Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
The game on Sunday is amazing.
Not only am I in a good mood because of last night—Hendrix and I spent the entire evening in our hotel room in Miami with the balcony door open, listening to and smelling the ocean, sitting in one of the beds in our usual fashion, and practicing my sign language by telling childhood stories and stupid jokes—but because our team is killing it in Shipwrecked stadium. Sure, the Pirates are giving us a run for our money, but what a great fucking run it is.
I’m zigzagging down the field, covering the star tight end with a powerful man-to-man matchup. Kennedy is good, but after months of being tested by Hendrix’s skill, I can keep up with the sharp turns and dynamic routes better than ever.
And once Hendrix starts signing helpful information to me from the sideline, I am unstoppable. He tells me when Kennedy eyes a particular yard line for a lingering moment after the huddle. He tells me when Conroy’s gaze hits Kennedy more than once before the snap. He tells me everything he sees, all by discreetly signing near his waist when no one is looking.
When Hendrix takes the field, he matches my fierce energy. Whereas last week, he was only targeted twice during the game, this week, he is Aleks’ go-to guy. He makes beautiful, solid catches every chance he gets.
He’s on fire. I’m on fire.
I get a pick; he reaches over a hundred receiving yards.
I recover a fumble; he comes on the field to score a touchdown on the very next drive.
It’s like magic.
We lose, but goddamn did we play hard.
? ? ?
“Is your friend coming tonight?” Aleks slurs, slinging an arm over my shoulder and leaning heavily on me. “The sour to your gin,” he singsongs with a dopey smile, followed by a burp.
I shrug, which proves difficult to accomplish with a football player hanging on me. “Don’t know. I invited him, though.”
“I need another drink,” Aleks pouts while staring into his empty red cup. When he gets this inebriated, there is no possible way to carry an actual conversation with him, so I simply hold out my hand for his plastic cup. He gives it without question. We have done this enough times over the past years to have a routine.
Excusing myself from the group, I head for Aleks’ kitchen, where all the booze is piled on the counter. Half-assed Halloween decorations are lying about, some stuck on the cabinets, some on the floor after falling off their cheap stickies, and some not even out of the package. That’s Aleks, though. He gets distracted by anything that is the least bit shiny.
I pour myself a soda and then fill his cup with Coke and rum. Just as I pick the drinks up to take them back to Aleks outside, two people appear in front of me. One is dressed in a shimmery white, sexy bunny costume, but I barely pay him any attention as my eyes lock with stormy grey ones. “Hey”— why am I smiling so wide? —“I didn’t think you were gonna make it.”
Hendrix gives me an up-nod in acknowledgment, a far cry from the small quirk of his mouth I usually get in greeting. “Punt Bunny had to get his outfit just right,” he explains their tardiness with a thumb jabbed in Micah’s direction. I can admit Micah looks good in his short shorts, halter top, bunny ears settled on his lavender-colored hair, and drawn-on nose and whiskers. His skin is glittery, and his clothes sparkle with sequins. My eyes, however, are drawn to Hendrix, who is dressed in all black with a pair of red devil horns on a headband in his hair.
“I can’t believe you actually dressed up,” I confess to Hendrix, completely shocked. “I figured you would think it was lame.”
“It is,” he grouses and folds his arms over his chest in a way that has his black long-sleeved shirt pulling tight across his shoulders and biceps. “Micah made me.”
The aforementioned Punt Bunny leans in to tell Hendrix, “I’m gonna go mingle. Okay, byyyeee.” He scurries off without waiting for a response.
Ignoring his friend’s departure, Hendrix eyes me. He has his guard up for some reason, and the way he’s working his jaw makes me think he wants me to ask him what is on his mind.
I lift an eyebrow and tip my head toward him. “You okay?”
He grunts.
Rolling my eyes, I lean my hip against the counter and give him the look . The one that says, “Are you really trying to play this game with me? Boy, I have had you figured out since day one.”
“Rix, seriously.”
Despite most of the partygoers being out back where the DJ and pool are, Hendrix steps in close as if he is in danger of being overheard. Hardly a foot separates us when he says in a low voice, “I saw you putting alcohol in that cup.”
Ohhh. That’s what this is about.
I try not to smirk as I shove my cup in his face, right under his nose. “You smell that?” When he shakes his head with confusion, I press the brim to his lips and tip the cup until soda splashes across his mouth. He makes a muffled noise and ducks away.
“What the—” Hendrix pauses, licking his lips. His shoulders sag a second later when he realizes, “There isn’t any alcohol in that cup, is there?”
“Nope.” I pop the P .
“The other one is for Aleks, isn’t it?”
Yep.” Another pop.
“I am a horrible friend.”
Shaking my head, I nudge his crossed arms with the back of my hand, careful not to spill anything out of Aleks’ cup. “No, you aren’t. It’s important that I be held accountable, but I’m past the point where I needed constant supervision. I can admit to myself when I’m struggling and turn to my support system for help.” I raise the cup. “I can pour my friend a drink and bring it to him. It . . . It gets difficult when someone actually hands me a bottle and tells me to drink it.”
“I’m sor?—”
“Rix, it’s okay.” I offer him a small smile. “You know now.” Gesturing for him to follow me, I head for the last place I saw Aleks before he comes looking for me. Well, for his drink, at least.
Hendrix quietly tags along, standing behind me as I exchange words with my best friend before excusing myself. I lead Hendrix down a vacant hallway in Aleks’ house that spills into a second, more intimate living room—more of a personal man cave. I know crowded parties—even if the crowd consists of our teammates and even though he is trying to be more social —aren’t his thing, and I don’t particularly feel like hanging out with a bunch of drunk guys, so I figure he won’t mind.
“What are you supposed to be?” he asks once we’re standing in the middle of the room.
Instead of selecting a video game for us to play—which had been my intention—I turn on him with a look of disbelief. “Seriously?”
He stares back blankly.
“I’m Cupid.” Holding up the small filigree-style bow and arrow, the tip of the arrow in the shape of a heart, I shake it in his direction. There is a thin crown of greenery and pink roses around my head, my torso is covered by a soft pink tank top, and a pair of short pink shorts hang low on my hips. On one side, in the area between my neck and shoulder, Aleks got a little carried away applying lipstick-lined kisses to my bare skin in a glittery pink that shimmers when I move. “This is an amazing costume, dude,” I say, gesturing to all of me. How dare he not appreciate it?
“Hmph,” he hums. Those stormy grey eyes go even darker as he inspects me from head to toe, long lashes shadowing his irises and making it impossible to discern what he is thinking.
I step a little closer as the room begins to feel too small—which doesn’t make any sense; the ten-foot ceilings, open space, and couches pushed back against the long walls leave more than plenty of room. Hell, Aleks’ man cave is practically the size of my living room. We could squeeze our entire team roster in here if we wanted.
My finger softly flicks the top of one of Hendrix’s devil horns hovering eye level with me. “Hm?” My low hum mimics his.
His eyes lift to my crown. “It’s . . . cute.”
Why does that one word falling from his lips send my pulse racing?
“These,” he murmurs, and a thumb brushes over my collarbone. I know by the change in texture that he is touching one of the glittery kisses. A moment passes in which I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.
I swallow, feeling his thumb press a little harder at the movement. “Aleks did them,” I admit in a near whisper. “Kisses are kind of his thing, you know.”
“Hmph.”
This time, I don’t push for him to tell me more. I can’t . . . Jesus, my heart is pounding so hard I don’t think I can handle whatever opinion he has about Aleks kissing my skin to leave the marks behind. While it was happening, Aleks and I couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous he looked or how ticklish I was. It wasn’t romantic or sexual in the least.
But standing here, Hendrix’s thumb caressing my throat, I can’t breathe with the overwhelming desire to fall into him. Or fall to my knees. Both options are just as appealing.
We’re friends—possibly closer than Aleks and me, considering some of the secrets I’ve shared with Hendrix—but I’ll be damned if I’d turn down the possibility of more .
There is no possibility , I remind myself. Hendrix has already assured me that he is straight.
Clearing my throat makes his eyes snap up to meet mine, but I quickly turn my head away to pretend to inspect the collection of video games lining the interior of the entertainment center. I eventually manage to take a step back, severing his touch. All at once, I can breathe again, and I take a deep gulp of air in relief.
Despite me disengaging from the situation, despite me specifically not pushing for more, Hendrix—damn him—opens his mouth. My heart stops, then fast-tracks until I can barely hear over the thumping in my ears. “I don’t?—”
“Whoo!” A loud holler cuts him off, and a second later, an arm slings over my shoulders. Aleks, three sheets to the wind, leans heavily on me. “I missed you, love bug!” He slams a sloppy kiss on one of the glittery ones on my shoulder. I can’t help but laugh at the tickling sensation, but my cheeks flame at the action that seemed so innocent earlier—when Hendrix wasn’t tracking the movement with dark, stormy eyes I can’t decipher.
What had he been going to say? “I don’t want to be friends anymore”? “I don’t want to be in here with you”? “I don’t care about your costume”? . . . “I don’t want you to go home alone tonight”?
The last one is only wishful thinking on my part.
“Bro, this diaper fucking itches,” Aleks complains in my ear. His hand holding a plastic red cup moves to adjust himself inside the adult diaper that . . . yeah, I don’t know what happened there. We were debating whether I should wear one for my costume—I was strongly against the idea—and then he just decided to wear one himself. He partnered it with a pair of white wings and cherry-red cheeks. Or is that the alcohol?
I eye his cup warily. “How much have you had to drink?”
“All of it!”
Oh, boy.
Aleks holds his cup high as a few other teammates join us in his man cave. “Now, it’s a party! Let’s play a drinking game.”
Cheers sound from the guys who have joined us, all of whom seem to be highly inebriated. Hendrix and I share concerned looks.
“How about something with beer?” I suggest as Hendrix spots a stumbling Micah and crosses the room to steady him.
“Beer pong,” someone slurs.
“No fair! Not everyone can participate,” someone else responds.
“Spin the bottle,” Aleks yells beside my ear.
“That isn’t a drinking game, Kiss,” I inform him while rolling my eyes. He suggests that game every time.
Kit digs around the entertainment center cabinets, the halo of his angel costume askew on his head. “I found Twister!” he announces as he pulls out the box. While it also isn’t a drinking game, I’m not going to complain about them not getting any more drunk.
Tank, Gallon, and Blow quickly agree to play the childish game with Kit, but when Aleks tries to join, I pull his wobbly ass back to my side. “Not enough room for anyone else,” I tell him. And I don’t need you falling and breaking anything , I add silently in my head.
“Never Have I Ever,” Micah suggests, suddenly appearing with Hendrix in tow.
Hendrix looks about as happy with the suggestion as I am, but Aleks lights up with excitement.
“Yes, yes, yes! Gin, you have to play. You too, Sour.”
I point to his cup of liquor. “Only if you switch to beer.”
He pouts and looks longingly at the drink. “But my cup is still full?—”
To all our surprise, Hendrix nabs the cup from him and downs it in one go. Shit, for a lightweight, he sure does drink like a champ.
I swallow against the sudden rock in my throat.
Stop. You don’t need it.
You don’t want it.
You are stronger than the urge.
Hendrix gives me a hard look. “I’ll go get the four of us some beer. You guys find a place to sit.”
Working around the Twister group in the middle of the room is a little challenging, especially with Aleks still leaning against me. The only thing he contributes is a dopey smile thrown Micah’s way. I manage to turn two couches to face each other near the corner of the room and set Aleks’ heavy body down with obvious relief.
Big lug.
Micah plops down beside Aleks before I can, and . . . Okay. I had been planning to sit there, but now I get to sit on the opposite couch with Hendrix, which is totally fine with me. Just as I sit across from Aleks, Hendrix returns with four nearly overflowing cups in his big hands. He passes two across the table before settling beside me on the cushion.
The two cups remaining are filled with a tannish liquid, but I’m quick to realize they are significantly less frothy than the two that went to Aleks and Micah.
While the two drunks across from us giggle at the football players fumbling to put one hand on red and one on yellow, Hendrix passes me a cup. I take it cautiously, watching as he sets his between his knees to keep it from spilling. His hands come up, and he signs to me. “ It’s soda mixed with water. No alcohol. ”
I purse my lips and sign back. “ And yours? ”
“ Same. ”
“ You didn’t have to. ”
A quirk of his mouth, just a tiny one. “ I know. ”
“ You’re a sneaky bastard, ” I sign with a responding grin.
“ Who taught you that? ” he demands with his hands. “ Not me. ”
“ G-O-O-G-L-E, ” I spell.
Micah clears his throat, and we snap our heads to look at him. “You guys gonna play?”
I nod and shoot him a sheepish look. “Yes. Sorry. Who wants to start?”
We take turns, starting with Aleks. It begins relatively tame with things like “never have I ever been in a fraternity” and “never have I ever wrecked a car”—Micah has, much to his chagrin; I think Hendrix chooses that one specifically to mess with his friend. I keep it simple with a “never have I ever ridden a bike.”
Okay, I thought it would be simple, but it sends the three of them into such an uproar that Gallon loses his concentration and falls on the Twister mat. Tank rotates in, and Gal takes his place on the spinner.
“Do gym bikes count?” I ask to try to appease the group. It seems that knowing how to ride a bicycle is extremely important to them.
“Alright, alright,” Micah slurs once I have been thoroughly berated. “Never have I ever met a movie star.”
Aleks and I release matching snorts and take sips. “Child’s play,” I say, nudging Hendrix’s arm. “You’ll meet one soon.”
We make it another full round of nondescript Never Have I Evers, and when we get back to Micah, he pulls out the personal stuff. “Never have I ever kissed Ezekiel Aleks.” Hendrix and I drink—so does Aleks, which makes me tilt my head for a moment because, like, I guess? —and I assume this is another dig between Micah and Hendrix. That is, until I see the way Micah is looking at Aleks.
Oh . Someone is interested.
On Aleks’ turn, he flashes a cheeky grin as he says, “Never have I ever kissed a sexy bunny.”
Nobody drinks because—yeah. That was too specific. And not subtle at all. In fact, the way they’re eyeing each other isn’t subtle either.
Hendrix and I trade glances, and he hesitantly begins his turn despite our other two participants not paying attention. “Uh, never have I ever?—”
“Seen Aleks’ bedroom,” Micah jumps in, eyes locked on my friend.
I . . . take a drink? Are we still playing?
Aleks licks his lips, staring at Micah’s, and . . . Yeah, game over. “Never have I ever fucked you,” Aleks rasps to Micah.
Feeling my eyes go wide at his forwardness, I roll my lips between my teeth and attempt to stifle my laughter. One peek at Hendrix reveals his pink-tinged cheeks as he tries to look at anything other than our friends eye-fucking each other. Oh?—
And now Micah is climbing into Aleks’ lap, straddling him the same way Hendrix had to me a few weeks ago . . . No, don’t think about it , I chastise myself. Every time I remember that moment on the couch in his apartment, I instantaneously get hard. It’s a serious problem.
Kind of like his serious problem of struggling to find clothes to contain his big ? —
“O-kay, Micah.” Hendrix stands and lifts his friend from Aleks’ lap.
My arms around Hendrix’s waist, picking him up and pulling him over my thighs ? —
“Dude, you can’t fuck him in here in front of everyone.”
“I—” Micah tries, but Aleks stands and cuts him off.
“Let’s go to my room, sexy bunny.”
Hendrix sitting against the headboard, my body nestled between his muscular thighs, his chest against my back ? —
He grabs Micah’s chin and pulls so he has to look him in the eyes rather than eye-fucking Aleks. “Are you okay with that? You’ve been drinking . . .”
Micah nods. “I’m buzzed, but I’m not stupid. I have been dreaming of this forever. Nothing is going to stop me from accepting an invitation like that.”
I shake myself out of my inappropriate thoughts long enough to check with my friend. “Kiss? You good?”
“Fuck yeah.”
Hendrix and I watch, bemused, as Aleks pulls Micah from Hendrix’s arms, wrapping the smaller man’s legs around his waist and stumbling down the hall toward the bedroom.
“Wear protection!” Hendrix calls to Aleks’ back.
“No glove, no love!” I second.
He gives me a look before hollering out his next words of wisdom. “No means no!”
“Use a safe word!”
“Prepping is important!”
“And have fun! Wait—” I stare at Hendrix, brows pinched together. “What do you know about prep?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Women have assholes, too.”
I’ll be damned if I don’t get instantly hard in my shorts. “Fuck,” I mutter and adjust myself. Thankfully, the Twister game is still going strong, so none of those guys notice my predicament.
Chuckling, Hendrix tries, and fails, to hold in a small grin. “Damn, it doesn’t take much for you, does it?”
Is he . . . talking about my hard-on? Fuck me, he is. I can’t very well say he is the reason my dick is on a hairpin trigger, so I roll with it. “Nope.” I pop the P and try not to sound too husky. He has no idea what he does to me.
Just. Friends.
He’s. Straight.
Fuck. Me.
Hendrix clears his throat and rocks on his feet. “Feels weird staying here knowing what they’re doing back there.”
“Haha, yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, nervous all of a sudden when I think about asking him . . . Come on, T. Nut up. I clear my throat. “Wanna get out of here? I know a twenty-four-hour burger place with vegetarian and vegan options.”
Groaning, he rubs his flat belly. “That sounds fucking amazing. Let’s go.”