Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
HENDRIX AVERY
Maybe letting Tahegin convince me to come to Gemini with our teammates wasn’t a good idea. The loud music, the crowded room, and the socialites trying to network are the exact opposite of what I find enjoyable. The club is full of famous people from actors to models—and I hate every second from the moment I step one foot in the door.
But Tahegin . . . I fought with myself the entire bus ride back to Los Angeles, trying to figure out if I should apologize for jerking away during the game or if I should pretend it never happened. I still hadn’t decided when we arrived at the training facility, so I’d planned to get home as quickly as possible to continue beating myself up.
It was strange. I have pissed Micah off plenty of times in the past—as roommates, it was bound to happen—but I’d never sweated over making up. We would brush it off and get over it eventually, no biggie. With Tahegin, my stomach was all in knots about fixing it. I’m secretly glad we haven’t exchanged numbers yet, or I might have sent something embarrassing on the trip home.
Then, my car hadn’t started, and I had been mortified. Tahegin had approached, and . . . It was like the awkward moment on the sideline never happened. That is why I agreed to his proposition for tonight and tomorrow—though I have no idea what I’ve signed up for in the morning. I know it can’t be as bad as this, at least.
I follow Tahegin’s bright shirt and shoes through the throng of handsy clubgoers. Our teammates spot us immediately and drunkenly wave us over with goofy smiles and loud whoops. When we reach their table, Alex slides two drinks in our direction.
“Gin sours for our Gin and Sour,” he proclaims, waving his hands kind of in our direction. “Where have you two been? You gotta get on our level!”
On his level? How old is this guy?
Tahegin sidles up to the high-top table, remaining standing without an available seat. His hand cups one of the glasses, spinning it absently, and he flashes Aleks a toothy smile, just as white as his shirt and shoes—good thing there aren’t any black lights in here. Relaxing with his elbow on the table, Tahegin calls over the music. “No one says that anymore, Kiss. Your age is showing.”
Aleks flips him the middle finger, and our teammates howl with inebriated laughter. I keep a wary eye on Tahegin. He volunteered to be our driver tonight, which I thought meant he wouldn’t be drinking, but he’s holding the gin sour—I roll my eyes at the dumb joke—with a familiar grip. If he takes so much as one sip, I definitely won’t be letting him drive that ridiculously expensive, and super sexy, Camaro home tonight.
“Chug! Chug! Chug!” At the far end of the table, Gallon is guzzling down a whole pitcher of beer, another empty one turned over on its side in front of him. The guys all join in on the chant, and while everyone is distracted, Tahegin smoothly twists to deposit the drink in his hand onto a waitress’ empty tray, flashing her a charming grin to distract from the fact the alcohol is untouched.
Hmph.
He subtly checks his surroundings. Ensuring no one saw? When his gaze meets mine, his mouth quirks up on one side. The crooked grin is almost his usual one, but something about it seems . . . off. Shaky.
He slides the cocktail meant for me a little closer to my hand on the table, and Tahegin’s smile steadies, as if I had imagined the nervousness there a minute ago. “I’m driving tonight.” The glass bumps my pinky. “Drink up.”
? ? ?
Ugh, something tastes like ass.
Licking my teeth, I’m hit with the full force of that horrible taste and realize its place of origin is growing on my tongue. I must not have brushed my teeth last night after . . .
It comes back and flashes. Tahegin’s car. The club. The music. The alcohol .
My stomach turns. I sit up quickly to make a dash for the bathroom, but the movement sends my pulse banging around inside my skull. Desperate, I open my eyes, preparing for an assault of sunlight, and search wildly for my closest option. Drunk me must have had my best interest in mind because the curtains are closed, and there is a freshly lined trash can at the edge of the bed.
I’m puking before my feet even hit the floor.
Thankfully, it’s over as quickly as it began, and I sit hunched over my knees to ensure nothing else tries to come up. While I wait, I take stock of myself. Headache, rolling stomach, seized liver—check. I’m shirtless but still in my jeans and socks, and there’s—gag—a splash of vomit on my right pec.
What the hell happened last night?
I stumble my way to the connecting bathroom, half-blind by eye gunk and swallowing back bile. My bladder screams for release as soon as the toilet comes into view, and I barely get my dick out before I’m pissing hard enough to split rocks. If the team physician were to see the color of my urine right now, I would be benched for a week.
Fuck me. I am never drinking again.
Not bothering to zip my pants, I lean one hip against the ornate marble counter, grab the semi-familiar toothbrush in the cup by the sink, and scrub my mouth until frothy paste is spilling out. Spit. Rinse. Wipe with towel. Wipe vomit off pec with towel. Throw towel on floor. Check reflection in?—
Several square notes are stuck to the mirror—words of affirmation just like the ones I saw in Tahegin’s bag in the hotel room last Saturday. Okay, so he has these with him at away games and brings them home to put them on the mirror in his bathroom.
His bathroom.
A throat clears behind me. “It was time for a new toothbrush anyway,” Tahegin quips.
I meet his eyes in the mirror, then spin around to face him. “Shit. I didn’t realize I was in your room, not the guest room.”
He takes a bite of a delicious-looking croissant sandwich, and his gaze flicks down my front before coming back up. “Breakfast and a show?”
Following the path his eyes took, I realize I left my pants unbuttoned and unzipped, and my morning wood has finally realized what time it is. My waistband is halfway down my ass and hips, only being held up by the tent in the front. Tahegin has a clear view of my trimmed mound and veiny root. “Sorry,” I croak, pure gravel, and reach down to close my pants.
“I’m not complaining,” Tahegin jokes and takes a sip of the coffee in his hand. He sets the croissant on top of the mug, rests his shoulder against the doorjamb, and grins in my direction. “How are you feeling?”
I rub my aching eyes. “Like I drank too much.”
“Actually, you didn’t drink that much. It seems you’re just a lightweight.”
“Hmph.” The thing is, he’s probably right. Since socializing isn’t really my thing, I never spent a lot of time drinking in college. I only drank when Micah practically forced me, and even then, it was usually beer. “Next time, I’ll drive. You can drink with your friends.”
“Oh, no worries. We’ll just work on your tolerance. Also, they’re your friends, too.”
Is he . . . deflecting?
“I made coffee and breakfast. Come downstairs when you’re ready.” He disappears suspiciously fast, and I conclude that, yes, he is trying to avoid talking about something.
My gaze catches on the notes on the mirror, specifically on the one mentioning his pills. Maybe he didn’t want me asking about the notes or the meds. Although I’m definitely curious, I won’t ask because it is a personal matter, which I respect. He will tell me about it if he ever wants to.
Tahegin has thought of everything—pretty sure he is the reason the curtains were closed and the trash can, which is now empty, was poised perfectly at the bedside—and I find my duffle bag in the oversized chair in the corner of his bedroom. Digging through it, I quickly discover that when I packed for this weekend, I didn’t plan on needing extra clothes. I refuse to wear the same pair of underwear for more than a day, and my jeans smell like I slept on top of a bar. So, I make myself familiar with his closet, grab what I think will fit, and take advantage of his ridiculously oversized shower with all three of its showerheads. Once I no longer reek of vomit and booze, I dress and head downstairs to find Tahegin on the back patio, feet propped up while he scrolls on his phone. The sun is barely over the skyline, which means it is exactly too-damn-early o’clock.
“I would have bagged the trash and brought it down,” I tell him as I sink into a lounger on the opposite side of the table from him.
He smiles at me, genuine as always, blue eyes sparkling in the morning light. “No worries, Rix. Seriously. I have had my fair share of bad mornings, and the least helpful thing is having to clean up puke.”
“At least it wasn’t applesauce, right?” I joke.
That smile drops immediately, and Tahegin’s bronze face turns a sickly green.
I frantically hold my hands out, not knowing how to help. “Oh, God, I’m sorry! It was meant to be a joke, but I wasn’t thinking. I am a horrible friend, I know. Fuck, I’m the worst. Do you want to get me back? Laugh at me for something?” What the hell am I doing? I have never stressed like this with Micah. “My birthmark? Here, look.” I pull back my damp hair and show him my left ear, where a pencil eraser-sized mark the color of a coffee stain on paper mars my flesh. “My mom always said that was God telling her where to pinch me when I was bad, which was—” I break off abruptly.
What the fuck am I saying? I haven’t spoken a word about my mother in years , but now I’m bringing her up completely unprompted. Something has to be wrong with me. Like, seriously wrong. Like, call an ambulance wrong, because?—
“—your birthmark?”
I realize I missed everything Tahegin just said. Didn’t even know he was talking. My brain was being too loud. “What?”
He points at my ear, though the mark is covered again by my hair. “ That is your embarrassing birthmark? It’s a freckle, man. Here I was thinking you had a big ol’ mole or something.”
“It is embarrassing,” I defend, putting my hand over the offending ear.
“It’s not raised or anything. There isn’t even a hair growing in the center. It’s literally just a color change on your skin.” He stares at me, lips parted, a look of disbelief on his face.
“Whatever,” I grumble.
The patio falls into silence as I pick at breakfast and sip coffee. I compliment his cooking; he offers me headache medicine. It’s all very cordial. And hella awkward.
“Do you want to talk about her?” he asks softly after studying me for a few minutes.
I snort under my breath. “Fuck no.”
Tahegin ducks his head, trying to meet my downcast gaze. “Not even a good memory you want to share?”
Draining the rest of my coffee, I suck on my teeth. “If I had a good one to share, T, I’d share it with you. Trust me when I say there isn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it, too.
“Don’t be. Sorry doesn’t change the past.”
“Fuck,” Tahegin hisses under his breath. “How is it that I always manage to fuck up with you?”
His words make me pause. He thinks he always fucks up with me? I’m the one who is always messing up. “No, T.” I shake my head. “ I’m always messing up around you .”
“What?”
We meet each other’s eyes, mirroring shared confusion.
“Yesterday at the game,” I begin.
“Right,” he jumps in. “I overstepped and touched your hand. I shouldn’t have.”
My eyes widen with shock. “No! I yanked my hand away. It was a dick move. It . . . it upset you.”
“I was upset with myself for making you uncomfortable.”
“I shouldn’t have been uncomfortable. It was a harmless touch. I felt bad for—well, feeling weird about it, I guess.”
Tahegin holds up his hands, stopping our circular reasoning. “Okay, wait. We both feel bad about what happened for some reason or other. As you said, sorry doesn’t change the past, so I’ll be more mindful of touching in public?—”
“—and I won’t be so jumpy.” I add in my two cents, nodding in agreement. “Wow, we just rocked that. A-plus for . . . What was it?”
He laughs, flashing a crooked smile at my words. “Communication, Rix. We just sat down and talked about our feelings.”
My mouth forms an O. “Huh.” Then, “Are we done? That was a lot of . . . feelings.” The word feels drunk on my tongue. I don’t often think about feelings, much less talk about them. Hell, I rarely talk . About anything.
“Yeah,” he says with a grin and a soft chuckle. “No more feelings for now.” Standing, Tahegin stretches his arms out and up, exposing a strip of skin at his waist. He’s wearing a pair of stained jeans and an old college T-shirt, not his usual look at all. “You ready? We’re already running late.”
I stand, too. “Late for what, exactly? And I borrowed some clothes. Hope that’s okay.” I’d gone for the cheapest stuff I could find—some old grey sweatpants and a Rubies practice jersey from his rookie season. The pants are rolled at the hips and ankles, and it’s obvious I’m free-balling, but whatever. The jersey kind of fits.
The apple in his throat bobs as he swallows, eyes looking over me before snapping to meet mine. “You look fine. Let’s go.”
Following him to the garage, I’m surprised when he chooses his least expensive car—a crossover SUV made a few years ago. I take the passenger seat, buckle in, and watch the passing buildings with growing anticipation. I’m not familiar with the neighborhood we end up in. It’s not quite rich but not far from the Housing Authority or my apartment.
He pulls into a parking lot, and the sign out front is impossible to miss. My eyebrow quirks, but I remain silent as we park and head inside.
The lobby is nice but small, barely enough room on this side of the counter for Tahegin and me to stand with a comfortable distance between us. A few outdated posters are scattered along the walls, but the one behind the front desk is newer—at least in the last four years. How do I know? Because Tahegin is standing in the center of the poster, wearing Rubies merch and holding a fluffy, scowling cat.
“Miguelito, my man.” Tahegin leans over the counter to clasp hands and one-arm hug the kid behind the counter. By kid, I mean he’s probably fifteen or sixteen. “How are you?”
The kid—Miguelito—pulls back from the hug, smiling wide. He’s wearing an oversized Rubies shirt that has seen better days, so I assume he is quite a fan of Tahegin. “You’re late, which means my old lady is back there cleaning the kennels. You know what that means, bro? Means I get to hear her complaining about a broken nail all day.”
Tahegin claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll make it up to her. And I was late because my friend is not a morning person.” He gestures to me, and Miguelito finally looks my way.
“Hey, you’re Hendrix Avery.”
I needlessly adjust the backward cap on my head, trying to cover the strange feeling I get at being recognized because I’m on a professional football team. “Hey.”
I swear I can feel Tahegin’s eyes rolling.
Thankfully, Miguelito isn’t as judgy as my friend. He continues as if my simple greeting is an invitation for more conversation. “That catch you made against the Hellhounds—Wow! Seriously, you caught the ball behind that defender’s back! Insane, bro!” He makes the “mind blown” gesture on either side of his head, accompanying it with an explosion sound effect.
Heat blooms across my cheeks at the praise. This won’t be a common occurrence, will it? I mean, there can’t be that many people out there who care about a rookie wide receiver. “Thanks,” I mutter as Tahegin shoots me a look that clearly says ‘ say something ’. I nervously rub the back of my neck. Should I be saying something else?
“Oh, good. You’re here,” an accented feminine voice says from a doorway I hadn’t noticed. She’s obviously Miguelito’s mother, though with her flawless caramel skim and long, ebony hair, she hardly looks a day over thirty. “It’s about time, too. I broke a nail on the first kennel I cleaned.”
“Sorry, Rosa.” Tahegin crosses the small room to hug her, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I owe you a trip to the nail salon, but for now, we’re here to work. Put us where you need us.”
And she does. I follow them through the back rooms to the kennels, ignoring all the puppy dog eyes from the strays in favor of wondering about Tahegin’s history here. Clearly, they know him well and expect him to arrive on time for . . . volunteer work? He’s on a promotional poster for the shelter, he knows the workers by name, and he even greets some of the dogs by name as we pass their kennels. How is no one talking about his work here? It definitely wasn’t mentioned in his documentary— not that I watched it—and there hasn’t been any coverage of his work here. So, what’s his play? Why does he do this?
I spray a water hose over the concrete floor as Tahegin uses a rubber push brush to get rid of a German shepherd puppy’s waste from last night. Filling the silence that’s fallen upon us, Tahegin explains the trough running through the floor outside each kennel. Apparently, it leads out to the yard and empties directly into a makeshift septic—a large trash can with drain holes and river rocks that is buried in the earth. It’s stocked with bacteria, similar to that found in a septic system to absorb waste.
A few kennels in, we cross paths with an Aussie puppy with wiggly butt syndrome. Tahegin goes to his knees on the concrete floor, abandoning all work ethic to scratch the dog behind its soft, fluffy ears. He coos at the thing as it slobbers and licks all over him. When he stands, the knees of his jeans are wet—with water from the hose, not anything gross, thankfully.
He smiles at me. Well, probably because of the dog rubbing against his legs while he pets it, but he’s looking at me when he does it. “Why are you standing in the corner? Come here. Princess won’t bite.”
“I’ve never had a dog, but even I know Princess is a way overused name.”
Gasping, Tahegin puts his palms over Princess’ ears. “How dare you? Princess deserves love and respect because she is adorable. Aren’t you? Yes, you are.” His attention returns to the dog as he ruffles her fur all over and talks in an annoying baby voice. “Who is the prettiest, goodest girl ever? Huh? You are!”
He gets up close and personal with her snout, and I catch a glimpse of sharp teeth. “Watch out!” But instead of biting his face off, the puppy just slobbers all over it.
“Hey.” His voice is calm as he meets my gaze, his smile unwavering. “It’s okay. She’s just playing.” Then, his head cocks to the side—not unlike a puppy—and he studies me. “You’ve never had a dog?”
“Pets are a liability for foster homes.”
“Have you ever pet a dog?”
“No.” And I don’t want to. Those teeth are huge, and I have seen the damage they can do when they attack—on cop TV shows, at least.
He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dry, Rix. It’s just you and me—and Princess. Come on, step out of your comfort zone for a minute. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
With anyone else, I would have no trouble saying no, but with Tahegin . . . He’s looking up at me with those blue eyes impossibly wide, his head tilted slightly, and his full lips in a half pout, and I?—
My hand barely extends from my side before Princess starts running at me. I unintentionally yelp and cram my body against the concrete wall as those big teeth get closer. “T! Ah!” I look away, blind panic making my heart race. This is it. This is how I go?—
Something warm and wet traces my palm, and while the feeling is not pleasant, it doesn’t hurt either.
I peek out from beneath one squinted eye.
Wiggly Butt sits—barely—at my feet, panting with her tongue rolling to the side. Saliva drips from her jowls, and the part of my hand where she licked turns cold. It’s gross, but at least she didn’t kill me . . .
Tahegin takes my hand and ever so gently moves it closer to Princess until her soft fur is sticking to the slobber on my palm. Holding my wrist, he moves my hand in an awkward pet along her body. It’s . . . soothing, I guess.
Yeah. It’s not too bad.
Down the hall, a door opens, and a large plastic bag crinkles. Princess—and every other dog in the shelter—freaks the fuck out, jumping and barking for no reason. I let out another shriek of fear and instinctively huddle close to Tahegin. “What the fuck?”
His hand finds my nape, holding it reassuringly. “Calm down,” he murmurs gently with his mouth near my ear. “They’re just excited because they hear their breakfast. It’s okay.”
And I’ll be damned if his voice doesn’t draw me back from the edge with ease.