Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
HENDRIX AVERY
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not looking at you any type of way.”
Tahegin levels his gaze on me in a way that clearly says he isn’t buying my bullshit. He lowers his side of the couch to the floor, effectively halting our furniture arranging.
We’d gotten a quick lunch after leaving the shelter, and then Tahegin ushered me into his dusted grey truck, where he basically kidnapped me. I had no idea where we were going or what we were doing until he parked in front of a nice apartment building near the team’s practice facility. He told me that a lot of guys on the team had stayed there for at least a few months when they first signed on while getting settled in Los Angeles. After a tour, I liked the place well enough—and the monthly rent was reasonable—so I went ahead and signed. Apparently, having money and playing as a professional athlete comes with perks like same-day move-in.
We’d gone to a giant furniture and appliance store next. I’m not a fan of shopping, but this place had full rooms set up, which made buying easy. Tahegin and I had—probably too much—fun sitting on every piece of furniture, testing every TV, and jumping on every mattress. The store managed to get us same- day delivery on most of the stuff, so Tahegin and I have spent the rest of the afternoon putting together shelves and arranging furniture.
We are putting the couch on the wall across from the mounted TV—because of course we mounted the TV before doing anything else—when Tahegin drops his side to stand with his arms crossed, staring at me knowingly. “Spill.”
“Spill what?” I grunt as I set my side of the couch down once it’s clear he has no intention of picking it back up. The couch is just going to have to stay in the center of the room for now.
“You—”
A knock on the door cuts him off, and I gladly cross the room to open it. I have a feeling I know what he was going to say. It’s difficult to admit even to myself, but I’m . . . curious.
I want to ask him personal questions, and that’s getting to me. Anything I know about Micah is from him volunteering the information, and anything he knows about me was accidentally admitted. This is entirely new territory for me. Territory that, frankly, I don’t want to want to put the effort into.
The problem is part of me—an annoyingly large part—does want to put the effort into knowing more about Tahegin.
“Delivery for— Oh my God. You’re Tahegin Ellingsworth.” The takeout guy barely has his eyes off the receipt when he spots the man standing behind me.
I peer over my shoulder and give him a look that says, “Really? Delivery guys recognize you?” Tahegin’s not even wearing any Rubies merch; I am. “And I’m Hendrix Avery.” I gesture at the to-go bag. “I ordered the food.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He scrambles to pull himself together. I’d guess he’s college-aged. Maybe plays football, too. Maybe he wants to make it big. Probably doesn’t have the talent. “Here you go . . .” He trails off, gaze lingering on my Rubies cap, which has spun around to face forward at some point. His finger points at me, mouth gaping in awe. “Are you?—”
“Starving? Yep.” Smacking a cash tip into his outstretched palm, I slam the door in his face.
Tahegin purses his lips at me. At first, I think he’s holding back from calling me an asshole lacking civility and decorum—he wouldn’t be the first—but then I see the way his mouth twitches upward at the corners. He looks at the floor, even turns away to try to keep me from seeing.
Key word: try.
My whole life, people have complained how unpleasant I am to be around. The foster parents and foster kids at the homes where I stayed used to blame my attitude on the way I ended up as a ward of the state. But, no, I had a grumpy attitude even before my parents walked me into the local family services office when I was ten years old and said I wasn’t worth their time anymore.
Maybe my grumpiness is why they left.
Tahegin, though . . . He’s never tried to change me, never asked what is wrong with me, or asked why I can’t just be happy like a normal person. He’s tried to break through my tough exterior, yes, but he has never tried to change the way I am.
In fact, my attitude just made him smile.
Do I know what to do with that information? No. I do not.
“Hey, you good?” Tahegin’s smooth drawl pulls me from my thoughts. I hadn’t realized I’d zoned out, but now my gaze travels to where he sits on the uncentered couch, the takeout containers spread on the coffee table in front of him. He has connected his phone to the TV, and the downloaded game film we’re supposed to study for this Sunday is already playing. Everything is ready. He’s just waiting on me.
Giving a single nod, I round the table to sit beside Tahegin on the empty cushion. He’d suggested a vegan Chinese restaurant, and though I’m skeptical, I have to admit the food smells delicious.
He lets me indulge a few bites before he asks, “What’s on your mind?”
“How . . . did you”— why isn’t my mouth working? —“get started with the—at the?—”
“Are you trying to ask about my history with the animal shelter?” Neither his smile nor his tone of voice is condescending; he just sounds . . . friendly.
I stuff my mouth with food so I don’t have to answer, giving him a noncommittal “Mhm.”
He chuckles under his breath, but it doesn’t come across as rude. It almost seems as if he’s enjoying this weird moment. We were both laughing while goofing off at the furniture store earlier, so I could understand his smiles then. Now, it’s only me here to entertain him, yet he still appears to be just as interested and invested in the time we are spending together. “Well,” he begins around a mouthful of chewed food. It’s gross and annoying—so why are my lips twitching up at the corners? “My rookie year, the team did a promotional charity event. We do one every year, but that particular one happened to be at the animal shelter. I had fun at the event, so I went back a few months later,” he says. “Our media coverage worked in that people came and adopted animals, but over half of them were surrendered back to the shelter by the time I got around to checking up on them. I decided to offer my help by volunteering rather than promoting because I didn’t want to be the reason animals got returned by people who just thought it was cool to get a pet when a famous football player said to.”
Letting his words settle in my brain, I busy myself eating the eggplant stir-fry and tofu with broccoli. My college team used to do promotional community events back when I was playing for them, but I never stopped to consider what happened after we left. If the local soup kitchen was short-staffed before we helped serve one night, they were probably short-staffed every night after, too. Had we done any good? Or was it just a way to make the college look good for one evening?
“I can hear the gears turning.” Tahegin nudges me with his elbow, and I drag my eyes from my food to see him easily stuff a bite of rice into his mouth with chopsticks. Of course, he’s perfect with literally the hardest utensils to eat rice with. “Rix?”
“Want a beer?” I ask too quickly, practically cutting him off. Without waiting for a response, I stand, carefully weave through the mess of boxes on the floor, and grab two bottles from the fridge. We’d stopped by my old apartment to grab what few belongings I needed to bring here. Though I left my raggedy mattress behind, I wasn’t about to leave my beer. It’s the one vice I allow myself around my strict athlete diet, so I try not to waste it if possible.
Sitting on the couch again, I pop the caps off using the edge of my new coffee table, eyeing the tiny dents they leave behind in the wood. I mentally check off “break in new furniture” from my list and ponder the next way to leave my mark on the new place. Maybe toothpaste splatter on the bathroom mirror . . . I absently take a heavy swig of beer while sliding the second bottle across the table for Tahegin.
I half stifle a burp, blowing the heat of it over my shoulder furthest from Tahegin to be polite. On the TV, the gameplay clips of our opponents for Sunday continue, and I feel my eyebrow quirk in interest as one of their tight ends makes a beautiful route. “Damn. That guy is going to be tough to cover. Is the D-line ready?”
When Tahegin doesn’t respond, I glance to my right to see him sitting motionless, eyes locked on the beer bottle in front of him. His lips are parted, as if he’d frozen a moment before speaking, and I swear he hasn’t blinked since I opened the refrigerator.
“T?” I ask, waving my hand in front of his face. “Hello?”
He startles and snaps his gaze to me. “Huh?”
Gesturing at the screen with my beer bottle, I reiterate my question. “That Pirates tight end—Kennedy. Is your D-line prepared to cover him? Dude’s a missile on the field.”
“Oh. Yeah. He and Conroy are legends. It’ll be tough,” he replies but still seems lost in his own world. Usually, when we talk opponents, he is in it one hundred percent, especially if we’re talking about household names like Kane Kennedy and Nathaniel Conroy. That dynamic duo is the best this league has seen in a while. The Pirates are always a for sure when it comes to playoff contenders. A few years ago, before they lost a couple of strong players, they even won the Super Bowl.
I eye Tahegin, wondering why he isn’t contributing more to the conversation. Is he nervous about the game? His gaze keeps flickering to the bottle on the table, so maybe . . . “Do you not like light?” I point at the beer. I personally don’t prefer light, but with what I do for a living, it’s better to drink it instead of regular. Still, I do keep some on hand for when I’m in a particular mood. “I might have a regular?—”
He waves a hand dismissively and pushes the bottle closer to me. “Nah. You go ahead. I don’t—ah . . . I don’t need it.”
“Dude, if any day is a cheat day”—I shake the carton of stir-fry in my hand—“it’s today. One won’t kill you.” To prove my point, I take another large gulp, savoring the creamy, bitter taste. I let out a satisfied “ ahh ” and lick my lips.
All of a sudden, Tahegin goes from sitting statue-still to leaning forward, elbows on his knees as his hands drag over his face. “One—” He releases a dry and bitter bark of laughter far from humor. “It might.” His voice is a pained whisper and partially muffled by his palms.
What— Oh. “The anxiety meds?” I hesitantly ask, remembering Micah had once said something about not drinking in excess while taking them. He’d never turned down just one beer, though.
Tahegin’s eyes snap to me, posture stiffening. “How do you?—”
“I saw them,” I admit sheepishly. “Your bag was unzipped on the bathroom counter at the hotel. I thought—um, well—I thought maybe they were—ahem—performance enhancing . . . I wanted to make sure you weren’t . . . using.” I wince. “It sounds worse when I say it out loud, but I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need help or anything. The bottles had your name on them, so I put them back as soon as I realized. I recognized one of them as an anti-anxiety Micah takes. I don’t know about the others—just that they aren’t narcotics.”
“You’re right. They aren’t.” He sits back and crosses his arms, rubbing his biceps. It isn’t at all cold, so I can only assume he is unconsciously seeking comfort. In an act of . . . something—feelings, I don’t know—I scoot over on the couch until our thighs touch and put my hand on his knee the way he has done to me countless times to be supportive. His glassy blue eyes snap down to look at my hand before shooting back up to my face. He worries his lower lip between his teeth. Searches my eyes. Rubs his arms. Then, shocking the absolute shit out of me, he blurts, “They’re antidepressants.”
I blink and—God help me—can’t stop my gaze from dropping to his arms. Stupid, stupid . I am such an idiot. I know depression doesn’t automatically mean someone self-harms or has harmed themselves in the past, and I know Tahegin’s arms are completely smooth, save for the raised veins running up and down them. He doesn’t have any scars. I know that. I don’t know why I looked.
Because you’re an idiot , my brain helpfully explains.
Tahegin, of course, notices the glance. He smiles wryly. “No. Self-harm wasn’t my vice. It was . . .” Blue eyes drift to the beer bottle on the table.
The one I had gotten for him.
And now he’s saying . . . “Fuck me,” I breathe. “I am a fucking asshole, aren’t I? Literally the worst friend.”
“You didn’t know.”
Standing abruptly, I gather both bottles and stalk to the trash can, throwing them away, as well as the ones from the fridge. No more booze around Tahegin.
“Rix, no. You don’t have to?—”
“Our teammates call you Gin,” I interrupt as the realization hits me. “Is it because they— Well, if they knew, they wouldn’t call you that, would they? But how do they not know . . .”
He shakes his head. “They don’t know. I’ve—uh—I have been s-sober—God, even after all this time, it’s still hard to say out loud—five and a half years.” I start to mentally tally that, but Tahegin beats me to the punch. “My freshman year of college.”
My mouth is suddenly impossibly dry, as if the beer did more harm than good. I rest my hands on the kitchen counter, needing the extra support all of a sudden. “Was it . . .” I have to pause to clear gravel from my throat. It doesn’t work, so I grab a mug—I don’t have any glasses yet—from the cabinet, fill it with tap water, and guzzle it down. “How bad?”
“Bad,” he croaks in a broken whisper, hanging his head.
One won’t kill you.
It might.
“And you’re fine with the team calling you Gin?” I ask, aghast. “If it was me, that would be a stab to the back every time.”
My question is met with a hard gaze, more malice than I have seen from him even on the field during an intense game. “Did I say I like the nickname?” he hisses. “But how could I have told them that four years ago without telling them about . . . Anyway, it’s been so long, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“T . . .” My words fail me, and then I’m crossing the distance between us, and I’m bending at the waist to put my arms around him, fumbling to find a comfortable hold. After a second, I settle with my biceps resting on his shoulders, a hand on the back of his head, the other between his shoulder blades.
See, I can be a good friend. I can be supportive.
His face presses into my chest, eyelashes fluttering against my collarbone, and he wraps his arms around my waist, crossing them at my lower back. It’s an awkward angle for both of us, but I don’t dare pull back yet. Tahegin is my friend, so I will be here as long as he needs me to be. The hug is . . . different, though the way we have been practicing contact—sitting in bed together while I teach him signs, bro hugs on the field, and even high fives—has warmed me up a bit to being this close to him.
It’s quiet, save for the gameplay softly spewing from the television. My back complains at the awkwardly bent angle of my body, but I’m still not pulling away. Not when Tahegin’s hold is getting tighter. Not when the rise of his back stutters ever so gently. Not when a drop of something warm lands on my collarbone.
“Dammit, T,” I mutter. “Don’t cry. I don’t know what the fuck to do when someone cries.”
His arms tighten across my back even more, hands splaying on my hips, gripping like I’m the only thing holding him to the present. “This,” he whispers into my chest. “This helps.”
I clear my throat, not sure how to phrase my next question. “And . . . what does one do when their back hurts while doing”—I shrug my shoulders—“ this ?”
Without a word spoken, Tahegin crushes me in his arms, and I barely manage to keep myself upright as he leverages my body up while leaning back into the couch pillows. I scramble for purchase, releasing one hand to grab the back of the couch. My knee knocks his before settling on the cushion beside him. The other . . . It’s either half kneel on the couch with one foot extended or bring my awkwardly hovering knee to the other side of him and straddle his lap. Before I can choose one or the other, Tahegin tugs me even closer, and I’m forced to lift my remaining leg from the floor. I carefully set my knee on the cushion, body tense with uncertainty. The stiff position is not any better on my back.
“Relax,” he murmurs, tugging down on my waist.
I hesitantly lower, and lower, and lower my hips until I am . . . sitting on Tahegin’s lap. Honestly, I expect to hate the position, to undoubtedly cringe and pull away, but for some reason, I don’t. It actually isn’t that bad.
I am blaming that thought on the beer.
Hey, at least my back feels better.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. My gaze is stuck on the wall behind the couch as I try not to freak out about the fact that I am straddling another man.
A friend, I remind myself. He’s my friend.
“You don’t have to listen to my sob story,” he tells my chest.
I can’t ignore the sniffle he lets out, but my stupid brain won’t let me say, “I don’t mind listening”—like saying those words would physically hurt me. I can, however, default to what I do know how to do: give Tahegin a piece of me in exchange for a piece of him. Taking a deep breath, I say, “It’s hard having a big dick.”
Tahegin jerks back to stare at me with shocked and confused eyes, and—okay, well, maybe that wasn’t the best icebreaker, but like hell am I about to talk about my parents abandoning me on a fucking Thursday afternoon at the family services building. I am not ready for that yet. “Wha?—”
“I haven’t told anyone this. Not even Micah,” I continue, appearing unfazed, despite how my chest fills with relief when the moisture is blinked away from his bright blue eyes. “But my package is so big it’s difficult to find boxers that fit comfortably. Sometimes, it’s easier to just go commando. And I get weird looks in locker rooms. Not, like, leering but . . . jealous, maybe? They just don’t know how much of a burden it is. Found out the hard way to take my hookups in the bathroom of a club instead of bringing someone home just for her to look down and go ‘no, thank you.’ Sex ed did not prepare me for being turned down for having a big dick.” Tahegin keeps staring at me, lips slowly parting wider and wider as I go on and on. “It looks big when it’s soft, but the kicker is, it grows, too. When I get hard, it goes from—” Something bumps beneath my thigh. “What was that?”
Those big blue eyes get impossibly bigger. “Nothing!”
“T, what—” I lean back and look down, and—oh. Oh. He’d changed into a pair of Rubies joggers after we left the animal shelter, and currently, they are doing nothing to conceal the situation inside them. “Dude, are you?—”
He moves an arm from my waist to put his palm over my mouth, giving me a serious look. “Okay,” he begins, intensely calm. “I like dick, and you just spent the last five minutes talking about one, so yes, my body reacted. Not to you—just the topic of conversation.”
I stare at him until he slowly peels his hand from my mouth. “I am literally talking about how girls turn me down because it’s so big.”
Eyes are naturally drawn to movement, so both of us glance down as there is another twitch in the red fabric between us.
God help me, my curiosity piques. Is his reaction only because of the topic of conversation or something more? Is it . . . the size of the topic? “Do you?—”
He cuts me off again, which is probably for the best. Who knows where my question was going? “I started drinking in my junior year of high school,” he says in a rush without preamble. “My first drink was at a party after a game. I had already been diagnosed with depression a year prior and had been taking my medications religiously. You really aren’t supposed to drink on the meds, much less in excess. I told myself I was only doing it to celebrate with my friends. Then, I was only stealing from my parents’ liquor cabinet to contribute to the parties . . . And then told myself that I was only drinking the stolen alcohol alone in my bedroom to work on my tolerance so no one would call me a lightweight. I went to school hung over quite a bit, but I had it controlled for the most part. At least, that’s what I told myself. It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I decided I wasn’t depressed anymore.”
Forgetting all about our earlier conversation, I absently settle on his lap once more. “Does it work like that?” Somehow, my hands have found his shoulders, and I soothe my thumbs along his collarbones. He relaxes slightly into my touch. “Once you’re diagnosed, can it go away?”
Lips rolled between his teeth, Tahegin shakes his head. “Situational depression—like after the loss of a loved one—can be treated and get better. Clinical depression is different. I have a chemical imbalance in my brain that will never fix itself. The doctors say it can be hereditary, but I have no way of confirming that.” He quirks a wry smile, and I want to ask why not. The foster system had my shitty parents’ information when I asked for it. Why not for him? “Anyway, I took my pills less and less, drank more and more, and then . . . I don’t know.”
His brows furrow, and his jaw clenches, working the muscle in his cheek. I can tell he has more to say, but it’s clearly painful to talk about, much less speak aloud. Knowing all I can do is provide support, I melt completely into him. My knees bracket his hips, the back of my thighs line the top of his, my ass nestles in his lap, and I continue the smooth motion of my hands on his shoulders. I keep my attention solely on him, as if the entire world has stopped to give him as much time as he needs.
“I woke up.” His voice breaks, and his eyes brim with unformed tears. He sniffs hard, sounding as if he needs a tissue. I don’t even have toilet paper in my new apartment, so he’s out of luck there. “I woke up in the hospital. Apparently, I downed a bottle of pills and chased ’em with a bottle of whiskey. I . . . I don’t even remember doing it.” He’s all shaky whispers at this point. “I keep hoping one day I’ll recall swallowing the pills and booze or at least remember why I did it. Truth is, I don’t know if it was an attempt or a cry for help or what. My family would like to know the answer, too, I think, but I don’t have it. At this point, I will probably never know.”
Sniffling, he wipes under his eyes, where tears have finally begun to escape. “I got sober. The day I woke up to my family sitting beside the hospital bed, I swore to them and myself that I wouldn’t drink again. And I would take my medicine. My parents made a big donation to the college, and I magically finished out the year, even though I wasn’t functioning at my best.” He pulls a face. “I guess being rich does help sometimes.”
“You’ve kept your promise for five and a half years? That’s admirable.”
He nods. “Haven’t had a sip since. I, uh, did skip a dose of my meds once, though.” Blue eyes sheepishly meet mine. “The first away game we roomed together, I didn’t want to have to explain the bottles, so I didn’t take my pills that morning before the game. It was a big mistake. I felt off for, like, a week after. I have been taking them since, just tried to be discreet about it whenever we roomed together. I don’t . . . I don’t want to be defined by my diagnosis.”
I grip his shoulders and give him a small shake. “Dude.” I stare straight into his eyes to show how serious I am when I say, “You are literally the most happy-go-lucky guy I know. Swear to God, you could be a spokesperson for Sesame Street .”
Tahegin bursts out laughing, making me chuckle, too. “ Sesame Street ? Where the fuck did that come from?”
“I don’t know,” I laugh. “It just came out. I guess because kids are always happy and giggly? Fuck if I know.”
Still grinning, he pushes on my stomach. “Get up, fat ass. My legs are asleep,” he complains with amusement. I carefully maneuver myself off him. “Speaking of sleep, you don’t have a mattress here yet. Do you want to crash at mine again?”
“Well, I was going to sleep on the couch, but after the conversation we just had, like hell am I letting you go home alone tonight.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes. “You don’t have to come simply because you’re worried I’ll fall off the wagon. I’m okay on my own.”
I suck on my teeth, practicing my contact skills by clapping his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. I’m also going because your bed is heavenly.”
“Uh-huh. My bed,” he clarifies. “The guest bed isn’t quite as luxurious”—he stretches his back with a wince—“trust me.”
Ah. So that’s where he slept last night. Good to know.
The part of my mind that had wondered if he’d slept on the other half of the bed I’d commandeered last night wasn’t ever actually upset at the idea.
Huh. Also good to know . . . I think.