Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
étienne
“I need a shower.”
I looked up from my phone, where I’d been scrolling through the team group chat. Marco sat on the couch, his expression determined in that way that meant he’d made up his mind and arguing would be pointless.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now?” I glanced at the stairs, then back at him. “You sure you’re ready for that?”
“I haven’t showered since game day. That was four days ago.” He gestured at himself with obvious disgust. “I smell like a locker room floor. I need a shower.”
He had a point. Not that I was going to tell him that.
“The boot—”
“I ordered a waterproof cover. Got here this morning along with the shower chair and knee scooter.” He nodded toward the packages by the front door, which I’d brought in for him. “I can do this.”
“You can’t manage stairs on crutches yet.”
“So, help me up the stairs.”
I studied him. He’d been off the heavy pain med for two days now, managing with just Tylenol.
The pain was clearly better—he could shift positions without wincing, could focus on conversations without that glazed look the opioid had given him.
But stairs were still a challenge, and getting in and out of a shower seemed like a recipe for disaster.
But I also understood the need. Four days without a shower would make anyone desperate, and Marco had always been particular about personal hygiene.
I’d helped him wash up at the powder room sink, but it wasn’t the same.
Had helped him change his clothes and boxer briefs too, though he’d been visibly uncomfortable the whole time—tense and avoiding eye contact.
Yet here he was, asking for help with a shower anyway. That’s how desperate he’d gotten.
The stubborn set to his jaw told me he was doing this whether I helped or not.
“Okay,” I said, standing up. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
Getting him up the stairs took longer than I’d expected. Even with me supporting most of his weight and taking it one step at a time, it was slow going. By the time we made it to the second floor, he was breathing hard, and I could see the strain around his eyes.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just need a minute.”
We stood in the hallway, my arm still around his waist, my shoulder under his, both of us catching our breath.
His bedroom was straight ahead—the master with the en-suite bathroom.
I’d only been in there a handful of times, usually to grab something when he’d asked.
Going in there now felt like crossing some invisible line.
But he needed help, so that’s what I’d give him.
The bathroom was nice—all black marble and white cabinets, with a large walk-in shower that had a rain showerhead. I was a little envious of it compared to the standard tub and shower combination in the hall bathroom.
But looking at it while helping Marco settle onto the closed toilet lid, I felt something other than envy. Something closer to dread.
Because there was no way he was getting in and out of that shower without significant help.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Let’s figure this out.”
I went back downstairs and opened the packages by the front door. I pulled out the waterproof boot cover and the shower chair. The chair was simple enough—just a plastic seat with rubber feet that would keep it stable. The boot cover was trickier, but I figured out how it worked.
I returned to Marco. “You need help with your clothes?” I asked, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet. “Can’t really stand to get my shorts off.”
That was fine. That was normal. I’d seen Marco naked probably hundreds of times over our three years of being teammates. Locker rooms, showers after games. This was no different.
Except it was different. Because this wasn’t the locker room. This was his bathroom, in his house, and there was something intimate about it that made my hands clumsy as I reached for the hem of his T-shirt. “Arms up.”
He raised his arms, and I pulled the shirt over his head, trying not to notice the way his muscles shifted, the breadth of his shoulders, the dark hair on his chest. Things I’d seen before but somehow never really looked at.
His gym shorts were next. I hooked my fingers in the waistband, and he lifted his hips so I could pull them down. His boxer briefs came with them, freeing his cock. His long, thick cock in a nest of dark curls. I averted my gaze to give him some privacy.
I told myself this was fine, this was common; teammates helped each other.
But my heart was beating too fast, and I couldn’t quite shake the awareness that I was undressing my best friend in his bathroom, that he was naked in front of me, that something about this felt different than it ever had before.
“Boot cover,” I said, more to distract myself than anything.
I carefully fitted the waterproof cover over his boot, trying to focus on the mechanics of it rather than the way his leg was right there, solid muscle under my hands.
When I looked up, Marco was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. This is just—” He gestured vaguely. “Weird.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
But weird didn’t quite cover it. Weird was too simple a word for whatever this was.
I stood up and eyed the shower. I’d already put the chair inside, positioned under the spray. All I had to do was help him in, let him shower, help him out.
Simple. Clinical. Like any other injury assistance.
I grabbed the shampoo from the shelf and turned the bottle upside down, working the last of it toward the cap. Maybe a half an inch left.
“You got another bottle under here?” I reached toward the cabinet beneath the sink.
“We’re fine.” Marco’s voice came out sharp, almost strangled.
I looked up. His hand was braced against the edge of the toilet, knuckles white, and he was staring at the cabinet like it had personally offended him.
“étienne. The shampoo is fine.”
“I was just going to grab a new—”
“It’s fine.”
I straightened slowly, the cabinet door untouched. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, just staring somewhere past my shoulder, jaw set.
Weird. But okay.
I set the bottle back on the shelf. “Sure.”
I turned on the water, testing the temperature with my hand until it ran warm but not too hot.
Steam began filling the bathroom, curling around us, fogging the mirror.
I kept my focus on adjusting the showerhead angle, on making sure the spray would hit him properly when he sat in the chair.
Anything to avoid looking at Marco sitting naked behind me.
“Okay,” I said when the water was right. “Let’s get you in.”
I turned back to him, wrapping my arm carefully around his waist while he gripped my shoulder for balance.
His skin was warm, almost feverish against mine, and the steam made everything feel more intimate than it should.
This wasn’t the locker room with twenty other guys around.
This was just us, alone, in the humid privacy of his bathroom.
We shuffled forward together. I helped him lift his injured foot over the lip of the shower, guided him slowly to the chair, made sure he was stable before starting to pull away.
“You good?” I asked, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
“Yeah. I’ve got it.”
I should have left then. Should have stepped back immediately, closed the shower door, given him privacy. But I glanced down—just for a second, just to make sure he really was stable—and that’s when I saw it.
He was hard.
Completely, undeniably aroused, and there was no way to pretend I hadn’t noticed.
Heat flooded my face so fast I felt dizzy. My gaze snapped away, but the image was burned into my brain. Marco, naked, aroused, in his shower. The intimacy of it, the wrongness of seeing it, the fact that my body was responding—
“I’ll be right outside,” I blurted, already backing toward the bathroom door. “Just call if you need—if you—”
I didn’t finish the sentence. Just got out of there as fast as I could without running, pulling the door closed behind me with shaking hands.
In the hallway outside his bedroom, I leaned against the wall and tried to get my breathing under control.
Tried not to think about what I’d just seen.
Tried not to think about the heat that had shot through me when I’d noticed, or the fact that my own body was betraying me now, responding to something I absolutely should not be responding to.
Merde. Merde. Merde.
Marco was my friend. My best friend. My straight best friend who’d just happened to have a natural physical response to being touched. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.
I pressed my palms against my eyes and took a long, slow breath.
I stayed in the hallway for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, listening to the sound of water running. Then it shut off. Movement inside—shuffling, the scrape of the chair, a muffled curse that might have been pain or frustration or both.
I should have gone back in. Should have helped him dry off, helped him get dressed. That was the whole point of being here.
But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t make myself open that door and face him again, not after what I’d seen. Not with my pulse still racing and my face still hot and my thoughts spiraling in directions they absolutely should not go.
Coward.
More movement. Long minutes of silence while I stood there uselessly in the hallway, hating myself.
Eventually, Marco’s bedroom door opened. He emerged dressed—gym shorts and a T-shirt—hobbling on his crutches. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, on the crutches, anywhere but me.
“Let me help.” I moved toward him.
“I’ve got it.”
But he didn’t. He was struggling, his injured foot dangling above the floor, his knuckles white on the crutch grips. I ignored his protest and positioned myself beside him, ready to catch him if he stumbled.
We made it down the stairs slowly. I hovered close enough to help but not touching, and Marco kept his eyes down the whole time. The silence between us felt heavy, awkward in a way it never had before.
In the living room, I helped him lower himself onto the couch, adjusting the pillow behind him. He let me do it without comment, still not looking at me.
“Thanks,” Marco said quietly.
“No problem.”
But it was a problem. Or it felt like it might become one.
So, I did what I always did when things got complicated—I deflected.
“You hungry?” I asked. “I could make lunch.”
“Sure. Yeah. That sounds good.”
I escaped to the kitchen, grateful for something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the confused tangle of thoughts in my head.
But even as I moved through the familiar motions of making food, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.
That line between friendship and something else—something more—had gotten blurry in that bathroom.
And I had no idea how to make it clear again.
Or if I even wanted to.