4. Griffin
CHAPTER 4
GRIFFIN
Today is our first official game against the Salem Spitfires.
It was a six hour flight on one of the most uncomfortable airlines I’ve ever had the displeasure of flying. The only upside was sitting beside Riley and getting lulled to sleep by the deep timbre of his voice as he read aloud from some post-apocalyptic novel about zombies.
Room assignments had me initially with Cap, but Riley finagled him into switching me and the rookie who never stops talking Riley’s ear off about his time in the NAPH. Which—if the little turd would pay attention—is a sore spot for Riley.
We’re all dressed up in our suits and have about fifteen minutes to meet downstairs to board the bus—that is, everyone except for Riley.
I bang on the bathroom door as I adjust my tie for the millionth time. I’m a pro after doing this for so long, but that doesn’t make it feel any less stuffy.
“Easton! We’re gonna be late.”
“I’m almost done,” comes his muffled voice through the door along with the sound of running water.
“You’ve been showering for half an hour. How dirty can you be? Do you have a pre-game nut ritual or something? If you aren’t out in five minutes, I’m heading down without you.”
Riley is usually the team’s mother hen, and I expected him to be the one rushing me around all day.
Something clatters inside the bathroom, and I rap my knuckles on the door again.
“Seriously, Riles. You okay?”
He curses, sputters, and when I try the handle it gives straight away.
Riley standing over the sink in nothing but his underwear, water dripping down his chest and back from his soaked hair isn’t much different than what I expected to see. It’s the fact that his naturally bright, copper hair is now nearly white that catches me by surprise.
I’m not sure if I should be more concerned about that or that for whatever reason he had to have his mid-life crisis moments before our first game.
He drags a hand towel over his eyes, then pushes it into his hair and straightens. The smile he throws my way is tight and hesitant, but it brightens after he fully takes me in.
“Frat boy cleans up good.”
I roll my eyes hard, but my own smile twitches in response. Ever since I made the joke about looking like a frat boy, it’s become Riley’s favorite teasing comment to make.
“One of us has to. You haven’t even started getting dressed yet. Where’s your suit?”
He motions to the back of the door, so I grab the trousers and thrust them at him. “Your legs are dry. Throw those on.”
While he does that, I scrub the towel through his hair and down his shoulders. Thank god for hotel blow dryers, because if he soaks his suit, Coach will have both of our asses. Don’t ask why he’d blame me, that’s just how this shit seems to go.
We work in quiet tandem until it’s time to knot his tie and he takes it from my hurried hands.
“I’ve got it, Griff. Thanks.” The words are quiet but sincere, and I can’t stay mad at him even if we have to kick our asses into gear to get downstairs.
“This couldn’t have waited until after the game?” I reach up to comb my fingers through his hair, setting it back into some semblance of its natural mess.
“Nope. I meant to do it last night, but…”
But we were tired as shit from the plane and fell asleep watching some satirical comedy film that I honestly couldn’t tell you the plot of.
“Tell me this isn’t your pre-game ritual. I do not want to have a heart attack before every game, but I'm also pretty sure this shit is bad for your hair.”
Riley chuckles and steps back, adjusting the tie one last time and inspecting himself in the mirror. He looks uncertain, nervous.
“No. Just before the first game of the season. A silly superstition.”
“You said it, not me.”
He glances over at me, and there goes my stomach rolling over on itself because of the soft look he fixes me with.
“It started when I went on my first date with…” His breath catches, and he clears it, bringing his gaze back to the mirror. “I don’t know why I did it. But things went so well, we were so fucking happy that I… I kept up with it. Re-dyed it before any important game or event. It became my good luck charm. After Matty’s accident, I thought it’d make me feel better, more confident that he’d be okay, but…”
He shakes his head and turns to me. “I can’t shake it. Everyone has their superstitions, right?”
I nod, and even though I want to ask him a million questions, I keep my mouth shut. Anytime I’ve asked him about Matty, he clams up or gives me pleading stares like he wants to talk but can’t. So whenever he’s able to open up about the mystery roommate who came before me, I let him get it off his chest with no pressure to give me more.
“What’s yours?” he asks as we head out toward the elevators.
“Oh, nothing special,” I say. “Just go to the captain and give him a big ole’ sloppy good luck kiss.” I wink when I catch him staring, and though he shakes his head with laughter, I see the pink tinting his cheeks.
When the door closes behind us, we stand shoulder to shoulder with Riley a solid head taller than me. He nudges me, and that good-humored smile is so damn contagious.
“Warning. Cap might throw some tongue in there. Be prepared.”
I clasp a hand over my heart. “Oh no! A hot guy might tongue-fuck my mouth. What ever will I do?”
He snorts and drags a heavy hand through my hair. I think it’s supposed to be one of those quick, mess it up movements, but it feels more tender and lingers as he scratches his fingers over my scalp.
“You think he’s hot?”
“Hawks? Not my type, but yeah, he’s attractive as hell.”
“Hm.” He drops his hand away and stuffs them both in his pockets. “What’s your type then?”
I side-eye him, wondering if I’m being teased, but the curiosity in his eyes is unmistakable.
“Someone who can throw me around. Manhandle me a little.”
The intensity of his stare is almost too much, but we’re about to the lobby and I can escape the weight of my confession.
Until Riley leans over and presses the hold button, trapping us on the floor just above.
“Riles?”
I watch him take a deep breath and close his eyes. A few beats of silence, and then he’s right there, boxing me into the corner of the elevator.
“Damn you, Griff,” he whispers and cups my jaw in one of his large hands, pressing a ghost of a kiss to my parted lips. It’s there and gone before I can even take a breath, before the synapses in my brain register that Riley Easton just kissed me.
The elevator is moving and the doors are opening by the time I shake off the shock. I don’t know what to think about it. I’ve pictured kissing Riley any number of times over the last few months, but a secret peck on the lips before a game wasn’t exactly one of those scenarios.
Not that I’m complaining.
I don’t bring it up, but there are a few times on the bus and in the locker room that I catch him watching me with a satisfied, smug grin.
So, I make sure he gets a good eye-full of me placing a wet one on Hawks’ mouth just before we take the ice.
The heated look I get in return only oils my gears for the match.
Game on, Spitfires.
We kicked motherfucking ass. 4-0 because not a single player on that team could get one past me.
Hawks decides once everything is wrapped up and we’re free men that we’re going to taxi our way to Boston to some glow in the dark style club he heard about.
One day these guys will pick something normal for a celebration, but there’s booze and half naked men, so I’m down for some fun.
We all lose our shirts and are given little containers of glow in the dark paint that clips onto our jeans. There’s bodies dancing and roaming covered in colored streaks and fingertips. It’s actually really fucking cool, and Hawks looks smug as hell as a few of us make our way to the bar.
“Do you think they make edible versions of this?” I ask as we settle on two of the stools to wait for our drinks. “Asking for a friend.”
Hawks cackles and slaps me on the back. “It says non-toxic right on the label. Go to the bathrooms and give it a whirl.”
I like that the guys can joke with me and not make jabs at me.
A tray of drinks is placed in front of us, and Hawks offers to pay the tab while I carry it over to the booth some of the guys have occupied. Some have already ran off to dance or hook up, but our little motley crew we’ve assembled remain.
I slide over Rory and Mashburn’s drinks, putting Hawks’ at the empty space on the table and slapping Riley’s down in front of him with a grin.
“One cum shot for Easton for getting a motherfucking hat trick at our very first game.”
He doesn’t hesitate to bring the glass to his lips—much bigger than a shot—and gulps half of it down in one go. When he sets it down, there’s stray flecks of white on his beard and stash that does something to the excitement simmering in my gut.
I take up the space beside him with my beer—one I know I’ll be nursing most of the night—and he doesn’t bat an eye at how I start flicking my fingers through his hair.
“One hell of a good luck charm, isn’t it?”
Rory leans across the table to join in on the petting, and soon the three of us are laughing as Riley tries to slink away under the table. Mashburn is able to pull Rory back into his seat, and I let my fingers drift down Riley’s neck as we catch our breaths.
Hawks appears at the table head, sliding into the open seat across from me and snorts on his laughter. “Back to this, are we?”
Riley kicks him under the table, and I scooch enough to stay out of the danger zone.
“Felt like it was time,” he says with a decisive nod. “Plus we needed it after that humiliation last season.”
I can’t say that I’ve ever kept up with the Hornets position in the league, but from what I’ve heard in the locker room they got annihilated badly.
“Well thank fuck.” Hawks raises his glass and clinks it against Riley’s. “You keep playing like that and the Rippers might call you up to them and keep you.”
Riley’s jaw tenses, but he puts on a smile that looks forced. Hawks doesn’t question him on it, though, just starts up a jovial conversation with the rest of the team.
I watch as Riley finishes his drink, swiping at his beard to catch the remnants. He looks like he’s ready to crawl out of his skin, so I slide out of the booth and motion toward the throng of bodies on the other side of the bar.
He shakes his head hard, but I drag him to his feet anyway. “I’m not going to make you dance. Just loosen up.”
I grab us a couple shots from the bar that we quickly down and pick a spot on the dancefloor that’s less populated to guide him to. There’s this carpeted four foot wall along the perimeter that feels like it belongs in a roller rink, and it’s got a little dip at the corner that looks enough like a seat that I hop up on it and position Riley to stand in front of me.
“Whatever worry is pinging around in your freshly bleached head, we’re going to drown it out with music and games.”
“What kind of games?”
He has to stand close for us to hear each other over the blaring speakers, and it gives me an excuse to reach for a loop on his jeans and unhook the container of paint there.
“Close your eyes, and I’m going to draw something on your body. You have to guess what it is.”
“And why couldn’t we do this at the table?”
I grin. “Because it’s all about the atmosphere. Besides, maybe I wanted an excuse to have my hands on you.”
I’ve been keeping the flirting to a minimum since that night at the apartment, but I haven’t completely shut it off. After that kiss in the elevator, I figure a little teasing can’t hurt.
He shakes his head and licks the smile that forms on his lips, but he tips his head up and closes his eyes at the same time. His shirt is tucked into the back of his jeans, and his torso is all muscle and fur. Red hairs span across his pecs and down his abs, and there’s a patch of it peeking just above his waistband.
The paint from his belt is purple, and I dip two fingers in it before brushing them down his sternum. He flinches but quickly settles and grips onto my shoulder as I work. I hold his hip in my free hand, stilling him when he starts to squirm at the featherlight touch.
Maybe I’m teasing him a little extra, but payback’s a bitch, and it’s too much fun.
“Okay,” I say, purposefully leaning in so my breath brushes his collarbone. “Guess.”
He shivers as I trace over the drawing with one finger.
“A boat?”
I pinch my lips together and shake my head, but realize he still has his eyes closed. Instead, I pinch the skin of his shoulder lightly between my fingers.
“Ow. Is that a no?”
“Not even close.”
I repeat the pattern again and feel him trying to map it out on my shoulder.
“A hammer?”
A loud burst of laughter nearly has me keeling over. “Holy fuck, Riles. How do you go from boat to hammer?”
“Hey now. Don’t shit on my deduction skills. Maybe you suck at art.”
He isn’t wrong there. Art really isn’t much of my forte, but just for that, I pinch him again.
This time his eyes spring open, glaring straight into mine as I fail to hide the wide grin on my face.
He looks down and sighs, shoving my shoulder hard enough to knock me off the wall, but his hands on my waist keep me in place.
“Is that supposed to be like a Mary Poppins umbrella or some shit?”
“I was going more for the Umbrella Academy logo, but Mary Poppins works too.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, yeah, and now you get to have some revenge.”
I lean back, balancing my hands on the upper rung of the wall and pressing my chest out. If I give him a private moment to check me out without fear of being called on it, no one has to know. But the heat from that gaze has my body lighting up in all sorts of ways, and if he doesn’t get a move on, the problem in my pants is going to become very apparent.
Letting him take his time, I close my eyes and wait for him to begin. With the first touch of his finger to my collarbone, my skin erupts with pebbled flesh. It trails down my sternum, under each pec, and down my ribs. A brief reprieve, and then both hands cradle my stomach, thumbs tracing an indiscernible pattern up and down my abdomen.
There’s little dabs of touches all along my front. No pattern that I can find. Then, two fingers press around my throat, dragging from the sides to the center and back down until they meet just under my chest.
I have not a single clue what he’s put on my body, but disappointment leaks from every pore once his hand falls away and I know that he’s finished.
“Guess, Griff.” Hot breath spills over my neck, and it takes every shred of self control not to open my mouth and moan.
“Was I supposed to be paying attention to that?” I ask, and I swear I feel something soft and warm touch my lips before Riley’s chuckle spreads across my cheeks.
“This was your game, frat boy.”
I open my eyes slowly—keeping them aimed up so I don’t cheat—and meet his gray ones inches away. “And I told you it was a flimsy excuse.”
“Just look down,” he says on a low chuckle, taking a step back.
I do as he says and can’t decide if I want to smile, scoff, or kiss his awfully handsome face.
It’s no masterpiece, but it’s a hell of a lot more thought out than what I came up with.
“Is that a griffin?”
The head of a griffin to be precise, and laughter bubbles up so strong I can’t help but reach for him and pull him into a one-armed hug.
He returns it with an arm around my shoulders, and I know our paint must be meshing together, but I really don’t care. My buzzed grin is pressed to his chest, and Riley’s chin is resting over the top of my head as we both work to settle our laughter.
When his arm tightens and his breathing stutters, I know something’s the matter. Before I can ask, he straightens up and pushes away, gray eyes following something across the room.
My head is spinning a little too fast from the shots, reminding me why I’m not big on alcohol, so it takes me a minute to notice the tick of Riley’s jaw and the visible pressure of him grinding his molars together.
I shake off the fogginess threatening to take hold and press my palm to his chest to get his attention. It works; his eyes snap from the unseen force down to mine. They widen, and he takes another step back.
“Fuck. Griff. I’m sorry.”
I frown. “For what?”
He flounders, lips trembling as he tries to come up with something and falls short. “I gotta go.”
It’s not logic that has me reaching out to grip his bicep as he turns to walk away, but it’s understanding that makes me let go, offering my hand instead.
I incline my head toward the bathroom, hopping off the makeshift wall seat and dragging him along with me. God bless this being a place that has a gender neutral bathroom with a lock, because I can practically taste the panic in the air as Riley heaves over the toilet.
He hasn’t had that much more alcohol than me, so I can’t imagine he’s this sloppy already, but whatever the reason I plant my ass on the floor beside him and stroke up and down the plains of his back.
Once his guts are spilled and he plops down onto the cold, dirty floor, I offer up my t-shirt for him to wipe his mouth.
“Disgusting,” he grumbles, but takes it anyway. “Thanks. Sorry again.”
“It’s what teammates are for.” I shrug, then tack on a little boldness and brush some of the long strands from the top of his head back to check his forehead. “I’m your friend, too, remember?”
He nods and turns so he can lean against the wall, and I adjust to sit cross-legged in front of him.
“What spooked you?”
The energy to be scared or put up a fight seems vacant in him, and he just buries his eyes in the crook of his arm.
“Matty.”
“Huh? Like your ex—roommate? Ex-roommate Matty?”
I can see his wobbly smile even as he lowers his arm to cover it with his hand. “You can call him what he is. I never thought I had you fooled anyway.”
Not like he did the rest of the team during their however-long relationship.
“I knew that he had moved to a studio in Boston. Was staying with a friend. I didn’t even think about it when Evan suggested coming here. Matty was never a party kind of guy. But …”
Riley buries both hands in his hair and drops his head to his knees pulled tight to his chest. “But there he was. Clear as day. You don’t forget someone you spent nearly two years of your life with.”
I nudge his calf with my own, creating a bridge of connection. A signal that I’m here for whatever he needs.
“Were things bad? Before they ended? People don’t usually get violently ill spotting their ex in public.”
He looks up and lowers a hand to my ankle, not pushing me away but making gentle strokes over my skin.
“It wasn’t that. We split amicably. It was seeing … knowing that I was holding him back. And realizing that I’ve been treating you like his replacement.”
“Do you want me to be?”
His fingers stop their movements and dig in hard enough to bruise. I take it because I know hurting me isn’t his intention.
“If you need an emotional rebound … someone to hold all of these feelings left rotting when your ex left … I can help.”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why I’d offer to be someone’s emotional punching bag. But damn, it’s not anyone. It’s Riley. Who cooks me dinner and looks after my inevitable injuries. Who finds comfort in the small, affectionate gestures.
“I don’t even know what that would mean.”
Neither do I. Not really.
“It means …” I slide my hand down to close over his. “You can tell me about Matty. You don’t have to hide or feel like I’m going to pressure you to come out. You can just … be Riley with me.”
A whoosh of air leaves his lungs, and his fingers slip between mine. His eyes search my face and soften at whatever they find.
“I already am.”
Neither one of us makes a move to get closer or break away. We sit there on the cold bathroom floor, linked together as Riley spills his story.
Slowly. Painfully.
Of how he met a boy on the rink, dancing on skates, and how they fell in love. How they reveled in their secrets and their privacy. How they filled the holes in one another until they couldn’t see the cracks starting to form.
To the penultimate end.
To the turning point where one had to choose to save themself.
Leaving Riley lost and bereft of the only outlet of love he had.
I should know better than to weave my story with his.
But as his fingers tighten on mine with every relieved breath, not a single part of me regrets it.