Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
Aleks bumps my shoulder as we step off the charter buses at our practice facility. “Are you coming out with us tonight, Gin?”
Without permission, my eyes seek out Hendrix. I didn’t have a chance to speak with him after the game—interviews ran late, and Coach was ready to load up by the time Aleks and I made it to the locker room at the Dragons’ stadium. We hit the road running, and since our buses were separated by offense, defense, and special teams, I haven’t been able to talk to Hendrix after I overstepped during the game by holding his hands. And, of course, I still haven’t nutted up enough to ask for his phone number. The naive side of me kept thinking he’d volunteer the information at some point.
“Come on,” Aleks eggs on after mistaking my silence for a negative. I do want to go out, but I want to set things straight with Hendrix first. “We’re gonna party and dance and drink. And hook up,” he adds with a smirk and a wink.
I walk slowly to my car, still checking the dispersing crowd of our teammates for Hendrix. “Uh, yeah,” I agree, albeit distractedly. “Where?”
“Gemini. I haven’t been, but I’ve heard good things. Meet there in an hour?”
“In LA traffic?” I snort incredulously. “Better make it two.” Closing time won’t be a problem either, seeing as the sun hasn’t even set yet. Perks of an early game.
Aleks slaps my ass unexpectedly, but the move happens so often in football that I’m not thrown off in the slightest. “It’s a date.” He whoops and darts toward Kit, who is walking alongside Tank toward their cars in the parking lot. “Baby! You wanna come out with us tonight?” His voice fades out as they get further away, and I’m surprisingly thankful to be alone for once. It gives me a chance to look for— There.
Tossing my luggage in the bed of my truck, I make my way across the parking lot to where Hendrix is climbing into an older-model Civic. For a second, I worry he’ll drive off before I can reach him, but then his engine sputters, refusing to turn over. I cross the few yards left and knock on his driver’s-side window.
The shuddering engine quiets. I shove my hands in my pockets, waiting as Hendrix’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. He fists one hand on his thigh and opens his door with the other. It almost hits me, but I stand my ground. He stops it before it can tap my knees.
Hendrix doesn’t look at me. His nearly blond, messy hair hangs over his downcast eyes—he’s been saying he needs to get it trimmed. I always tell him it’s fine because I secretly enjoy the times I get to run my fingers through it, though now I wish he had cut it so I can see more of his face. “I don’t need help,” he growls at the ground.
I rock on the balls of my feet. “Good thing I’m not here to offer help. I know absolute shit about cars . . .” I hold up a finger and tap my nose, adding a teasing “Ah, except that you probably—no, definitely—need a new one.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “I just . . .”
By now, I can recognize the hesitance in his voice. Toeing his door closed, I cross around the front of his car to the passenger side. My intention is to climb into the seat beside him, but when I tug on the handle, I find it locked. I rap on the window, leaning down and peeking in with a grin. Hendrix looks at me, and I point at the protruding lock on the inside door panel. I even give the glass a little tap for emphasis.
Alone in the car, he sighs to himself, then finally stretches across the console to unlock the passenger door.
I open it and collapse into the passenger seat. Once we’re closed inside the car and secluded from our lingering teammates, I turn to face him. “What’s up, Rix?”
It takes a minute for him to gather the words, and I’m only half-surprised at what he says. “I . . . I don’t know the first thing about buying a car. I have some money set aside—more coming in every game week—but that doesn’t mean I know what to do with it. How do I buy a couch? How do I get it to my apartment and up the stairs? Before that first football game in September, the biggest paycheck I ever got at one time was six hundred dollars. I don’t know what to buy first or how to do it.”
My brow quirks. “You need a new couch?”
“I need a couch,” he admits. “I’m using a fucking lawn chair right now.”
“A—” I try my best to stifle my laughter, pressing my lips tight together. Some slips out despite my efforts, but Hendrix’s deadpan glare sobers me quickly. “ Sorry for laughing . . . It’s just— You are a professional football player. You were on live television earlier. Your stats are printed on rookie cards and sold in every supermarket.” The back of my hand thumps his chest as he continues to look incredulous. “You’re googleable. With Wikipedia and ESPN pages, man.”
“Your point?”
“You’re famous.” I flash a toothy grin. “Time to start living like it.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t need a McMansion?—”
I cut him off with a snort. “Honey, a rookie doesn’t make McMansion money, no offense, but we can definitely budget in some upgrades. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re gonna grab your stuff and come back to my place tonight. We’ll get a tow truck to drop your car off, and you can decide what to do with it later. In”—I check my watch—“an hour and a half, we’re going to meet up with some of the guys at Gemini to relax for a bit. You’ll come back to mine for the night, we’ll run an errand for me in the morning, and then we’ll spend the afternoon shopping for you. Sound good?”
“No—”
“Great!” Snatching his duffle from the back seat, I bolt from the disabled car. “Let’s go.”
Surprisingly, Hendrix only huffs once before exiting his car and following me across the parking lot to my truck. I’ve already called the nearest tow company and given them my address by the time I drive us out of the parking lot. Hendrix broods in my passenger seat, but I can tell he’s not as upset as he is trying to portray.
“Our first sleepover without a game the next day,” I babble to fill the silence as I drive. “You get a room to yourself this time, though. Unfortunately, you’ll still have to wake up early in the morning.”
He gives me his signature scowl, and I snicker because the guy is seriously not a morning person. Only took one away game for me to realize that. “Why?” His question is wary and no-nonsense.
I flash him a quick smile before focusing on the road again. “I’m doing something for you, so you have to do something for me.”
“And the club later? That isn’t for you?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the P . “That’s for both of us. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.”
He doesn’t seem convinced. “Will it?”
I don’t respond, letting my smile do all the talking. Going out with my teammates is always fun, even if they end up going to a bar. Usually, I spend time beforehand reading over my affirmations and reminding myself why alcohol and my meds don’t mix. Once I mentally relive that traumatic experience, I don’t have a problem going out and ordering drinks without alcohol. I can still have fun and enjoy my night without putting myself at risk, and if I volunteer as a designated driver, the guys are too busy seeing who can get drunk the fastest to bother asking me why I don’t have a beer in my hand.
It’s only once I’m parking in my garage that Hendrix looks down at his dark sweatpants and Rubies hoodie. “Uh, dude. I don’t have clothes to wear to a club.”
“You’re fine,” I lie. Badly.
His stare clearly says he doesn’t believe me.
I sigh and gesture to the luggage in the back. “You got jeans in there?” We’re a good five inches different in height, so my pants would be way too long on him, but . . . “I can loan you a shirt.”
With a nod, Hendrix exits and grabs his duffle out of the truck bed, along with my suitcase. My masculinity isn’t fragile, so I simply thank him for the polite gesture. Unlocking the door, I quickly reset the alarm before it gets angry at me.
“Do you want a downstairs guest room or upstairs?”
Hendrix shrugs.
And sue me, I take the opportunity of having someone else stay in my giant house and show him to the upstairs guest room nearest mine rather than having him far away. It’s not often I have someone spend the night, especially someone I am so interested in. “It has an en suite,” I tell him as I open the door to show him inside. “I figured you’d prefer that over using the half bath downstairs.” One of the downstairs rooms also has an en suite, but I don’t tell Hendrix that.
Not one to often give a verbal thanks, he nods and enters the room. I stand in the doorway beside my suitcase as Hendrix rifles through his duffle bag for a pair of jeans. He turns around once he has them in hand, the faded and ripped fabric recognizable as the ones he always wears.
I wonder if he needs to go wardrobe shopping, too?
“A shirt?” he grouses, still standing there holding the pants.
“Right.” I snap out of my thoughts. “Let’s go to my room and find one.”
We cross the hall to my bedroom, and I search the closet for a shirt he can wear. Our legs may be different lengths, but our torsos are relatively the same—if the way his chest lines up with my shoulder blades when we sit in bed together is any indication.
“What are you thinking?” I ponder aloud, somehow knowing he won’t respond. I can feel his presence at the closet doorway, as well as his ever-present silence. “Let’s see . . .” I’m practically talking to myself, but I know he is listening. He’s always listening, just like that first night I began telling him my secrets. “I’m guessing something dark. Black? No, grey. I have this nice grey button-up. You can wear it over a black V-neck like you did at my party last month.”
At that, a soft “hmph” fills the quiet closet.
“Rix,” I singsong without looking away from searching my hanging shirts. “We’ve talked about your ‘hmphs.’”
“I’m just . . . surprised you remember.”
Turning, I toss the two shirts in his direction, using his momentary distraction to think about what to say. What is the best way to tell him that night is permanently ingrained in my mind? That everything about him telling me he wasn’t dating Micah, telling me he is straight, teaching me the alphabet in sign language after stripping in front of me, and us sitting back-to-chest for the first time—not a single second of that night has escaped me, has not become the slightest bit blurry despite how many weeks have passed since then.
Hendrix reaches back to fist his hoodie between his shoulder blades and pulls it over his head. Without a shirt underneath, I have no time to prepare as my eyes are immediately assaulted by a long torso and the kind of severely defined abs that are a side effect of being a professional athlete. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, exposing the deep arrow pointing down, down, down . . . God, Rix has fucking dangerous come gutters. There’s not even a hint of boxers, so either they are riding low beneath his waistband or . . .
“You have a good memory, huh?” Hendrix continues when I still don’t respond. He slips on the black V-neck, and I can magically think again.
“Like an elephant,” I laugh awkwardly, my voice a little higher than normal. I open my mouth—to say what, I’m not sure, just something to fill the lapse in conversation—but then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and yanks them down in one fell swoop, and a strangled noise catches in my throat. I glimpse muscular thighs, slightly less tan than his strong calves, and sharply whip around as fast as possible before he can straighten up to reveal anything else.
God, he is going to go out like that. Commando. Completely bare beneath those ripped jeans, and this time, the quarter-size hole on the thigh near the pocket will reveal softly furred flesh instead of the fabric of his boxers.
Trying to corral my untamed thoughts, I snatch a shirt from the rack and pull it on. The material stretches tight over my chest, and I realize the white polo I’ve grabbed is from a few seasons ago. My muscles have grown since I bought the shirt, but a peek at my wall of mirrors reveals that the tight fit doesn’t look bad at all. The shirt is taut around my biceps and chest, the white fabric nearly see-through, and the lower portion hangs a little looser at my narrow hips. For pants, I choose a skinny-fit pair in a light grey color with the hems rolled an inch or two at my ankles. I finish the look with a limited-edition pair of solid white loafers, internally wincing when I think about how much they cost and the fact I’ve not worn them once since buying them last summer.
When I meet Hendrix in my room again, I notice he’s paired his outfit with some black combat boots—and, yeah, that tracks. The fit is . . .
“Let’s go,” I not-quite squeak out of a tight throat to force myself to look away from how attractive he is right now. I offer to drive us, not just because getting a car service at night can be difficult, but because I genuinely enjoy driving. Especially when I’m driving my cherry-red Camaro equipped with all the bells and whistles.
“This car . . .” Hendrix begins once we’re on the road.
I grin. “It’s nice, right?”
“It’s worth more than my salary,” he deadpans. “Are you really the best person to be giving me financial advice?”
“This is a fourth-year-on-contract purchase. Don’t worry, we’ll keep it basic tomorrow,” I promise. “Now, tell me what all we need to shop for.”
It’s like pulling teeth to get to a root answer from Hendrix. After he tells me, again, that he needs a couch, I rip out an incisor to get him to admit he doesn’t have any other living room furniture either. His TV is on the floor, and he doesn’t have a coffee table. Coatrack? Forget about it. On the third wisdom tooth, it’s revealed that his mattress is nowhere near the ideal standard for a professional athlete. The fourth? Well?—
“You’re still in a one-bedroom apartment?” I exclaim, staring at him in disbelief.
Hendrix gestures wildly at the windshield. “T! The road! Watch the road!”
I obey, but I don’t drop the subject. “Seriously?”
“Plenty of NFL players live in a one-bedroom apartment.”
“Name one.”
“Hmph.”
His signature noise pulls a laugh deep from my belly because instead of sounding as if he doesn’t care to answer, it sounds like he doesn’t have a valid response—which means I win, so this is really a victory laugh. When Hendrix “hmphs” again, I pause. “What?”
“Noth—” He breaks off, smacking his teeth because he knows I won’t let him get away with a nonanswer like that. “That laugh you just did . . . I don’t know. It sounded a little—what’s the word?—maniacal.”
Gasping dramatically, I clutch an invisible necklace of pearls. “ Maniacal ,” I repeat indignantly. “Excuse the fuck you, I have the laugh of an angel.” I raise my chin. “My momma told me so.”
Hendrix’s eyebrow raises a little higher than his usual twitch. “Is that . . . Tahegin, do you have an accent?”
“I’m from Texas. What do you expect?”
“Huh,” he grunts, and I’m surprised when he continues talking instead of leaving it at that. “I haven’t heard it until now.”
I shrug. “It comes and goes based on who I’m with and what we’re talking about. Wait ’til you see me with my parents. We all sound like we should be yeehawing and having spittin’ contests at the nearest saloon. I got a cowboy hat and boots, too. Wanna see ’em?” I increase the thickness of my Southern accent until it’s comical. Hendrix’s look of horror has me—maniacally—laughing again. “I’m just fucking with you, man. I’m from Austin. No saloons, and the only horse I’ve seen had a police officer on it in the Christmas parade.”
“That . . . yeah, that sounds about right.”
“I do love sweet tea, though,” I say in all seriousness. The club appears just ahead, and I pull into the crowded parking lot. Considering Gemini is the “club to the stars,” it’s no wonder the lot is full of expensive cars. I wonder which celebrities will be here tonight? We’ve run into quite a few famous Hollywood stars at ad campaigns, PR events, and post-game parties, so it’s anyone’s guess who will be at this club. “I practically bleed the stuff,” I admit as I back into a spot and pull up the pay-for-parking app on my phone.
“Hm.”
“It’s gotta be sweet tea, not sweetened tea,” I insist.
He gives me an odd look, and somehow, I know exactly what he is going to say. “There’s a difference?”
“There is a difference,” I state at the same time he asks.
“Are you going to tell me or just let me live in ignorance?”
I narrow my eyes at him because—okay, yeah, he has a point, but he doesn’t have to be such a grump about it. Except, there’s a quirk to his mouth and a glint in his eye that hints at him actually being interested in my next words and—could he be?—teasing to goad me into saying more. Okay, let’s do this.
Fully dedicated to the conversation, I turn in my seat to face him fully. My phone falls forgotten into the cup holder, and the rumbling growl of the engine covers any noise from the clubgoers lingering in the lot or passing by on their way to or from the building. Hendrix mimics my movement. It’s just us—sitting in a car, talking, outside the most lucrative club in Los Angeles.
He holds out his hands in a “Well? I’m waiting” gesture.
I take a deep breath, prepare my argument, and begin with, “Do you like soda?”
Wary, Hendrix nods.
“Imagine this. It’s a hot summer day. We’re out with friends. Maybe we’re at a park, playing tag football in the grassy field by the lake. Water is spraying from the fountain, misting us as we jog for the ball. Or maybe a Frisbee—do you like Frisbee? Anyway, we’re hot and sweaty and lightly misted with some teasingly cool water from the lake fountain. All the girlfriends are sitting on a large picnic blanket, unpacking a red cooler full of?—”
“Why is it red?”
“Because we’re the Rubies. Now, shut up.” I grin to communicate I’m joking, and Hendrix purses his lips to keep from returning it. “The girls all have sandwiches—it’s a cheat day, so they’re stacked with all kinds of carbs. We join them on the blanket, fanning our shirts to fight off the sweltering heat, and grab the sandwiches from our respective girlfriends?—”
“Or boyfriends,” he interjects. I narrow my eyes, and he raises his hands in surrender. “Just trying to be inclusive.”
I let it slide because I appreciate the thought. “So, we take a few bites of our sandwiches. They’re great—of course, because our partners are the best and know what we like—but halfway through, we’re thirsty. So thirsty because it’s hot and the bread is making our mouths dry. ‘No worries,’ say the girlfriends and boyfriends. ‘We have soda.’ They pour huge glasses of soda filled with ice, condensation immediately beading on the outside. It’s ice-cold and fizzy, and our mouths are literally watering at the sight. You take your glass, tip it to your mouth, feel the fizzy bubbles popping on your lips, take a sip, and . . . chew sand.”
Hendrix goes from entirely immersed in the story to scrunching his freckled nose up in repulsion. It’s adorable, and I take a mental snapshot before kicking myself for allowing my thoughts to stray. “The fuck?”
“That’s sweetened tea.”
“. . . What?”
Sighing, I explain. “Once the tea is brewed, it’s hot, so any sugar added to it dissolves. The liquid is smooth like a fresh soda. If you don’t put any sugar and let it cool, that’s unsweet tea. If you go back to the cold unsweet tea and add sugar, it won’t dissolve at all , and that’s sand—I mean, sweetened tea. It’s gross and disappointing.”
He scrutinizes me. “You feel very strongly about this.”
“Every Southerner does.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “No other reason?”
Throat tight, I squeak out a mangled “Nope.”
Hendrix stares at me—hard. It’s dark in the cabin of the car, save for the glow from the dash, the soft blues and greens reflecting against his pale skin and hair, but I catch the exact moment he comes to some conclusion in his head. His grey eyes light up with determination, and he says, “I have a birthmark on my left ear. That’s part of the reason I keep my hair so long. To cover it.”
I blink in surprise. “Wh?—”
“Your turn.”
He . . . He admitted something—something he never would have told me otherwise—to convince me to tell him something about me? Does it mean that much to him? Is he . . . interested to know more about me? Well, we are friends. This is what friends do. It’s what I did that night in our hotel room at the beginning of the season.
“Okay,” I murmur, giving in. I pick at the thread on the steering wheel and keep my eyes on the stitching so I don’t have to face him when I make my confession. “I guess I have to defend it because . . . When I was little, my mom would call me her ‘Sweet T’—like the first letter of my name. You get it. And, I don’t know. Drinking sweet tea or talking about it takes me back to those days as a child. When life was easy and enjoyable and-and not bitter. Before—well, never mind. It’s stupid.”
“Maybe.” Hendrix shrugs as I snap my gaze to look at him. “But so is a haircut to cover a freckle no one else would even notice or care about. It’s important to you, so why should it matter what anyone else thinks?”
“I . . .” am stunned you’re being nice about this , I think to myself. Out loud, I offer a simple “Thanks.”
“No problem . . . Sweet T.”
I drop my head against the seat with a groan. “Please don’t tell the team.”
Hendrix shoots me a wicked grin. “Oh, I am so telling the team.”
“I will shave your hair in your sleep. I swear I will.”
He blanches, and I laugh, sounding like I should be rubbing my hands together like a villain.
But hey, what’s a friendship without some mutually assured destruction?