Then I’m dreaming and can eat as many of these delicious snacks as I want without repercussions.”

“Your love handles don’t seem to mind.”

Aleks gasps and frantically pats down his sides, waist, and hips. When he realizes I’m just giving him a hard time, he narrows his eyes on me menacingly. “You aren’t funny.”

“Avery thinks I’m funny,” I singsong. Part of me wants to say fuck it and call him Rix, as a friend would, but another piece of me selfishly wants to hoard the nickname for myself, the same way a dragon does with its sacred treasures. I’m choosing to agree with my internal dragon. “I made him laugh,” I declare, proud and smug, chin a little higher. “He laughed so hard he had tears.”

“You’re fucking lying.”

“Nope.” I pop the P , still grinning ear to ear because I did that. I got through to him, and I made him open up—made him let down his guard and laugh. I’m damn proud of it.

Aleks gapes at me, orange tongue fully exposed. “How the hell did you manage that?”

Now, my smile falls into a grimace as I recall the story that cracked his stone exterior. My stomach rolls at just the thought. “I told him the app”—gag—“about the st-rawberry apple—” I break off with a stifled dry heave.

“Ew,” Aleks complains, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Yeah, the applesauce story. Got it. That actually made him laugh? I can’t believe he let you get through the whole thing without telling you to stop. You have a serious gagging problem when it comes to applesauce.”

“I can’t help it!” I exclaim because he always talks shit about my queasy stomach. It got old after the fifteenth time, but have I ever gotten revenge? No. Today, though, I am. “At least I don’t gag hard enough to puke while giving head.”

“That was one time! Okay, two. But not in a few years.” He falls back against the cushions with a look of dismay. “I can’t believe you brought that up. I told you in confidence.”

“And I told you about the applesauce in confidence.”

“You have literally told everyone we have ever met.”

“Whatever.” I cross my arms.

“Aw, you pouting now?”

“Shut up.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll shut up, but only if you tell me how the rest of your bonding sesh with Sour went.”

I shrug and pick at fingernails in my lap, an act of nonchalance even though what happened next still has me blushing when I think about it. “I was sick, so it’s kind of a blur . . .” I try to downplay the whole thing. “We agreed to be friends . . . and then . . . Ifellasleepontopofhim.”

Silence fills the room, so heavy that I swear I can hear Aleks blinking at me in shock. “. . . I’m sorry. You what?”

“It’s a long story,” I sigh. It really isn’t, but what Hendrix told me is his personal business, and I won’t gossip about it. “But basically, I went to hug him while he was lying down, and then I fell asleep while hugging him. He, uh, fell asleep, too.”

And that is the most confusing part. For someone like Hendrix, who says he doesn’t even like high fives, letting me cuddle against him while I slept was unexpected. I’m a touchy-feely guy, and that cuddling session was more than I’d usually do with just a friend. I will snuggle with a guy or girl I like more than a friend, though. That information has my mind reeling because there is no way I like like Hendrix. The guy hated me up until yesterday, and he might hate me again once he makes some other friends he likes better.

“You and I could cuddle—I mean, hug like that, right?” I ask Aleks before he can recover his voice, disbelief still clear on his face. “It wouldn’t be weird, would it?”

Aleks considers the question before answering in the brutally honest way he always does. “I’d probably pop a stiffy.”

I throw a pillow at him, which he catches, of course. “Dude!”

“I’m serious! You’re hot; I’m hot. You’re bi; I’m gay. Hey! Is Sour gay? Why else would he let you snuggle with him? And he kissed me.” Aleks sits up, clutching the pastel blue throw pillow in his orange-dusted hands. Excitement has his dark eyes shining, and his face lights up like a kid in a candy shop. The guy is so gorgeous that I wonder, not for the first time, how he and I never felt more for each other than friendship. Then he opens his mouth again, and I realize exactly why. “Did he pop a boner? Is he big? I get serious BDE vibes from him.”

“No! I don’t know. You can’t ask me these questions, Kiss. Hendrix and I are just almost-friends, okay?”

“So, he’s straight? He kissed me,” he points out as if either of us has forgotten what happened the night of that first away game in Denver.

“Everyone has kissed you,” I snort under my breath.

Aleks hears but isn’t discouraged by my jab. “True. Everyone wants a kiss from Kiss.”

My face falls into a dramatic deadpan. “Dude. That was seriously bad.” We both chuckle about his horrible joke, and when we’re done, he goes right back to talking about Hendrix. Which, okay, I get it, but the more questions Aleks asks me, the more I realize I have no idea how this whole friendship thing with Hendrix is supposed to work.

“So,” Aleks asks between sucking Cheeto dust off his fingers. “Did you invite him to the after-party on Sunday?”

I give him a pointed look. “The tentative after-party?”

He shrugs. “We’re going to party whether we win or lose. Plus, I’m thinking of inviting some of the Treasures players. The cool, queer ones.”

“And when were you going to tell me about these extra people?” Considering you are going to be inviting them to my house , I silently add. It’s not that I particularly care if some of the Treasures have my address, but it’s the principle behind asking before giving out my personal information.

“Um, when they showed up at the door?” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

“I—” Do I want to try and explain it when he probably won’t see the difference anyway? I sigh and shake my head, relenting. “I don’t. It’s fine.”

“Great.” He carries on undeterred. “With more guys in the League coming out, I have been thinking we should do something after every home game and invite any allies who want to come. Like a queer night.”

“Inclusive night,” I quickly suggest instead. “We don’t want to make it sound as if we don’t want someone there just because they’re straight. You had it right with the ally thing.”

And, as Aleks does, he moves on just as quickly as he got there. “We should definitely make sure Sour comes to the inclusive party. Maybe he’s looking for a chance to come out to us.”

I roll my eyes, confused as to why it is so important what Hendrix’s sexuality is. Yes, a part of me wants to know because him letting me fall asleep on him, and him falling asleep in return, was strange, but at the same time, it’s his choice if he tells us or not. For now, I’m content with the knowledge we are friends and that the cuddling was a one-off due to my being sick.

“So, did you invite him?” Aleks demands to know.

“I . . .” We hadn’t gotten that far before . . .

“What, sleep-gate get in the way?”

“Do not call it that!” I hiss, feeling my eyes go wide.

“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck?—”

“You’re just a fucking horndog.”

“This is true,” he acknowledges, then points at my face. “And you’re avoiding the topic. Did. You. Invite. Him?”

“I didn’t get around to it,” I confess with reluctance.

Aleks just stares at me.

“What?”

His eyes widen, and he gestures at my phone on the table. “Well, what are you waiting for? Do it now.” When I don’t move, Aleks gives me a wtf look.

I shrug. “I don’t have his number.” We also hadn’t gotten around to that before we fell asleep, and it’s not like I could have asked him after the fact because . . . “He left before I woke up, so I never got around to asking to exchange numbers.”

“He ghosted you?” Aleks makes a sympathetic noise. “That’s rough, dude.”

I feel my face fall in disbelief. “No! He didn’t ghost me. He just . . . left before the sun came up without waking me, or giving me his number or address or a way to contact him, and— Oh my God, did I get ghosted last night?”

Aleks smacks his teeth, sucking in air, his expression nonverbally telling me that I did.

“No, no,” I interject before he can. “We’re going to see each other at practice tomorrow. Everything is fine. We’re friends now.”

My best friend remains silent with his lips rolled between his teeth as if trying to keep his opinion to himself.

“It’ll be fine, right?”

Silence.

“ Right ?”

? ? ?

As it turns out, it is possible to be ignored by someone who literally lines up helmet to helmet with you during football practice. Hendrix has somehow managed to ignore me all week, no matter what I say or do, and I hate to admit that it hurts.

I’ve tried to catch him before and after practice, but the guy has mastered the art of avoidance. Even with Aleks helping me, we haven’t been able to corner him. I can’t figure out where exactly it went wrong—he could have easily pushed me off after I fell asleep—but he clearly seems to think it did.

I’d love to say it didn’t affect my gameplay this afternoon, but I’d be lying. I was semi-distracted during the first half, came back from halftime ready to focus, looked—as I always do—for my family in the stadium seats . . . and immediately knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on the game one bit after that.

Because sitting with my parents and sister was a petite man with bright, ruby-red hair cut shaggy just above his narrow shoulders. The color matched the jersey he was wearing—the one with a giant number thirteen on it—and even though we were two weeks into the regular season, I knew the rookies had yet to get general sales jerseys. The guy turned, brandishing the stark white letters spelling AVERY, which meant that man was Hendrix’s plus-one, and he was wearing Rix’s personal jersey.

For the rest of the game, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if that guy was Hendrix’s friend . . . or boyfriend. If he was the latter, it would explain Hendrix’s silence after I cuddled him. It also meant I’d disrespected their relationship. Well, I hadn’t intentionally, and there was nothing sexual or romantic about the cuddling, but would his partner see it that way? Was guilt eating Hendrix alive for possibly betraying his boyfriend’s trust?

Aaaand that was how I missed a pick. The ball had been in my hands!

Fast-forward to now, at an early dinner with my parents after the game, and I can’t hold it in any longer. I interrupt my mom consoling me about today’s loss. “Who was that guy,” I blurt. “He was sitting with y’all after halftime? Red hair?”

Mom gives me a weird look. At fifty, she is still beautiful, though some of it can be attributed to minor corrective surgery. Her Botox is for migraines, but the high cheekbones and strong jawline are all her. Both of my adoptive parents have fair skin, a stark contrast to mine, but sometimes I look at my mom’s sky-blue eyes and pretend mine came from her—not from the birth parents who didn’t want me, who left me outside a fire station on Third Street in downtown Austin when I was five weeks old. “I knew who you were talking about before you clarified about the hair, sweetie,” she snickers lightly. “You okay? It was a hard loss.”

“I’m fine.” Or I will be once you answer my question , I add silently while drumming my fingers on the side of my sweet tea glass. “So, the guy?”

“Well, he was there by himself.” She looks at my dad, who nods along with her. “It was his first time at a professional game, and—bless his heart—he didn’t know the first thing about football. We offered to let him sit with us so your dad could teach him the basics. He was great with Willow, too. Even knew some sign language.”

I wait for more, but she doesn’t continue. “But who was he? Do you know who he was there for?”

“Oh! Well, his name is Micah. He graduated earlier this year with a graphic arts degree—he’s starting his own business, isn’t that adorable?—and he was there to watch . . . um, a newer player. Just started this year . . . Who was it? A wide receiver.”

My knee bounces so hard the table shakes, and I just can’t take it anymore. “Avery? Number thirteen?”

Dad snaps his fingers in an “aha” moment. “That’s it. Said he went to every one of Avery’s games in college. Isn’t that sweet?”

“He didn’t know about your party tonight, though,” Mom adds. “He said Avery tends to keep to himself and probably didn’t realize there was one, so we invited him for you. I hope that’s okay?”

I choke on my drink, and it causes a big enough stir that Willow looks up from her coloring. She signs something, and I have to look at my parents for the translation.

Dad is helpful, explaining the hand gestures and what they mean. “She asked if you’re okay.”

“How do I tell her I’m fine?” I bite my lip to try and tamp down the embarrassed warmth spreading across my cheeks—even press my cool hands to them to help. When my parents adopted Willow, I was already in my freshman year of college and promised Mom that between my studies and football, I would find time to learn ASL. Willow was three at the time. She’s eight now.

Dad assists me as I struggle to communicate with Willow while Mom watches, her lips in a thin line and disappointment clouding her eyes.

Yeah, this fuckup is on me.

My dad is a lot more understanding. As a businessman, he knows life can get in the way of personal goals. It was only after the incident during my freshman year of college that he stepped down from the helm of his empire to spend more time at home with Willow and Mom.

Where I can try to pretend my eyes came from my adoptive mother, nothing about my dad can link him to me. He’s pale, platinum blond, and has greenish-hazel eyes. Even so, I’ve never, ever thought of my parents as anything other than family.

And Willow? She’s been my sister since the moment Mom and Dad brought her home.

The truth is, I haven’t been the best brother—I haven’t even learned how to properly communicate with her, for Christ’s sake.

“ I’ll learn ,” I tell Willow. I know these particular signs by heart after using them so often, but this time, I mean them for real. Willow takes my proffered pinky with hers, and we exchange small smiles.

“Maybe that nice boy Micah can teach you tonight.” Mom puts in her two cents in that Southern way that isn’t technically rude but not necessarily nice either. It’s a fine line—one she has long since mastered, especially when it comes to this specific situation.

My stomach drops at the thought of asking Hendrix’s friend—probably boyfriend—to teach me how to talk to my own sister, and it doesn’t return throughout the rest of dinner.

Only once I’m back at my home with snacks galore spread across the kitchen countertops and teammates filling the downstairs rooms do I start to feel a little better. It’s dark out, my backyard and pool are all lit up, someone has started the outdoor grill, and softly bumping music fills the air. It’ll get louder and raunchier as the night goes on and the drinks get stronger, but for now, it’s just a chill vibe. Some guys are taking advantage of the in-ground pool and connecting hot tub, and I’m considering joining them when two people step into the backyard.

One is glowing—bright smile, fire-engine red hair, and a sparkly burgundy top that most definitely pings my queerdar.

The other is scowling, his face just as stormy as his dark grey eyes. He’s in a simple pair of ripped jeans, a black V-neck, and an unbuttoned monochrome flannel. His sneakers are old and worn, and I can’t help but think a pair of nice boots would complement the outfit well. I’m not sure he or his maybe-boyfriend would appreciate my input on his outfit, though.

I clear my throat, interrupting whatever Aleks is saying. “Hey.” I clap my friend on the shoulder without looking away from Hendrix. “I’ll be back.” Crossing the yard with one destination in mind, I keep my eye on Hendrix’s grumpy scowl and his companion’s awed expression.

The red-haired guy—Micah—looks around my home with wide hazel eyes, his mouth falling open to gape. I swear his gaze lingers longer than it should on the shirtless guys in the pool. Well, I guess it’s only too long if he and Hendrix are, in fact, together. But as Micah grips Hendrix’s arm with two hands and practically climbs him like a tree, I have a feeling my assumption is correct.

Shit. I need to apologize to Hendrix. Make amends for the other night.

Micah’s eyes get impossibly wider as I stop in front of them. “You— You’re?—”

He seems to be tongue-tied—I have met plenty of fans who react the same way—so I stick out my hand and offer the best smile I can manage. “I’m Tahegin. Welcome to my house. I heard your name is Micah, right?”

At his maximum five-foot-four height, I am standing nearly a foot taller than Micah, so I clearly see the blush that settles over his cheeks and across the exposed portion of his chest as he takes my hand. “Tahegin Ellingsworth knows my name,” he breathes, and I don’t think I’m supposed to hear him.

When it’s clear Micah doesn’t plan on letting me go anytime soon, Hendrix places a hand on the back of Micah’s neck and pulls him away from me. “I’m a professional football player, too, you know,” he grouses. “And I know way more than just your name.”

Was that an innuendo?

My stomach turns to lead, and my dinner threatens to make a second appearance. I really need to make things right with Hendrix. “Micah, do you mind if I steal R—uh, Hendrix for a minute or two? I promise to return him to you soon.”

“Introduce me to Ezekiel Aleks first, and you can have Rix as long as you want him.” Micah eyes my best friend standing near the grill.

I chuckle because it feels like the appropriate response, but his words are a tad confusing for a guy in a relationship. Still, it could just be a harmless joke—like maybe he’s a fan. Except . . . my parents said he doesn’t know anything about football. But he went to all of Hendrix’s football games, so how does he not know?

“Micah.” Hendrix used his hold on the back of his companion’s neck to tug him in close—closer than I have seen him with anyone else on the team. “Behave.” The command is a low growl, and the way my blood rushes south in response is downright sinful.

“I will, I will,” Micah assures before shimmying away, not waiting for an introduction to join Aleks’ group at the grill.

Hendrix has to pull me from observing Micah by asking, “What?”

I look at him, taking in his crossed arms and no-nonsense expression. “Can we talk?” I glance around the crowded yard before adding, “Privately.”

His hands disappear in the pockets of his jeans, and he shrugs, not offering a word.

“Follow me?”

A nod.

Jesus, I forgot how silent and rigid Hendrix can be.

I intend to just step inside my living room, but it seems Aleks made good on his idea to invite some of the Treasures. They fill my downstairs level, so I try the second floor, chancing a look behind me to ensure Hendrix is still following. Upstairs, some of the Rubies have taken over my gaming area, and I have no other choice than to bring him into my bedroom.

It seems kind of counterproductive to add to the already tenuous situation from last week, but it is my only option at the moment. I need to get this off my chest.

Hendrix steps inside, and I gently pull the door closed. The music from downstairs becomes muffled, the air inside the room suddenly stifling.

How do I say this?

“Uh . . . So . . .”

He stares at me with that deadpan expression he is so good at.

I take a deep, steadying breath and then blurt, “I am so sorry for hugging you while lying down, which made it seem like cuddling, and then falling asleep on you. I know it was purely platonic for both of us, but it was—unintentionally—disrespectful to your boyfriend. I totally understand why you’ve been distant. I just hope I haven’t ruined our potential friendship.”