Chapter Four #3
“Really good,” I say. And I mean it. “We played as a unit. Well, most of today’s win goes to Marlow Keel”—I wink, and the reporter laughs; Alexo, still tucked up against me, does, too—“but overall, I’m even more excited to see what we do this season.”
“And do you think you did your god proud tonight?”
Does my smile get too forced? Am I able to hide my discomfort before the reporter and her cameraman see? I don’t know—but I know Alexo feels me stiffen. I know my body jerks against him, muscles seizing. I know he looks up at the side of my face.
I smile for the reporter. “The whole team played their best.”
She pauses, expecting me to say more. I should say more. I’m repping Urzoth even more boldly than before, if only to keep Alexo in their good graces.
But I can’t get my jaw to open, and I keep my fake smile plastered to my face.
Eventually, the reporter pulls her mic back and clears her throat. “And you, Mr. Warden.” She turns to him. “How was your first experience performing?”
Alexo blushes. It makes his freckles pop, and I run my thumb up and down his side.
He shivers at the motion and leans into me a little more, so I feel every vibration of that shiver, every ripple of his body in a way that has me suddenly glad I’m wearing a cup so the reporter won’t be getting a whole other type of headline story.
“I, um—” He glances up at me, dazed, before he seemingly hears the reporter’s question in a delayed rebound. Fuck, I get that.
Alexo steps toward her, a flash of determination, and he looks straight at the camera as he says, “It was great. I want everyone watching to—” A pause. A quick inhale of breath. “To remember to keep dancing, too.”
That’s … specific. A tagline he’s hoping to start? Did the publicists work that out with him?
The reporter’s head rocks in confusion before she grins. “Aw, so sweet! You really are a beauty.”
Alexo’s turn to be confused. “I—what?”
She laughs. “It’s one of the names people have for you two. One is Oroxo—your names, Orok and Alexo. But most are calling you Beauty and the Beast.”
Alexo frowns. “He’s not a beast.”
“Hey.” I nudge him. “Maybe I’m the beauty.” There’s no way, but it gets him to give me an exasperated smile.
The reporter dives away when there’s a break in the hodgepodge near Marlow, and I use the opening to close in around Alexo again, creating a little pocket of semi-privacy in the midst of this very, very not-private place.
He looks up at me in another of those silent eye-locks and touches my jersey. Several layers of padding keep his hand from making contact with my skin, but I imagine there’s heat anyway, a heavy warmth.
This is doing nothing to help my uncomfortable cup situation, damn it.
“Was that okay?” he whispers, making it more lip reading than anything.
I smirk. “I’m really okay with being referred to as a beast if it means—”
“Not that.” He scowls. “Well, kind of that, but—I meant, was the … kiss … okay?” A blush overtakes his face, scarlet red, so pretty it aches. “We both agreed to it, but agreeing and doing are two different things.”
I cup his face in my hands. My skin is getting tacky from the dried saltwater, but I run my thumbs over his jaw and the dustings of glitter on his cheeks.
“Any way you want to touch me is okay,” I tell him.
His head tips in my hands, sardonic. “Any way? You didn’t sign that broad a margin of error, Mr. Monroe.”
I laugh and lean down to put my lips against his.
He makes a startled chirp but doesn’t pull away. Lingers there, and it isn’t a kiss; it’s a mutual breath.
“Do your worst, Mr. Warden,” I say.
He shivers again.
I clench my jaw and force myself to peel away from him, take my hands off his face.
Alexo: PR stunt.
“Can you—” I scratch flakes of salt out of my beard. “Um. Can I walk you back to the cheerleader locker room?”
Dazed again, Alexo nods, but it’s stilted, unsteady, and pulls a breathless smile to my face.
If he’s this blissed out after two barely there kisses, what would he look like after—
Don’t. Do not even finish that question, Orok Monroe.
I cough away the tightening in my throat and hook my arm around his waist.
“I—no! Wait.” Alexo bursts back to clarity and wiggles out of my grip.
I stand in the middle of the still-celebrating crowd, arms out.
“No,” he repeats. Harder. An order. “I can get there on my own. Thank you. And—I’ll see you next week?”
Then he’s gone, slinking away into the crowd that swallows him up.
I brace against wanting to rip everyone aside until I get eyes back on him.
He doesn’t want me going to the cheerleader locker room.
I scan the crowd. I clock one of the publicists near the doors to the player tunnel and beeline to her, the noise of the stadium a dull background hum.
“Is there someone waiting for Alexo?” I demand.
She blinks up at me from where she’d been entering notes on a tablet. “Um—I’m sorry, Mr. Monroe, I don’t under—”
“Is there a man waiting for Alexo near the cheerleader locker room?” I try again, saying each word through my teeth. The back of my neck prickles with the urge to race in and find out myself, but I have enough prescience of mind to not do that.
“Y-yes. Oh!” She seems to have a realization.
“It is the guy from the bar, but Mr. Warden told us it was a misunderstanding. I believe they live together. We’ve been assured he isn’t a boyfriend, if that’s what you’re concerned about?
Luckily, no one’s seemed to focus on who the guy at the bar was, so our narrative stands, and we don’t need to worry about—”
I stop listening, my awareness narrowing.
They live together?
That asshole lives with Alexo? And he dared to treat him like an object at the bar? Dared to put his hands on him?
Hypocrisy tastes bitter, but I’m too furious to give it more than a passing flinch.
“You knew Alexo was living with that jackass?” I snap.
The publicist trembles.
Because she’s five feet nothing and I’ve trapped her against the recessed door’s wall to growl random, accusatory questions at her.
I’m shunted out of my fugue state and throw my hands up in surrender. My damn rawball padding makes it impossible to shrink myself at all, so I take a step back, thankful the bulk of the crowd is still in the sideline area so there’s plenty of room to give the publicist space.
“I’m sorry.” I glance down at her name badge. “I’m sorry, Treva. I just—”
No. There’s no explanation that makes either my questions or behavior acceptable.
This is true weakness.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, shaking, and shove through the doors.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Blood thunders in my ears, rushes hot and heavy through my chest as I rush to the player locker room and rip off my gear.
My next therapy session isn’t for another few weeks; I spread them out during the season so my schedule isn’t unmanageable. But maybe I should add an appointment or two?
I’ll send the whole publicity team lunch. For the next week. Something in penance. I do not get to throw my weight around like that, terrifying people into doing what I want.
My jersey drops to my feet, and as I bend to toss my shoulder pads into my locker, I spot Urzoth’s symbol in the folds of the fabric.
That’s exactly what my mother would expect me to do. That’s what she does think I do. Just plow my way through life in a constant high of I am strong, therefore everyone else is weak.
The acidic gnawing in my stomach to rip that symbol off my uniform burns and burns.
I will not behave like this. I will not be someone who makes him proud.
Their version of strength isn’t real.
I throw myself into a shower, willing the water to scald away the emotions roiling inside me, the true beast that’s been unleashed.
I take a washcloth and scrub at my skin until it’s red and stinging under the spray, and I imagine the soap whirling down the drain is each pulse of mine, mine that was echoing in my head.