Chapter 23
WYATT CHASE
Days later, and I still feel like an asshole–for so many reasons.
The one that’s pressing so hard against my chest that I feel like I can’t breathe is that I turned Asher’s first sexual experience with a man into something that I minimized between us like it was some bathroom hook up at a club.
But I couldn’t let him know. I couldn’t let him touch me–really touch me–or things would have gotten complicated.
If I’m not careful, I could get lost in him.
So lost that I’m not going to know how to find my way out on the other side.
Add in Lyla and the fact that our relationship is entirely off-limits, and I see how my freak out happened.
Though, to him, it looked like I got cold and dismissive.
When really, I had to shut my emotions down because I was so panicked that I thought I might pass out.
Letting him stay in my house for even seconds longer would have meant that I’d have invited him upstairs so that we could sleep in bed together, and I could wake up knowing what it was like to be fully enveloped in his warmth and scent and presence.
And I wanted it too badly, which is exactly why I couldn’t let myself have it. As much as I like him, I can’t get too used to what’s happening between us. That’s a promise that I need to make to myself, even if I’m shit at holding the line.
Still, I’ve been running through Saturday night non-stop when he walks in for our first session of the week. He places his bag into one of the cubby lockers near the door. “Morning,” he says without much fanfare.
I deserve the less than excited hello, even if dimming a little bit of the shine he’s gotten back kills me.
The truth is that I’ve never wanted anyone the way that I want him, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.
On Saturday, it was easier. I’d been so stressed out about how good he felt–how much I wanted to give myself over to him and have him do the same–that I let my fear propel me.
But in the days since, and especially as I look at him now, I can’t stand it. I wait for him to move over to the large area in the middle, where he starts stretching. “Asher…” I say, hoping that he’ll look up at me.
He stops his movements but keeps his eyes focused on the floor. “Are we doing something else today? Stretches, walk-to-jog progression, and then lifting, right?”
I hate the clinical tone of his voice, even if I’m the one who caused it. I’m the one who put up the wall between us, and now it’s my own damn fault that I can’t see what’s on the other side.
“Will you look at me?” My voice has an edge of pleading, but I don’t care. I thought about knocking on his apartment door so many times in the last few days, but I always stopped myself. Somehow, doing it at school is the worst option, but it only seems fair.
Finally, he meets my stare, his blue eyes duller than I’ve seen them in a while. “What?”
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t care if anyone was watching, but it doesn’t stop me from running my knuckles along his jaw, savoring the softness of his beard. “I’m sorry about this weekend.”
“For sending me home after being aggressively clear about what this is and isn’t? Yeah, I got that. You don’t need to explain yourself to me.” His words are quiet, conscious that we’re in a public space.
And even just knowing that he’s still caring and thoughtful, even when he thinks that I’m a complete asshole–which, to be fair, I am–has me overwhelmed all over again.
God, he doesn’t seem to understand at all the power that he holds over me. And I’m doing my best to keep it that way, but keeping him at arms’ length is like struggling in quicksand. I’m tired. So, so tired.
Before I can overthink it, I haul him up.
I’d say that I’m dragging him, but he’s big enough that there’s no way I could take him anywhere unless he decided to come with me willingly.
I take the win at his lack of resistance.
My hand on his forearm, I lead him through the treatment room and back to the hydrotherapy room.
On the side, farthest from the doors leading from the locker rooms, there’s a single shower room.
I push him inside and shut the door behind us. “I’m not sorry about hooking up with you. I’m worried about what it could mean for my career, but I’m not sorry that it happened.”
He leans against the wall, his arms crossed. “Your behavior says otherwise.”
I run my hands through my hair, trying to find the right words.
Which is crazy because I’ve been thinking about some version of this conversation for three days.
And now, in his presence, nothing seems quite right.
Nothing conveys the fear pulsing through my veins at the knowledge that he could wreck my whole world–and not just professionally.
Losing myself in him feels better than anything that I’ve ever experienced, but the comedown is real. The fear and uncertainty and doubt cripple me like an albatross around my neck.
“I like you. A lot. But we can’t be anything.” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
Asher pushes himself off the wall, and suddenly he’s in my space.
I can smell the clean scent of his shampoo, and it takes me back to Saturday, when I was so enveloped in him that I couldn’t think of anything else.
When there was nothing but my hands on his body, two people melting together as one.
“We already are something. But whatever you want to call it doesn’t change just because you slap a different sticker on it. ”
I rub my fingers into my neck so that I don’t reach out and touch him. “It’s not that simple.”
“It feels pretty simple to me. We’re two people with a mutual attraction–I thought–who were exploring that.”
I use my free hand to point between us. “Except that this shouldn’t be happening.”
He lets out a frustrated groan. “But it is happening. Just because you don’t want to acknowledge something doesn’t make it any less real.”
God, I wish that I could kiss him right now.
Because this is real. It’s present and overwhelming and so fucking intense that he makes it hard for me to think about anything else.
“I am truly sorry for how I reacted on Saturday. That wasn’t about you.”
He lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “I didn’t see anyone else there with us.”
He looks so fucking good right now. With his arms still crossed, his eyes bright and angry. I want to drop down to my knees and show him just how sorry that I am, but I know it would send mixed messages.
I can only imagine how frustrated he is with me because I can barely tolerate myself lately. There are really only two options. Do the thing and suffer the consequences or don’t do the thing and shut the hell up about it.
Instead, I’ve placed us in this chaotic limbo where I allow us to move forward and then retreat back like a stupid, wounded animal.
But I need to be honest with him or I’m going to lose him.
And even if I don’t know what I want from him or I keep telling myself that this can’t happen, it doesn’t change the fact that losing him from my life makes me feel like I’m going to be physically sick.
Plus, it does keep happening. “Saturday was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time,” maybe ever, I add silently.
“And I’m sorry for how I reacted after. You are just… so unexpected, and it scares me.”
His face softens then, and I don’t push him away when his hands come to rest on my hips. “I’m not trying to fuck up your life. I promise.”
“Except that doesn’t change the fact that if we fucked, things will be fucked,” I say, trying not to sound as serious as I feel.
He considers my words. “Well, we’ve already kissed. And we’ve already hooked up. I’m not sure which shoe you’re waiting to see dropped. Can keeping this between us a secret be any harder than staying away from one another?”
I wanted to apologize. That’s all that I wanted to do. And now? I look at him and I can’t think straight. Everything about him–from his looks to his personality to his wildly stubborn streak that I never expected when I met him–makes it impossible for me to resist.
“This is a really bad idea. You know that, right?”
He smiles then, like he’s a kid on Christmas morning. “I guess we won’t know unless we try.”
I’ve gone from resistant to softening to a puddle of mush, all while he’s holding me up like he’s the only thing giving me shape.
I don’t know who I am with him, and even though that should have me running for the hills, I’m leaning toward him, brushing our noses together. “Don’t make me regret this.”
He places a chaste kiss on my lips before taking a step backward and looking around the room dramatically. “Damn, I need to get out of here. My physical therapist is a real pain in the ass sometimes, and he’s going to be pissed if I start my session late.”
I laugh as he walks out of the shower, waiting a few seconds before following him back to the treatment room.
By Saturday morning, I’m acting like a normal person again.
Almost.
Lyla and I woke up early, and I made her pancakes and bacon before dropping her at my parents’ house.
Between seasons, it was easy to forget how much time I have to spend away from her.
She lost a tooth yesterday, and now, there’s a huge gap in her smile that only makes her look cuter as far as I’m concerned.
This thing with Asher was taking up so much of my time–agonizing and worrying and briefly actually getting to enjoy the fruits of the terrible decisions that I’m making–that I feel a little bit like I’m coming out of a haze.
I’ve resolved myself to just accept that this is happening and not tie myself up in knots about it.
I’m packing our bags into the charter bus ahead of the away game in Rhode Island. We’re not going to stay overnight since it’s only two hours away, but it doesn’t change the insane amount of gear that we need to ferry with us.