Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
“Has Micah mentioned anything about Hendrix?” I ask as casually and nonchalantly as I can manage, but the way Aleks pauses shuffling the deck of cards tells me that I don’t quite hit the mark.
Aleks’ eyes flicker across the plane to where Hendrix sits by himself, his luggage taking up the empty seat beside him and headphones jammed securely into his ears. His entire vibe gives off “do not disturb,” the same as it has been the last two back-to-back away games.
Before that, he’d been benched at halftime during our game after Thanksgiving, though at the time, he had told me everything was okay and that he was just distracted. Then, I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the week outside of work. He seemed a bit distant at our practices, but not like I’d done anything wrong, per se. At our first away game after that, I’d sat beside him on the plane, and he had immediately suggested we join Aleks and Kit’s card game. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. In our room later that night, he’d wanted to join the guys having dinner downstairs, and when we went back to the room, he went straight to bed.
Yesterday, on our trip to New Orleans, only four days after our last game on Sunday, he’d blocked the seat beside him and put on headphones—just like today—and when I texted him, he ignored me. He wasn’t in the room after we checked in, and he didn’t come in until after I was already asleep. He left early in the morning, not saying a word to me.
Now, on our way home, he is still being distant. Our next game is nine days away, and a home one at that, which means I won’t have a chance to confront him anytime soon. I can’t just sit on my ass and twiddle my fingers and see if something changes before then.
“Nope,” Aleks responds in a tone slightly higher than normal, his gaze on anything except me. “No. Micah? Hasn’t said anything. Not a word. Well, I mean, he has spoken, but not about Sour. Why would we talk about him?”
I eye him suspiciously, not believing that poor lie for a second. “That was the most pitiful attempt ever.”
“I told him I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Just like you weren’t supposed to say anything about Kit and Larson?”
His cheeks blaze because, yeah, I just called him out as the gossip guy we both know he is. “I can’t tell you,” he blurts in a rush.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Can’t or won’t?”
He begins to sweat under my glare, the struggle to keep his mouth closed taking a physical toll on him. It’s an awkward amount of time before he breaks, and I grin triumphantly. “Okay, but you can’t tell him I told you.”
I’m not sure if he means Micah or Hendrix, but I agree either way. I will take any information I can get to explain the cold shoulder Hendrix is giving me.
“It has something to do with you two—” He looks around the airplane cabin as if our teammates are all listening, then whispers, “Almost-ay issing-kay.”
“Kiss, seriously. We are grown men capable of communicating without the use of made-up languages— Wait, what did you say?”
“Almost-ay. Issing-kay,” he reiterates in that made-up language. Jesus, it’s been, like, ten years since I even thought about pig Latin. It takes me a second to decode the words, and I feel the blood drain from my face when I do.
Almost. Kissing.
Hendrix is ignoring me and politely not putting himself alone with me because I almost kissed him . . . when? He was fine after Halloween when our lips actually brushed. Beside the pool at Willow’s party, I had leaned in, but we’d been a lot less close to kissing then. Whatever the exact moment, at least I know why he is doing it now, and to say I’m heartbroken . . . Well, that’s a bit of an overstatement, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t close.
I thought things were good between us. Yeah, I had accidentally brushed my mouth against his, but that hadn’t been me trying to kiss him. It was just . . . happenstance because of our proximity. I enjoyed holding his hand that night more than the near kiss.
Not that I don’t want to kiss him. Oh, no. I have been daydreaming about his lips—and other body parts—since he walked onto the Rubies practice field. And on Thanksgiving, I had leaned into him, and I would’ve kissed him had he let me get any closer.
But—fuck! Hendrix is straight . He had told me that himself.
“Are we sure he’s straight?” I ask Aleks softly, begrudgingly using the coded language to help prevent eavesdroppers. Geez, this is so stupid. Half the guys on this plane probably know and understand what we’re saying if they are anywhere near our age.
My friend’s eyes light up at the prospect of gossip. “He did kiss me,” he responds in kind.
“So, why would he be weird about thinking I might have kissed him?”
Aleks shrugs. “He doesn’t like you? Or he doesn’t want you to catch feelings.”
Well, I’m pretty sure that ship is already at sea.
“Is that all Micah told you?”
He nods, giving me a sympathetic look, and I sigh. Abandoning the coded language, I try my best at a smile—the picture-perfect one I have carefully honed over the years—and change the subject.
“How have things been with Micah?” I ask. “Tell me everything.”
Despite Aleks clearly seeing what I am trying to do, he talks. He loves to go on and on about his life drama, and usually, I don’t have any issues engaging. Now, I can only manage to nod my head and “mhm” as he tells me about their not-dates and how great the sex is.
Eventually, we touch down in Los Angeles, and Aleks invites me to the club with him and some of the guys. I don’t have anything better to do, so I accept his offer, and we decide on a time to meet at Gemini.
The drive home is bittersweet as I remember the last time we went to Gemini. Hendrix had come home with me after his car didn’t start—today, his new Kia cranked just fine—and we had spent the afternoon together. God, I had so much fun that evening and the next day, even though Hendrix got too wasted at the club to remember anything that night, including the way we had danced together. Once he had a few drinks in him, he became a sultry little thing on the dance floor, grinding against me and nearly making me pop a stiffy in a very crowded, public space.
Is it wrong of me to hope he shows up tonight and lowers his inhibitions with a few drinks?
After killing some time at my house, I shower, dress, and head for the club, having made up my mind. I will find someone to take home tonight, and I will fuck my desire for Hendrix out of my system—or get fucked, if the right man catches my eye. Someone muscular, with narrow hips and strong thighs, maybe someone with grey eyes and a freckle on their left ear?—
No. Bad Tahegin.
As usual, Aleks has a drink waiting for me at our table in the VIP section. It’s no use telling him that I can’t drink because I drove here—he’ll just tell me to order a car service home—so my only option is to discard it when he’s distracted. I don’t have to wait long because Micah sashays in wearing tiny-ass blue jean shorts—with matching blue hair—and a crop top, and my best friend is suddenly falling ass over tits to impress him. I’m all but forgotten as Aleks hands Micah a fruity drink, one with an umbrella and a straw, and then the pair disappears onto the crowded dance floor.
One by one, my other teammates find dance partners and join the throng of people. I’m left alone, surrounded by partially drank alcoholic beverages as well as the untouched one in my hand. It would be so easy to drink it , I think, staring down at the melting ice watering down the gin that Aleks always orders for me. Just one to take the edge off. To forget about the man living rent-free in my head.
No one would even know I’d be breaking my promise.
“Hey, you’re Tahegin Ellingsworth, right?”
Blinking, I clear the fog from my brain and look up at the guy standing in front of me. He’s cute, in a nerdy-hipster type of way. Suspenders hang from his grey chinos, and his button-up short-sleeve shirt has triangles on it. His hair is styled up in an “I spent an hour on this” look. Thick-framed glasses cover his green eyes, sitting on a long, straight nose, and his smile is nice. “Yeah.” I grin and reach out to shake his proffered hand. “Always nice to be recognized.”
“I wouldn’t be a self-respecting gay man if I didn’t recognize the gay football players.”
I fight to keep my smile polite. “Actually, I’m bi.”
Nerdy-hipster face palms and chuckles. “Right. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just being optimistic about you potentially wanting to dance with a man. Me, specifically—if that wasn’t clear. Sorry, I’m a little starstruck.”
Looking at the drink in my hand, then back to him, I decide it is best to get away from the lonely table before I do something I regret, even if I don’t really want to dance with him. “Well, Mr. Starstruck, you know my name. Do I get to know yours?”
He holds out his hand, offering it to me as he half turns toward the dance floor. The smirk he sends me is—supposed to be?—sultry. “I only give it to men who impress me with their dancing.”
It’s a bad line, but I use the excuse to abandon the alcohol that shouldn’t be getting to me the way it is. I slide my hand in his, repressing a shudder when my body screams and revolts. It wants Hendrix. His hand has become a familiar presence in mine, so much so that I can tell the difference between his calloused palm and nerdy-hipster’s baby-smooth one.
I ditch the gin on the table and let the stranger drag me into a sea of grinding bodies. At least he leaves us on the outskirts of the dance floor instead of squeezing between everyone. The music is louder down here, the lights dimmed in favor of strobing gold, pink, purple, and blue. Almost everyone here is a big name in Los Angeles—music artists, movie stars, show hosts—but no one bats an eye as waiters and waitresses with suspiciously empty trays trade subtle handshakes below the waist with the patrons. Drug deals, if I have to guess. Thankfully, none of the recipients seem to be my teammates.
My heart isn’t in the dancing, and my eyes are—clearly—straying everywhere except for the man grinding his hips against me. He’s close to my height, but I’d prefer him shorter by a few inches, and no offense to him, he isn’t the type of man I would let fuck me the way I want. Not like?—
He’s here.
My gaze sweeps over him at first but quickly doubles back to confirm that, yes, it is Hendrix standing at our abandoned table, a glass of something clear in his hand. His grey eyes are dark in the dim club, the lights occasionally catching across them, painting them vivid neon colors. A black shirt covers his chest, the sleeves pushed up to expose his muscular forearms, and those faded and ripped jeans look even tighter around his hips and crotch than usual. I know what he’s packing under there, and all things considered, the pants are doing a pretty good job of keeping him contained.
Our eyes meet because he’s already watching me, a scowl dripping from his mouth. It’s been a while since he gave me that frown, and my heart sinks at the thought that we have possibly regressed back to the way we were the first time we went head-to-head on the field.
Damnit, Hendrix, no. Don’t shut me out.
I suppose I have no one to blame other than myself. I’d been the one to pull him so close our lips brushed, the one to lean in that day beside the pool when he was only trying to be a good friend. I’d been the one to ruin that.
But, fuck, I hadn’t meant to, and if given the chance, I would beg for his forgiveness.
The man in my arms must get frustrated by my lack of attention because his hands find my cheeks, turning me to face him. He gives me another attempt at a seductive look before sliding down my front, extremely close even for a club such as this. When he rubs his way up to standing, he’s facing away from me with his ass pressed hard against me. Another night, another time, before I’d ever known the name Hendrix Avery, I might have been interested, but I can’t seem to put my heart into it.
Not when—I glance over at the table and, yes—Hendrix is still watching me, his gaze like dark static. I can feel it on me, braiding itself into my clothing until it dances across my skin, infinitely more enticing than the man grinding himself on me. It’s electric, and wanting to keep his attention on me, I find myself trying to show off for him. Closing my eyes, I grab the nerdy hipster by his waist and dance the way I had with Hendrix when he was drunk off his ass the last time we came here—with a few extra flourishments, of course.
The night Hendrix and I had danced, I’d kept him at a distance, knowing he certainly wouldn’t have been dancing had he been sober, especially not with me in the intimate way he was trying to. Somehow, I had maintained that barrier between friendship and something more, though it was hard, and if I’m being honest, I hadn’t wanted to be respectful. Not in the slightest. I’d wanted to be very, very disrespectful to my friend that night.
So maybe Hendrix is ignoring me because he thinks I want more, because he thinks I almost kissed him—I mean, I did but he doesn’t know that—and maybe I can show him that I don’t. By all accounts, I would swipe that man up in a heartbeat given the opportunity, but if I can convince him I don’t want him, then we may be able to go back to the way things were. For Hendrix, I would lie to him and myself for another chance at having him by my side.
Nerdy-hipster brazenly nips my bottom lip without invitation, and my eyes snap open as I jerk back. I hadn’t realized I’d closed them; I guess it was easier to pretend I was dancing with Hendrix that way. Stepping back, I put space between us and furrow my brows at the guy, and okay, yeah, I don’t have to act so offended by a harmless advance. He was just shooting his shot, and I’d been the one to put more enthusiasm into our dancing.
Entirely out of my control, my gaze slides sideways to Hendrix, wondering if he saw, then wondering why that should even matter.
The look on Hendrix’s face . . . it’s unreadable. Dark. Stormy. Shadowed by a sudden absence of light as everything goes dark, the song switching from a fast beat to a slow, grinding one. When splashes of pink and blue return, I catch the very end of Hendrix tossing back his glass like a shot before slamming it down, hard, onto the table. The other abandoned drinks rattle at the contact.
One step, then two. He walks in my direction, his shadowed eyes not once leaving mine. I stand frozen as he approaches us, and once his chest is practically glued to my shoulder, he opens his mouth to speak over the thrumming music.
“Fuck off.”
That’s it. Two words directed at the man I’m trying to hold at an arm’s distance, though he keeps attempting to push himself closer. At Hendrix’s rude remark, Nerdy-hipster scoffs and reaches for me again. “You fuck off. We’re dancing.”
Shaking my head, I pry his hands off me. “No, we aren’t. Next time, ask before putting your mouth on someone else’s.” My cheeks are already going warm before I finish speaking.
Okay, well. It is good advice—advice I will definitely be taking into consideration. Starting now.
He crosses his arms, cocking a hip and giving me an offended look. “Really? You called your bodyguard because I barely bit your lip?” He huffs, muttering an insult under his breath. “Prude.”
I’m grateful when he stalks away without any more of a fight, but then I realize that leaves Hendrix and me alone together, standing on the outskirts of the dance floor. He’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, and neither of us is saying anything, and?—
Hendrix’s hand finds my waist, and he pulls me close, just enough space between us that we aren’t touching anywhere other than his palms against my shirt. I feel him, though—an intense heat emanating from his body, from his hands on me. I want to lean in, want to press the rest of my suddenly shivering body into his.
His head tilts up until his mouth is a breath away from my earlobe. “Are you okay?”
My reply is entirely too honest. “Better now.”
The sigh of relief that escapes his lips brushes the sensitive skin beneath my ear, and my knees fucking shake. He’s so close. He’s right here, after weeks of distance between us. I want to pull him closer, flush against me, and I also want to grab his shoulders and vigorously shake him because how dare he . How dare he deny me his presence for weeks and then come over here like my knight in shining armor I didn’t need but wanted?
Hendrix pulls back to look at me, the apple in his neck bobbing with a harsh swallow. “That drink was, um, pretty strong. I don’t want to do anything I regret, so do you think you might—” Another dry swallow. “—dance with me? Just so I don’t do anything stupid.”
I’m already nodding. “Yes. Of course. And if you drove here, I can take you home. To your apartment. Or—” No, don’t suggest bringing him home with you, Tahegin.
“Your place is closer,” he says so lowly I almost miss it over the heavy pulse of the club music.
My hands slide up his chest, indulging in the moment blissfully blessed to me by alcohol. If tonight is anything like the last time, he won’t remember dancing with me. I can let myself go, just for a little while.
Fingers locked at the nape of his neck, I let my arms rest on his shoulders and chest, leaning into him as we sway and roll to the music. I give as good as I get—and, damn , is Hendrix a great dancer. There’s an art to a sensual dance, one that the nerdy-hipster guy clearly didn’t understand, but Hendrix does. He presses against me in measured increments—chest, sternum, abs, the slightly jutting bones of his hips, crotch, all the way down his thighs nearly to his knees. It’s a slow and fast move, a give and take as we come together and pull apart just as quickly. Whereas that other guy was practically dry-humping my leg, Hendrix is dancing to the music, feeling the beat and letting it push and pull his body in every direction, and I just happen to be on the receiving side.
I lean down, my nose and cheekbone drifting along his neck, below his ear, as I subtly inhale his scent. He’s all aftershave and sweat, blood pumping hot and fast just below the surface, the alcohol taking its toll. For all I know, he’s had a couple of drinks since whenever he arrived, and everything he is doing can be blamed on alcohol. He might wake up tomorrow regretting getting close to me again, especially since we haven’t talked about anything important.
So I allow myself tonight, on this dance floor, knowing that tomorrow might, despite his earlier words, bring him regret.
I cherish it because I don’t know when—or if—I will ever get to hold him again.
Our chests bump and stay pressed against each other, neither of us separating as if we are both thinking the same thing.
Tonight. We can have tonight to be carefree before returning to reality tomorrow.
“Come home with me, Rix,” I murmur against the delicate skin of his neck, the recently shaved stubble pricking at my lips, like a small punishment for my more-than-friendly actions. The feel of his responding hum of acceptance makes it worth the consequence.