Chapter 17
ASHER REYNOLDS
Getting to taste Chase was even better than I’d imagined. And then, he had to bring up my injury and put a stop to things, just when they were getting good.
I’m sitting in his car on the ride home, trying to act normally.
I’m not exactly sure how to behave after mounting him like an animal and trying to shove my cock against his.
I don’t know what the best practice is for acting like I wouldn’t have begged him to let me touch him if he hadn’t been so serious about stopping.
The last time that I was in a car with him, I was confused. I’m not confused anymore.
But still, there’s nowhere to put my energy. Nowhere to put my need and desire.
Luckily, he seems to have a better grasp on acting like a functional person. “What made you decide not to live on campus?” he asks, and it’s like an alarm blaring in my head that he keeps mentioning the fact that I’m a student.
Still, I’m going to take whatever he’ll give me. Even if that means existing in the flimsy staff/athlete box that he’s constructed for us.
“I wasn’t even sure that I was coming back to school this season,” I admit, glancing over at him.
I can see the sympathy in his eyes. But it’s not pity, and I appreciate that.
It makes it easier for me to keep going.
“I know that coming back here because it felt like a better alternative than Michigan wasn’t the smartest decision, but being at school is really helping me with everything.
” My grief. My recovery. My apparent self-discovery that Chase is exactly my type and I’m desperate to be close to him.
“I’m glad you’re here.” A look passes between us before he adds, “I’ve always liked to work with players who have long roads to recovery. It makes the payoff that much better.”
I’m hot again. He’s saying completely normal words, but I’m thinking about an entirely other kind of payoff right now. I swallow, remembering how hard I came imagining the two of us fucking. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
Maybe it’ll get easier, I tell myself. I won’t agonize over what every word out of his gorgeous mouth means.
“So, why Northridge? Doesn’t the school usually want athletes to live together?” he asks while making a left turn toward the apartment complex.
I’m sure he experienced it, too. There’s more accountability when someone’s in the room next door who can haul your ass to practice on time if you’re running late.
“Everyone already had roommates and, well…” I’m trying to find the right words, but I decide to just be honest. “I wasn’t exactly in a place to live with the team. I would have brought them down, and they’d have spent too much of their energy trying to lift me up.”
He spares me a glance. We drive under a street light, and it illuminates his defined jaw. The same jaw that, thirty minutes ago, I was peppering kisses along. “Don’t you think that should be their decision? To decide how they show up for you? It seems pretty self-sacrificing on your part.”
I consider Chase’s words. I’m the oldest sibling. I’m the oldest player on the team. I’m the one who usually cares about how all the pieces fit together. It’s a responsibility that I’ve always taken seriously. “I just figured that it would be easier for everyone.”
He makes another turn as we enter our neighborhood. “It doesn’t seem like it was easier for you, being all alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have you,” I say without thinking, echoing my words in the whirlpool earlier.
My attraction to him aside, he’s the reason that I’ve come so far since returning to school.
It’s impossible to pretend like his support hasn’t made all the difference.
And I don’t know why he kept putting up with my miserable self, but I’m grateful for it.
“Asher,” he says, a warning in his voice.
I’m not sure if it’s for him or for me. “Working closely together can sometimes cause complicated feelings. Especially when someone’s recovery is a part of the package.
But any physical therapist would be able to give you the same quality of care and help you get to where you need to be. ”
“That’s not true,” I refute swiftly. I know that if it was Zane in charge, I’d probably still be hobbling around on crutches after my panic attack.
I trust Chase, I realize. Maybe more than I should, but it doesn’t change the fact that I do. Sure, things are complicated between us, but I don’t like that he’s minimizing all that he’s done for me.
We’re turning left onto our street when I’m going to tell him as much when a car blows through the stop sign.
Chase swerves, and my whole body seizes up.
It’s like I’m back in the moment of the crash, every molecule in my body vibrating in a way that makes me feel like I’m going to disintegrate into nothing.
I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I can’t do anything except brace against the seat.
“Asher, you’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay,” I hear him say from next to me. Only, we’re not on the street anymore. Instead, we’re parked in front of our apartments, and I can see the concern in his eyes.
“How long have we been sitting here?” I ask, looking around at the mostly darkened windows lining the street.
“Just a minute.” He’s rubbing his hand up-and-down my arm, and he only stops when I finally look over at him. “Good to have you back.”
I’m both sweaty and cold. Exhausted and frantic. Now that I’m blinking again, I can feel how dry my eyes are.
Chase squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.” By the time I open my door, he’s at the passenger’s side door, waiting for me.
The electric moments we shared in the whirlpool are gone, replaced with a tenderness that takes my breath away. I’ve never felt so cared for before, and it’s a little overwhelming.
He guides me out of the car, my legs still a little unsteady from my panic attack. The apartments are mostly quiet–it’s almost midnight–but there are street lamps casting a glow on the parking spaces and the sidewalk.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, his hands wrapping around my sides. “Do you have your keys?”
I fumble around in my pocket until my fingers wrap around the cold, jagged metal.
Part of me is bummed that I don’t have a reason to follow Chase into his apartment, but the bigger part of me is already embarrassed enough about having another panic attack around him.
I’d hate to admit that I’d lost my keys, too.
“Got ‘em,” I breathe when I realize that he’s looking at me for confirmation.
I wonder what he sees. My fear from the car blowing through that stop sign pulled me from my needy thoughts, but I can feel my hair matted to my forehead, and I’m struggling to string two coherent words together in my sudden exhaustion.
“Give me your keys.” I do as he says, and he unlocks the door. When we walk inside, he doesn’t turn the light on.
“I’m going to sit on the sofa,” I say as I’m already moving in that direction.
I don’t have the energy to drag myself upstairs right now.
Maybe in a few hours, after I rest down here and distract myself with some ESPN replays.
I wanted to catch the highlights from Kellan’s game.
I sit down and lean back against the padding, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
When I open them, Chase is staring at me.
“I’m being a terrible host,” I say, though I make no move to stand up.
“Asher,” he says in a strained voice that hits me deep in my chest. “Are you okay?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel like I could cry. It’s probably the wild swing of emotions that I’ve gone through in the last hour. “Yeah. I just… wasn’t expecting that car. It brought back some bad memories of this summer.”
Chase crosses the small living room and sits down on the sofa next to me. I moved into one of the furnished units, so my apartment is sparsely filled and the furniture is way less comfortable than the stuff at his place.
I mean, really? What was I even thinking?
Besides how my body reacts to him, what do I have to offer a guy like Wyatt Chase?
He’s a great father, an awesome physical therapist, has come back from a career ending injury to build a new life, and he’s way more patient with me than I deserve.
Conversely, I can’t even get a ride home without having a meltdown.
And that’s after I sexually propositioned him in the hydrotherapy room.
I’m about to tell him as much when he puts his hand on my knee. I can almost feel the warmth through my pants, and the steady weight of his palm calms me. I want to beg him to keep it there forever.
“Asher, look at me.” His voice coaxes me to drag my tired gaze up to meet his. Brown, expressive eyes and a brow furrowed in concern take up my vision.
“I’m sorry to put you in this position again,” I apologize before adding, “I don’t want you to always be taking care of me.
” This seems to be an unhealthy pattern that we’ve developed.
I wish that I could stop it. I wish that Chase could see me as the fun, talkative guy that I used to be.
As a hot athlete that he’d love to spend a night–or more–in bed with.
I wish that he knew me before.
“I think the problem is that I like taking care of you a little bit too much,” he admits, and his words warm me up from the inside out. Especially when he adds, “Even when your physical therapy has nothing to do with it.”
I clear my throat while I’m biting back a smile, trying to figure out what to say. Knowing that I don’t have anything to offer him doesn’t stop me from wanting him, and this is the closest–at least emotionally–that he’s come to letting me in. “So, it’s not just me?”
He sighs, like he feels as exhausted as I do.
“What I said in the car before is still true. Working closely together can sometimes complicate feelings. As your physical therapist, I have a responsibility–first and foremost–to you and your recovery. What I want or how I’m feeling is irrelevant. Even if I wish that wasn’t the case.”
What a crazy fucking thing to say. I can’t imagine anything more relevant than him wanting me back.
“But what about what I want?” Maybe I don’t know exactly what that is quite yet, but I do know that I don’t want him to close the door on us before we’ve even had a chance to be something.
“I don’t think that you’re in a position right now to be taking big swings,” he challenges. He’s still looking at me with those piercing eyes, so much heat in them that I know I’m not the only one who feels like we’re standing at the edge of a cliff.
“Me wanting to get to know you better isn’t a big swing,” I lie, already knowing somewhere in my heart that it has the power to change the course of my entire life.
I can see him wavering, and I try to keep my body as still as possible so that I don’t disrupt the moment.
Finally, he says, “I am incredibly flattered that you’re attracted to me, but now that you’re aware of this side of yourself, there will be plenty of other guys that catch your eye, too. Trust me.”
I scratch my beard. I don’t like thinking about other men grabbing his attention.
“I can’t help what I want, even if you try to tell me I shouldn’t be wanting it.
My life has just been hockey and thinking about the world.
A couple of weeks ago, you asked me a question about where a sense of self actually comes from, and it blew my mind a little bit.
I’ve been thinking about it non-stop. You challenge me.
You make me see the world differently. How could I ever think that those are bad things? ”
Chase laughs, a dazed look on his face. I’m elated at being the one to cause it. “You are really something.”
My stomach bottoms out when the hand not on my thigh ghosts across my cheek before he cups my jaw in his palm.
His fingers brush against the coarse hair of my beard, and I let out a deep, satisfied sigh.
I feel like a cat who’s getting pet right now, but I can’t find the will to be embarrassed by the way I lean into him.
“Being near you feels so simple,” I say, nuzzling into his hand.
He stills, but he doesn’t pull back. “You’re still a student and I’m still a member of the staff. You’re also in a really vulnerable place right now. Even taking your sexuality out of the equation, this is not something that can happen.”
I want to wipe away the strain evident on his beautiful face with a kiss, but I think that he’d push me away. God, do I want his lips on mine again. “Then why are you looking at me like you don’t believe what you’re saying?” I press, leaning closer to him.
He groans, and it’s exasperation and want all mingled together in a heady combination that has me on the verge of doing something he’d probably hate like kissing him senseless. “Wanting something and being able to have it are two completely different things,” he defends.
“So you do want me?” I say, suddenly desperate for him to say it again. If he won’t let himself tell me with his body, then this is the next best thing.
He gives me what I want, but not in the way that I want it.
My cheek feels so cold when he removes his hand, and he lifts his other palm that I’ve gotten too used to having pressed into my thigh.
We’re not touching anywhere when he finally admits, “Yes, I do want you. But it can’t happen, and I hope that you can respect that.
” Before I can protest, he stands up and walks to the front door.
I think he’s going to leave without saying anything else when he turns around in the doorway.
“In a different situation, you’d be everything that I’m looking for, but we have to accept the cards that we’re dealt.
And our cards mean that we need to keep our professional relationship at the forefront–for both our sakes. ”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left alone with a million emotions swirling through my body that have nowhere to go.