Chapter 4
SO PERFECTLY IMPERFECT
Alex
Elliot was totally right about the pizzas, and I can already feel the good juju pushing out the bad. I think we set the universe straight enough that I don’t have to worry about my game play. I won’t know for sure until practice on Monday, but my chest feels a whole lot lighter.
Our pizzas were finished right as I told Elliot about my “no hook-up during the season” rule, which was good since I’m pretty sure I broke his brain with that tidbit of information.
It rattles most guys who find out. The athletes that I know like to celebrate their wins and mourn their losses in the bodies of other people, and I tend to stick out like a sore thumb when I’m always going home alone.
And yeah, it's lonely sometimes. I’m far more well-acquainted with my right hand than I think any guy over the age of sixteen should be, and I’ve flattened my fair share of pillows by using them as cuddle buddies.
But hey, celibacy works for me. And evidently, so does pizza. We take the pies back down the street to The Hive Mind, where the line has grown impossibly longer in our absence. Why all of these people are out clubbing on a Sunday night, I have no idea, but it's not my place to judge.
We’re not allowed to take the food inside, but that’s fine because we have just enough pizza to feed everyone out here, anyway.
Handing out slices feels kind of like what I imagine being the birthday kid whose mom sent cupcakes for the class felt like in elementary school.
My mom never sent me to school with cupcakes on my birthday—I was lucky if she even remembered my birthday at all—but passing out pizza gives me the thrill I missed out on as a kid.
Everyone is super nice, even when they’re asking for selfies.
Elliot gets way more recognition than I do, which makes sense.
Both me and my sport are new in town, but a couple people recognize me as well, and the markers I carry in my bag come in handy when they start asking us to sign napkins and foreheads.
By the time the pizza is gone and the club-goers have gotten over the thrill of hanging out with the guy who just scored the winning field goal for San Francisco a few short hours ago, I am fully people-ed out.
I guess Elliot must be too, because when I say I’m going to head home, he offers to walk the few blocks with me.
“Dude, if I knew you lived at the top of one of these massive hills, I would have let you walk yourself home,” he huffs as we scale the sidewalk steps of Filbert Street.
My house is up at the top of Telegraph Hill near Coit Tower, at the very top of one of the steepest streets in the city.
I love the views from up there, as well as the songs of the wild parrots that live in the trees, but scaling the hill is a fucking hike.
Great for the glutes, though.
I only chuckle, not wanting to talk too much and let Elliot know just how out of breath I am. This street is so steep, it's practically vertical, and it kicks my ass every damn time.
“I thought downtown San Francisco was flat,” Elliot grumbles as we reach the stop of the street. He plants his hands on his knees, panting dramatically. It's nice to know I’m not the only one struggling up this mountain, even if he is obviously hamming it up for dramatic effect.
“Downtown San Francisco is flatter than other parts of the city, yes. But this isn’t downtown. This is North Beach, and my place is up there,” I say, pointing to another set of concrete steps built into another sidewalk.
Sometimes I wonder what the hell the Ohlone people were thinking when they settled here a million years ago, or what the Spanish missionaries who stole their land were thinking when they decided to build a city that requires stairs on their roads so you don’t fall backwards while trying to walk up them, but whatever.
I watch as Elliot looks at me, to the stairs, then back to me with a disgruntled look on his face.
His frowniness causes a little crinkle to form at the corner of his lips, and I’m not sure why, but the sight of it is very distracting.
Maybe it's because it makes him look…distinguished.
Like a wise owl holding the secrets to the universe, ready to take my hand in his… hand?
Wing?
His wing hand?
Whatever. He looks like he’s ready to take me in whatever appendage it is that owls have and let me in on some of his knowledge.
I realize I’ve been staring at Elliot’s mouth—his very human, very pink, mouth—for a beat too long, and I clear my throat.
“You can say good night here. I can make it upstairs alone. I’ve done it before,” I say. Elliot’s lip twitches—because I guess I’m still stuck staring at that spot—and his frown tips up into the tiniest of smirks.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says with a shake of his head, then heaves up the first set of steps with a sigh.
I follow behind him, taking in the muscles of his legs as he walks.
His calves are crazy toned, which makes sense in a logical sort of way.
He’s a football player, he’s a kicker, his legs are his money makers.
But I’m sort of mesmerized by them, by the way they flex as he moves.
It’s as if I’ve never seen a muscular set of calves before.
Hmph. I’ll have to make a note to ask him about his lower leg day routine sometime. I can stretch and flex like nobody’s business, but my calves aren’t nearly as hot and tight as Elliot’s.
When we finally reach the top of the sidewalk steps and I point to the black and white stoop that leads up to my bright red front door, Elliot flops down dramatically on the bottom step, laying back and flinging an arm over his forehead.
“More stairs? Jesus man, no wonder your ass looks like you crack walnuts between your cheeks for fun. You live at the top of a fucking Stairmaster.”
I glance over my shoulder, my cheeks flushing as I look back at my ass.
I know it's a good ass—there are social media accounts dedicated to the backsides of NHL players, particularly in our game day travel suits, and mine always garners a good amount of attention.
I also get compliments on my magnificent posterior chain from the lady companions I take to my bed during the offseason, but something about Elliot noticing my butt feels different.
I don’t hate it, not one bit.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck as Elliot lays back on my stoop, his chest rising and falling as he works to catch his breath, and I find myself honing in on that damn happy trail again and at a loss of what to do next.
I’ve never actually been walked home by someone before.
Am I supposed to invite him inside? I don’t have any alcohol to offer him, but I do have some leftover dim sum in the fridge.
Maybe he’ll want to watch some Real Housewives with me? It’d be nice to have some company…
I plop down on the step next to Elliot, laying back and tucking my hands behind my head to soften the impact of the concrete stairs while I try to think of what to say next.
Tell him you had fun and want to hang out more, idiot.
“I had a great time with you tonight, Alex. You’re a super cool guy,” Elliot says, beating me to the punch.
“Yeah, so are you, El.”
“We should exchange numbers. The Redwoods are on the road this week, but maybe we can hang out again when we’re both in the city?”
“Definitely, yeah. Let’s do that,” I say, sounding just as eager as I feel to have made a new friend tonight. I pull my phone out of my bag and hand unlock it and Elliot does the same with his. We trade, and I tap my number in.
“Here,” I say, holding the phone up and leaning in until my shoulder brushes against Elliot’s. “Let’s take a picture so I can set it as my contact photo.”
Elliot leans in and smiles, all straight white teeth and deep cheek dimples.
Something tightens in my stomach as I snap the picture and assign it on his phone before air-dropping it to my own.
We trade back, and when my phone is tucked away safely inside of Franny once more, I turn my head to look at Elliot, only to find him looking right back at me.
For the second time tonight, I’m struck by just how…
beautiful he is. Parts of his features are flawless, his bright white teeth, straight nose and carved jaw making him look like he could grace a billboard in Times Square.
But the spray of freckles on the apples of his cheeks, the worry lines on his forehead, the way one eye is slightly darker and less hazel than the other…
those are the things that scream beauty to me.
I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone who is so perfectly imperfect before.
“Sorry I ruined your chances of hooking up tonight,” I say, my mouth feeling unnaturally dry. I lick my lips, but it’s like sandpaper against sandpaper. “Though, the night is still young. If you want to head back out there, I’m sure there are a hundred people lining up to go home with you.”
Elliot tilts his head ever so slightly, then gives it a small shake.
“Nah, I’m good. I’m perfectly happy with where I ended up tonight.”
Relief washes over me, and it's surprising but not all that confusing. I’m having a good time.
I don’t want this time with my new friend to come to an end yet.
I think it's cool that he wouldn’t ditch me to get his dick wet even though I’ve given him the okay.
That just proves what I’ve thought all night—Elliot Baker is a genuine person, and I desperately want to be his friend.