7. Hayden
Chapter 7
Hayden
Surprising the hell out of me, Pope appears in my AT room just minutes after everyone has gotten off the bus. It’s been a long night, the team going straight from the game to the airport to the bus to the arena where everyone’s vehicles are parked. Most guys left right away, only a few needing to come inside for something. I figured Pope would be one of the first out of here. Even if he did stick around for a minute, I definitely didn’t think he’d come to me. Not after what he said during the game, making it perfectly clear he wants me to leave him the fuck alone.
“What can I do for you?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible.
Pope’s eyes are locked on one of the posters hung up on the wall, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I stare at the Red Sox symbol on the back of his cap to keep my ridiculous gay ass from trying to check him out in the sinful material. Why does it have to be gray sweatpants? And why always the backward ball caps? Can’t he just go easy on me, for fuck’s sake?
At least he isn’t sporting the rare smile that shows off those dimples of his.
Thank God for small mercies, right?
“Coach told me to come see you,” he informs me, sounding extremely unenthused about it. “He wants my nose looked at again, just to be sure. Guess it’s pretty swollen.”
“I can do that.” I walk over to him, grabbing a pair of rubber gloves as I go. He has a gash on the bridge of his nose that I’d like to keep clean. “Here, turn for me so I can see it in the light.”
He hesitates for a moment before turning, his eyes fixing on the collar of my shirt. I’ve never hesitated when touching a player before. Consent is a big deal for me and my players, but that’s why I establish trust early and make it clear that they have to vocalize any issues. As a trainer, I have to be able to grab them and assess their injuries, especially when they’re unconscious or when there’s not enough time to check with them because of the severity of the injury.
For some reason, despite him coming here solely to be checked by me, I find myself freezing with my hands framing the air around his face. He finally looks at me, the green of his eyes unnaturally bright beneath the direct light. His lips twitch toward a frown. “What? What’s wrong? Is it bad?”
“No. No, it’s—” I swallow hard, telling myself to get my shit together and be a professional. This is clearly just Ian’s previous accusation getting in my head. I mean, Pope is definitely an attractive man and I’m worried about his well-being, so he’s often on my mind these days, but it’s nothing more than that. Even if he does swagger around in sinful sweatpants and backward caps. “It’s swelling more than I expected, you’re right, but it still doesn’t seem broken. Let me just look closer.”
He tips his chin to acknowledge my words, eyes still locked on me. I slip into my professional persona and get to work. My mind fills with diagrams and symptoms, my fingers gingerly mapping out the blooming bruises and swollen bridge. It’s a relief to find that mindset. As a man who thrives on control, I wasn’t enjoying that little bout of unapproved desire there.
“Still no breathing issues?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“How’s the pain when I do this?” I ask, prodding his nose with a featherlight touch.
He doesn’t show any sign of pain, even though there’s no way it isn’t at least a little painful. “Nothing crazy. I’ve had my nose broken before. It’s not anywhere near that.”
“Good. It’s not crooked, either. No shifting cartilage when I push on it. I’m fairly certain it’s fine. I want you to ice it—ten minutes on, ten minutes off. Do that for at least sixty minutes tonight before bed. Sleep with your head elevated. You can take ibuprofen to help ease the swelling and pain. If you get a fever, feel—”
“—feel a growth in pain, have any clear discharge or severe bleeding, or start struggling to breathe, go to the hospital.”
I smirk. “Been through this a few times, huh?”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “A few.”
“So, the fighting is usual for you?”
He looks away, shrugging again. “Does it matter?”
“It just seemed like it was a pretty dramatic response.” When he says nothing, I press him a little more. “Did something happen before the game? I noticed you seemed agitated in the dressing room beforehand.”
“Always noticing,” he mutters, somehow making the words sound both exhausted and enraged. “Always fucking watching. Didn’t I tell you to stop that?”
Before I can figure out a way to respond without pissing him off further, a voice behind us booms, “Yo, Pope!”
Pope holds my gaze for a moment, something shifting in his eyes. Then he turns his chin to look at whoever interrupted. He smiles, but it’s fake. Why can’t anyone else see that it’s fake? “Sup?”
“If you want a ride, we need to leave now. That girl, Caroline, just texted me with an invite to come over.” I glance over in time to see Jules doing a ridiculous eyebrow waggle at his friend. “I ain’t turning that down.”
Pope laughs. It’s more convincing than his smile was. “I’ll figure something out. Go get laid.”
“You’re the fucking best, man. I owe you,” he yells, already hurrying away.
I awkwardly clear my throat as Pope looks back at me. Any annoyance he had before is gone, replaced with exhaustion and weariness. It’s as if the weight of the world is pulling down on his shoulders. Words sort of tumble right out of my mouth at the sight. “I’ll give you a ride.”
He immediately bristles, taking a step back. “Why? So you can ask me more questions?”
“Pope.” I sigh, knowing I’ve fucked up and not sure how to fix it. “You’re one of my players. I care about my players.”
“Up until this nose, I didn’t need you to fucking care.”
“Really? Because the first time we met, you were coping with anxiety and sleep issues.”
It’s like a flip switches, his features going blank as his defensive walls drop into place. His eyes are dead when he looks into mine. “It was right before my first game as a professional player. Of course I was fucked up over it. I’m fine now.”
There’s that word again—fine. I don’t dare point it out. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks, his eyebrows pulling together.
“Okay, I believe you.” It’s a lie, but I don’t feel too bad about it considering he’s lying too. “Come on. Let’s get you home. You’ve got a nose to ice.”
He eyes me, clearly unsure. Then he asks, “What was in that smoothie you made me?”
The question is so random that my mind blanks for a moment. Then I remember that Jules had said Pope was sick while we were away. When Pope had refused anything to help, I snuck a smoothie into his stall while he showered.
“Uh, banana, spinach, an orange, some ginger, honey, little bit of vanilla, a dash of vitamin C supplement. I would have added some cayenne, but you didn’t sound stuffy.” I shrug when he just stares at me. “It’s my grandma’s recipe. I hated it as a kid—who the hell wants to drink a nasty green smoothie with spinach in it, right?—but it fucking works. Kicks colds right in the ass, especially if you catch them early. Doesn’t taste too bad either. At least, I hope it didn’t?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head.
Then he smiles. It’s small, almost fragile, but genuine. Finally . Something in my chest ignites at the sight of it.
“It was good. Definitely better than nasty cherry juice.” He gives me a pointed look that makes me grin. “And it cleared me right up. I felt great today. Thank you.”
“Anytime, Pope,” I assure him. “It’s what I’m here for. Use me, okay?”
Something passes over his face before his smile returns. It’s a forced one again. It feels like such a loss that my chest aches from it.
We don’t talk as I lock up the room, or as we walk through the facility and to my car. He asks if I need the address, and I tell him I know where the apartment complex is that most of the players stay in. With a nod, he falls silent again. We don’t talk for the seven-minute drive.
I know he doesn’t want to hear from me, but I can’t help but speak up when I pull into the apartment’s lot and shift into park. He looks over at me, eyes wide like he’s just waiting for me to deliver a blow. I hate that. I don’t know how to help him without triggering that reaction, and I hate that even more.
“You’re off tomorrow,” I say carefully. Ian decided to do a complete off-day instead of a lighter practice like he normally would. He wants to give them a break after the back-to-back away games. “Make sure you get a lot of rest, okay?”
He slowly nods, like he doesn’t believe that’s it. I want him to stop watching me like that. I want his sarcasm and dry humor back. Hell, I’d even take the anger back.
Then I realize I have just the thing. I reach into the backseat, shooting him a mischievous grin as he watches me in confusion. When I right myself and hold up my treasure, he groans. “Nooo.”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t you tortured me enough?”
“Not nearly.” I shake the bottle at him, tart cherry juice sloshing against the sides. “Come on, Mr. Tough Guy. Take your juice like a good boy.”
He narrows his eyes on me before snagging it with a pout. “I won’t drink it. This is a total waste.”
“Sure.” I smile. “Whatever you say.”
His teeth skate over his bottom lip, eyes still narrowed. This time they’re not narrowed out of annoyance. They’re calculating. Like he’s studying me. Just in case he’s trying to decide something important, like if I’m trustworthy with his secrets, I keep myself still and wide open for him. He takes his time, so I let myself study him a little in return. Even in the shadows of the night, I can see the bruising around his nose and the cut on his temple. I can see the bags under his eyes. I can see the sharp jaw I want to run my—
“Will you stop now?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s not referring to my train of thoughts. He’s referring to what he demanded of me at the game. “I can’t leave you alone. It’s literally my job.”
His jaw twitches as he turns his face away from me. “Then keep things physical. Stop worrying about my emotions or how I’m acting or if I’m picking fights for some mysterious reason. None of that is your job.”
He’s not wrong, but he’s not entirely right either. Still, if this is the line he’d like to draw, I’m willing to respect it. Or at least willing to try to.
“Fine. We’ll keep things physical.”
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath before grabbing the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
“And the juice?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
He doesn’t look back at me, but his huff isn’t entirely angry. “Nice try, but no.”
“Goodnight, Pope,” I say while fighting a smile.
He pauses, only one leg out of the vehicle. Then he looks over his shoulder at me, green eyes dark and full of emotions I’m no longer allowed to analyze. “Yeah. Goodnight.”
I’ve just gotten into my pajamas when my phone buzzes. I frown, not sure who would be texting me so late—or early, at this point. The phone buzzes again just as I’m about to swipe my thumb over the screen, lighting it up with the new notification. It’s an unknown number, my frown deepening with confusion.
The frown curves into a smile when the text thread opens. The first message is a picture of an empty bottle of tart cherry juice. The second message is a single word: Happy?
Pope.
I feel giddy, which is both ridiculous and dangerous, considering the way I got lost watching him in the car, letting myself think about doing very dangerous things with him. It’s beyond inappropriate. The whole thing. It’s bordering on fucking obsession. I tell myself it’s because I’m concerned with his well-being, but the denial feels a little fragile.
Or maybe a lot fragile.
None of this stops me from responding to the texts.
Me: Not as happy as your body must be, but happy enough.
I follow it up with another.
Me: How’d you get my number?
Pope: It’s on the updated staff sheet Coach sent out for emergencies.
I smirk.
Me: Are you having an emergency, Pope?
Pope: My tastebuds are.
That gets me to laugh out loud, the sound surprising even myself.
Me: What’s worse—the juice or the ice baths?
Pope: I refuse to choose.
Me: You should be sleeping. Didn’t I tell you to rest?
Pope: You’re wicked bossy. Has anyone ever told you that?
Yes. Often. Usually my boyfriends. When I care about someone, I get very… hands-on regarding their care. Some guys absolutely love it. Others, not so much. I have a feeling that Pope would be in the latter. That doesn’t make me want to try any less, though.
Me: Nope, never.
Pope: Oh, so we’re lying to each other, are we? I wasn’t aware we did that. What did you say that first time we met? We’re a team? No secrets between us?
Something complicated twists in my stomach at the reminder of our first conversation. It only gets worse when I think about our conversation tonight. He’s hiding things from me. From everyone, I think. I’m not entirely sure he’s ever outright lied to me, but he hasn’t told me his truth either. This man is keeping secrets.
I take a chance.
Me: I’ll tell you my secrets when you start telling me yours.
I wait with my heart in my throat for his response.
But it never comes.