Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
HENDRIX AVERY
“What the hell is that?”
I let my eyebrow quirk in Tahegin’s direction. “Pizza? Yours is there.” One hand is occupied holding the lid of my pizza box open, so I use my free one to point at his on the hotel room desk.
These past few weeks, we have been figuring out how to navigate our new friendship as well as the quid-pro-quo agreement we arranged. It has been . . . an interesting experience, to say the least, but considering my only other friendship began as an unwanted roommate arrangement, this feels somewhat familiar. I mean, the cuddling is different, though not horrible. I feel like I have made progress with the whole contact thing. Last week during a game, Gallon and I exchanged bro hugs, and I high-fived Kit. It felt surprisingly good.
I haven’t gotten around to eating a meal with any of our teammates—not wanting to have to explain my dietary habits and face the judgmental questions—so the nights we stay in a hotel for an away game, Tahegin orders in with me. He still hangs out with his other friends for a bit, but he comes to the room once he sees me collecting the food delivery in the lobby.
Tahegin shoulders past me, grabbing my pizza box with a look of horror. He hadn’t stuck around with Aleks after Coach’s speech tonight. We’d taken charter buses to our hotel in San Francisco, and some of the air vents hadn’t worked. Tahegin claimed he got too sweaty and needed a shower ASAP, hence why, as he brushes against me, his bare torso leaves a trail of water on my arm. He’s in a pair of light grey joggers with the waistband of his boxers visible, and he did a horrible job drying his chest and back. Waterdrops slip down his bronze abs before dissolving into his waistband. As he turns, I absently note the way those droplets particularly favor the deep dip of his spine, practically rolling like a river. The only thing not wet is his hair, but as he passes by, I catch a refreshing scent of coconut wafting from the defined curls.
“This,” he declares, holding up my box, “is blasphemy.”
“It’s pizza,” I grumble and snatch the box back. “Thought you were cool with my food preferences.”
He just shakes his head, grabs a slice of his pizza, and takes a ginormous bite before talking with his mouth full. “Vegetarianism? Fine. Barbecue and pineapple on pizza? Hell no.”
I carry my box to my bed and pull back the sheets, assuming the familiar position we have adopted these last few weeks—my back to the headboard and legs spread wide. Tahegin joins me, settling between my legs with his back to my front. He sets his pizza box on the opposite side of mine, then presses Play on the team-provided laptop at the foot of the bed. Game clips of tomorrow’s opponents begin playing, but we’re only half watching.
“Oh, and your hot sauce pizza is any better?” I retort.
Tahegin goes on the defensive, casting me a mock glare. “It’s Tabasco, and it’s good! Try it.” A spicy slice suddenly appears under my nose, and I just barely manage to hold in a sneeze.
I push his hand away. “Nuh-uh. No way. I don’t like spicy food.”
“It’s not even that hot,” he insists.
“Dude, I can’t tolerate queso at a Mexican restaurant, okay? I’m serious.”
Sapphire-blue eyes narrow on me. “You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“I can’t tell.”
“You don’t have to because I’m telling you, I don’t like hot stuff.”
He studies me and the slice of pizza dangling from my hand propped on my knee. Darting to the side, he snags a bite of my slice, grimacing as he chews and swallows. “Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, and I hate barbecue, but I tried yours, so now you have to try mine.” He shrugs. “Them’s the rules.”
Disgust roils in my stomach as I stare at the bright red sauce on his pizza. I try to hype myself up for a bite, but then his words register and . . . “Wait. Aren’t you from Texas ?”
“Yeah, why?” Tahegin stares at me, mouth open with half-chewed pizza exposed.
I stare back in disbelief. “You’re from Texas, and you don’t like barbecue?”
“Wow. Way to stereotype, Rix. Should I be saying it’s no wonder you don’t like spicy food ’cause you’re a white boy?”
“Hmph.” The sound escapes me without thought—an instinctive reaction at the taunt I have heard countless times before, only directed at my ability to run fast or jump high enough—and, of course, Tahegin homes in on it.
His head falls back onto my shoulder, but his inquisitive eyes don’t stray from mine. It feels as if he’s picking through my brain, reading every thought as I think it. “I’m sorry,” he says after a minute. “I meant it as a joke, but you’ve probably received insults about your skin your whole football career, haven’t you?”
From nearly every defender and the other receivers, yes, Tahegin, I have.
Clenching my jaw, I look away and nod, just once. “It’d be different if I was a tight end or a linebacker, a kicker or punter, even a quarterback or running back. I . . . I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I get it.” His whispered words have me turning to face him again. He’s one hundred percent sincere as he continues. “I get them, too—the race comments. I’m Black. Technically mixed, obviously, but Black is my heritage. Because my skin is a little lighter, my hair a little softer, my eyes are blue, and my family—though adoptive—are white, the other cornerbacks and safeties . . . some of them look down on me. Say I can’t keep up.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “The Black receivers I go up against? About half of them talk shit to me on the field.”
For some reason, that angers me more than when I get the insults thrown at me. “Any from San Francisco? I’ll take an offensive pass interference if it’ll rough them up a bit. Hair is free game?—”
“Rix,” Tahegin chuckles and shoves his pizza in my mouth to shut me up. I immediately try to spit it out, only managing to get saliva all over the half-eaten slice. “That’s sweet of you, but—oh my God, are you okay?”
“Hot. Hot! Water. Wadder !” My words slur as my tongue goes numb from the heat. Everything burns—my mouth, throat, eyes, nose, body . Pretty sure my blood is sweating as the heat only intensifies. “T! Geddup! Moof!”
He falls into a fit of guffaws, not moving other than to hold his stomach as tears form in the corners of his eyes. If I wasn’t literally dying, I’d enjoy the sound of his carefree laughter. Instead, I struggle to untangle my legs from the sheets, swinging one over Tahegin and crushing a pizza box in the process.
I stumble into the bathroom and grab the nearest glass, which is already face up on the counter and damp inside. Ignoring the fact he probably drank out of it earlier, I fill the glass and chug, then repeat. And repeat.
What seems like an hour later, my mouth is finally somewhat normal, though my armpits are damp from sweat. I return the glass to the counter beside Tahegin’s toiletry bag, and a flash of blue catches my eye. He didn’t zip the bag all the way, so a quick peek reveals a couple of adhesive notes and . . . medicine bottles?
As delicately as possible, I shift the contents around to read the labels on the bottles. Part of me knows it is an invasion of his privacy, but the other part needs to make sure they aren’t illegal drugs. If Tahegin is putting his career on the line for recreationals . . .
My mouth goes dry when I read the labels. Two of them, I only know aren’t steroids, opioids, or narcotics. The third, I recognize, from back when he kept his prescriptions in our shared bathroom during our college days, as one that Micah takes for anti-anxiety. The labels are all in Tahegin’s name and recently filled, so I back off as soon as I’m sure everything is legal.
The notes . . . I read them one at a time, my stomach sinking with every one. I swallow hard. Each has some sort of positive saying, and one is a reminder to take his prescribed medication.
Suddenly, I feel very, very wrong. Digging through his bag is incredibly invasive, and I feel horrible for not trusting him. Of course, Tahegin isn’t using illegal drugs. It was crazy of me to have even thought he might have been.
Fuck. I am a terrible, awful friend.
“Are you alive in there?” Tahegin calls from the room, and I jump out of my skin.
“Yeah.” I clear gravel from my throat. “Just had to hit the head. Be right out.” I actually do take a leak, rinse my hands, and then steel myself to act as if everything is okay when I return to the room.
Tahegin is still on my bed, no more spicy pizza in sight. He’s lying flat with his eyes closed and hands tucked under his head, and I feel . . . strange as I stare at him.
He’s still the same Tahegin. Still shirtless with smooth, bronze flesh and chiseled abs on display, but I can’t help but wonder what I’m missing. Why does he need anti-anxieties, other pills, and positive notes? The guy is always smiling, always the center of attention, and friends with literally everyone—including me, the guy everyone calls Sour. I could ask, but . . . then he would know I snooped.
So, I guess I will just have to convince him to tell me. Somehow.
Usually, I avoid initiating contact, leaving that task to Tahegin, but now, I throw caution to the wind and dash to the bed before leaping on top of him.
He shouts in surprise, breaking off with a grunt as my full weight hits him. “Rix,” he laughs. “What are you doing?”
“That pizza was so spicy,” I tell him. “I was literally sweating.”
“Wow. You really are a lightweight.”
“Yeah, and now you’re stuck with my smelly armpits.” I wrap an arm around his head, ensuring my pit is right by his nose. My deodorant from this morning is still working for the most part, so I know I don’t smell just awful, but it’s fun to watch him squirm.
“Nooo,” he complains half-heartedly until my other hand finds his side, fingers grazing his exposed ribs. He tenses, and then giggles spill from his lips.
I hum with interest. “Ooh, ticklish, are you?” I dig in on his sides, abandoning the armpit agenda altogether. His laughter is contagious and takes me back to my younger years in some of the better foster homes. Kids came and went, getting adopted or moving homes due to behavior, but most of them enjoyed a good tickle session. It was always a laugh, no matter what kind of day we’d had with the strict foster parents. Tried and true method for—momentarily—forgetting we were all unwanted kids. At least, until we got caught and put in time-out for breaking the strict “no contact” rules in place.
Tahegin eventually manages to catch my wrists, and then he is grinning up at me, and I realize I’m straddling him, also grinning. He blinks, breaths calming. “You should smile more.”
I stop.
“No, no. I’m serious. You have a nice smile, and no one ever gets to see it.”
With no idea how to accept a compliment, much less one I know isn’t true, I roll my eyes and turn it back on him. “Yours isn’t so bad.” I tilt my head as if contemplating, then add, “For a hockey smile.”
He gasps theatrically. “A hockey smile? How dare you!”
Suddenly, I’m the one beneath him, my wrists gently pinned to the bed.
“Take it back,” he hisses.
“You know, if you ever go somewhere with black lights, those two teeth won’t glow like the rest of them. Planning to go to any clubs soon?”
“That’s it. You’re gonna get it now.” His hands leave my wrists to fumble at my sides, and I?—
Do nothing.
Tahegin sits back and pouts. “You aren’t ticklish?”
He’s straddling me, his bare torso on full display, and there’s a soft, warm pressure on my?—
I flip us before innocent, accidental stimulation can lead to any awkward moments. My gaze settles on Tahegin’s, so pure and open, and I let my gut lead me, only realizing what I’m doing once I begin speaking. “I aged out of the system,” I admit softly. Neither of us is technically pinning the other anymore, but we’re not making any effort to move. “Every time I asked about braces, my social worker said my teeth weren’t ‘bad enough’ to warrant the state paying for them. I’d look in the mirror every day and pick out everything I hated—my overbite, the gaps over here, the crowding over there. I convinced myself that if I didn’t want to see my smile, no one else would either. So, I stopped.”
“Hendrix.” He whispers my name, and I feel his hand on my side. It slips under the hem of my shirt to rest comfortingly against my bare flesh. He’s warm, his skin is soft beneath my palms, and he smells like sweet coconut. It’s pleasant. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Still. It sucks.” His thumb sweeps gently across my hip. “Were you in from birth? Did you ever try to find your biological parents?”
“No, I—” My throat tightens painfully. I’ve never told anyone about my birth parents and . . . I don’t think I’m ready to start just yet. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I slide off his hips to sit on the rumpled bed, propping myself up on one hand.
Tahegin follows, and we’re eye-to-eye once more. “Of course. I’m sorry for bringing it up. I hope I didn’t trigger you in any way.”
He looks so upset with himself it feels completely natural to reach out and run a finger over the back of his hand. I’ve noticed he does it to me when he’s feeling nervous, so I figure it will reassure him now. “You didn’t know. It’s . . . It’s okay.”
Big blue eyes blink at me—I hadn’t realized we’d moved so close—and then he looks away. “It’s getting late. We should go to sleep.”
I nod in agreement, and five minutes later, we’re lying in the dark hotel room in our respective beds. The silence stretches between us, somehow comfortable with the words we’d said and heavy with those we hadn’t.
? ? ?
The football game begins like any other, but there is something in the air. Adrenaline fizzles in my veins, and it’s as if the rest of the team feels it, too. The weather is cool and cloudy, the stadium roaring with fans. We know the Dragons are going to give us a run for our money, and we’re ready to fight for a win.
We take the field for our first play, a disguised running play. A defensive player lines up in front of me, and I give him my best acting. I pretend to eye my quarterback, then spot specific points down the field. From the corner of my periphery, I catch the defender making some kind of gesture to their defensive play caller, and some shuffling happens on their line as they predict what we will be doing once the ball is snapped.
Aleks catches my eye and winks.
Taking my stance, I prepare for the snap, running like hell once it’s called. At the beginning of the season, our offensive coach had pulled me aside. “I know you’re excited to be playing in the big leagues,” he’d said. “But on the fakes, you need to preserve more of your energy for the real plays. Your opponents won’t be fooled half the time anyway. One guy on the side of the line isn’t gonna be the reason the defense gets it wrong. Understand?”
I had told him, in no uncertain terms, that, no, I did not understand. I didn’t join an NFL team to half-ass my plays. If I’m a decoy, I am going to be the best damn decoy anyone has ever seen. If I start to burn out, then being a professional athlete must not be for me.
When the Dragons’ defensemen fan out to cover a pass play, I don’t dare risk looking back to make sure Kit has an opening. I fake out my matchup until the official’s whistle blows, signaling the end of the play.
The cornerback covering me stumbles to a stop, and he spreads his arms in confusion. He squints at me. “You trick me, man?”
I shrug and begin the long jog back to the line. This guy had really fallen for my trap.
“Okay, all right,” he says, keeping pace alongside me. “I see you.”
Aleks is standing near our teammates about to huddle up, his hands pressed to either side of his red helmet as he listens to our coach. After a moment, he joins us and calls another run play. No tricks this time. My job consists of blocking so Aleks can run the ball as far as possible—hopefully for another first down.
He does, and we start our march down the field. Coach rotates some of the tight ends onto the line, the strong, big guys with giant hands who make solid catches for us. Once we get to the red zone, I’m pulled to the sideline in favor of a full house consisting of three tight ends and two running backs.
Ten seconds later, we have our first touchdown of the game, and in the first three minutes to boot.
I celebrate with my teammates on the sideline but subtly back up when the guys from the field join us as the kicking team heads out. Lots of ass slaps are passed around, and then even more once our kicker makes the field goal. Gallon goes as far as to lift the smaller guy high into the air by his armpits.
Despite all the practice I have been getting with Tahegin, I find myself grateful not to be in the center of the celebrating mass of guys. I feel claustrophobic just watching.
The Dragons eventually return our touchdown—though our defense gives them hell the whole time. Tahegin almost got a pick on their second-to-last play before the goal.
I’m still standing off to the side when someone approaches me. His visor is tinted, but I don’t need to see anything other than his bright smile to know who he is. He holds his gloved hands out between us.
“I could feel it,” Tahegin gushes. “Ugh, the ball was right here . In my hands. I was so close!”
“That was an awesome run, T.” The praise feels unnatural coming from my mouth, but the way he lights up in response pushes the thought far back in my mind.
Tahegin grasps my hands in his, squeezing firmly. “Feel that? The ball was on my gloves, Rix. I can’t believe I missed it. Better luck next time, huh?”
Before I can really process what I’m doing, I’ve yanked my hand out of his, our sticky gloves trying to hold on a little longer. Panic washes over me, the day suddenly feeling too hot, and I frantically look around to make sure nobody is paying attention to us. Our teammates and friends are distracted by the game. It seems the cameras are distracted, too. It’s only when I turn and see Tahegin’s fallen face that I realize my actions were extremely rude. He looks genuinely hurt, even if I can only see his slightly parted lips before the visor covers the rest of his expression. I can feel it, though. Feel his shock and disappointment.
And for what? There aren’t any rules here—no foster parents ready to discipline with a belt for disobeying. Tahegin didn’t do anything we haven’t already done—and more—in the privacy of a bedroom. Is it the publicity of being in a full stadium that has me spooked?
We’re friends, for God’s sake. Our other teammates are literally slapping each other’s asses on live television. Why did I freak out on him?
Tahegin rolls his lips between his teeth and curls his fingers into his palms. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I thought—” Breaking off, he stares at me as if trying to find the words he wants to say.
Mine are just as elusive. I want to tell him it’s okay—isn’t it? Or that he didn’t overstep . . . I think. Or?—
“Avery! Ass on the field! Now!”
Obeying Coach is instinctive, and my brain gladly focuses on following orders instead of the tense situation I’ve created between Tahegin and me. I dart for the green without another word, for once actually hating my less-than-chatty personality. Just this once, I wish I was a people-person, if only so that I can give Tahegin reassurance that everything is okay.
I put my head down and focus on the rest of the game. We win, but I leave the stadium feeling as if I’ve lost.