Chapter 15 Practice Makes Hell
PRACTICE MAKES HELL
GRYFF
Artie was still in my lap, her lips swollen from kissing, her hands tangled in my hair, and I was having the kind of out-of-body experience usually reserved for near-death situations or really good drugs.
We'd just kissed. Really kissed. Not accidentally, not almost, but full-on, tongue-involved, hands-everywhere kissed. And it had been perfect. So perfect that my brain was short-circuiting trying to process how kissing my best friend had felt more right than anything I'd ever done in my life.
“We should do that again,” Artie said, her voice breathy. She looked at me, her eyes flicking back and forth between mine as if she was studying me, waiting for me to say or do something.
“Yeah, we should.” What else could I possibly say. Yes, please?
For a half a millisecond, I thought I saw disappointment flash through her eyes.
“For practice.”
Right. Practice. The word was like ice water on my internal celebration. Shit. That's why she was disappointed. She thought I was telling her she needed more practice. Fuck.
She shifted slightly in my lap, and I had to bite back a groan. “I think I'm getting the hang of it. The kissing thing. You're a really good teacher.”
Teacher. Friend. Practice partner. Not boyfriend, not the love of her life, not the person she actually wanted to be kissing.
But then she was kissing me again, and I couldn't make myself care about the logic.
Her mouth was soft and demanding, and she made these little sounds that were going to haunt my dreams forever.
I pulled her closer, one hand sliding up her back, the other cradling her face like she was something precious.
When we broke apart this time, we were both breathing hard.
“Maybe I should try this with Tyson too?” she asked, and the words hit like a physical blow. “Now that I know what good kissing feels like.”
I was dying. Actually dying. My heart was being ripped out of my chest and tap-danced on, and I had to sit here and smile about it.
“That's... that's great,” I said, proud that my voice didn't crack. “He'll definitely appreciate your... technique.”
“You think so?” She climbed off my lap, and the loss of contact felt like losing a limb. “I mean, that wasn't too much, was it? The kissing? I don't want to seem too eager.”
“It was perfect.” The words came out too honest, too raw. I cleared my throat. “I mean, you did perfect. Any guy would be lucky to be kissed like that.”
She beamed at me, and I wanted to scream. How could she not see it? How could she not feel what I was feeling? That kiss had been everything, intimate and desperate and real. But to her, it was just practice for another man.
The next week was torture. Pure, exquisite torture.
We kept having “practice sessions” that were slowly killing me.
Each one got more intense. More hands, more touching, more of those little sounds she made that were definitely going to send me to an early grave.
And every single time, just when I thought maybe she was feeling it too, she'd pull back and say something about how this was really helping her confidence with Tyson.
I was literally teaching the woman I loved how to seduce another man. There had to be a special circle of hell reserved for this exact situation.
“His abs are ridiculous,” I found myself telling Flynn on Wednesday while we were getting ready for practice. “Have you seen them? They're like... architecturally impossible.”
Flynn looked up from his playbook. “Whose abs?”
“Tyson's.” I pulled on my practice jersey with more force than necessary. “They're perfect. He's perfect. He volunteers at animal shelters.”
“Okay?”
“He speaks three languages, Flynn. Three. I can barely handle English some days.” I sat down to put on my cleats. “And his laugh. Have you heard his laugh? It's like... musical.”
Flynn was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. “Are you having a breakdown?”
“He builds homes for Habitat for Humanity. In his spare time. For fun.” I stood up, pacing now. “His parents are still married. He has a great relationship with his sister. He can cook actual food that doesn't come from a box.”
“Gryff—“
“Oh god.” I stopped pacing, a horrible realization washing over me. “Am I in love with Tyson too?”
Flynn made a choking sound. “What?”
“Think about it. I can't stop talking about him. I notice everything about him. I think about him constantly.” I sank onto the bench. “Oh fuck, I'm in love with Tyson Freeman.”
“You're not in love with Tyson,” Flynn said slowly, like he was talking to a child or a confused animal.
“But he's perfect.”
“You don't want to date him, you idiot. You want to BE him. Or better, you want him to disappear so Artie will notice you exist.”
“She notices I exist. I'm her practice dummy.” I grabbed my helmet. “Her kissing crash test dummy.”
“You made out with her for an hour three days ago.”
“For practice,” I shouted, then looked around to make sure no one heard. “She's very committed to proper technique.”
Flynn muttered something that sounded like “idiots in love” but before I could respond, Tyson walked by.
“Hey, Kingmans,” he said with that perfect smile that probably never had spinach in it. “Ready for practice?”
“Always,” Flynn said, and I swear he gave Tyson some kind of look. Like they were sharing a secret.
Great. Even my brother was Team Tyson now.
Saturday arrived too fast. Flynn and I had generally agreed we didn't need a big thing for our birthday, but Sean and Ren had insisted on throwing us a party. “You only turn twenty-three once,” Sean had said, “and it's your first birthday in LA. We're celebrating.”
So our house was full of people, teammates, their partners, Sean and Ren's friends, even family who'd flown in.
Nana and Coach were holding court in the living room, Grandpa Hunter was already chatting with some players, while Grandma Helene was definitely checking out their butts.
Jules was directing food placement like a tiny general, and AbuelaNovela was telling anyone who'd listen about the telenovela plot this all reminded her of.
“Dos hermanos, dos destinos, pero solo uno conoce el amor verdadero,” she said dramatically.
“She's saying happy birthday,” Tempest translated unconvincingly.
Sloane and her camera crew were everywhere, documenting every moment. She'd been particularly interested in what she called “the roommate dynamic” all week.
I was in the kitchen stress-eating cheesy poofs when Tyson arrived.
He looked perfect, because of course he did. A tight t-shirt that showed off those ridiculous abs, jeans that looked professionally tailored, and he was carrying not one but two gift bags.
“Birthday boys,” he called out, then caught Flynn's eye and... winked?
What the fuck? Why was he winking at my brother?
Flynn grinned back and gave him a thumbs up.
“Hey, Artie,” Tyson said, producing a bouquet of gerbera daisies from behind his back. “These are for you. I remembered you mentioned they were your favorites.”
When had she mentioned that? I didn't even know those were her favorites.
“Aww,” Artie's face lit up. “Tyson, that's so thoughtful.”
“Just wanted to brighten your day,” he said, and was that a flex? Did he just unconsciously flex while handing her flowers?
Then, and I swear this was not an accident, he knocked over his water bottle all over his shirt.
“Oh man,” he said, pulling at the wet fabric. “This is soaked through. Mind if I...” And then he was pulling his shirt off in my kitchen, revealing those absolutely ridiculous abs that looked like they were carved by angels who majored in architecture.
“Oh my,” Nana said from the doorway. “That's a very fit young man.”
“Abuela approves,” AbuelaNovela added with an appreciative whistle.
Flynn was turned away, but I could see his shoulders shaking. Was he laughing?
“I'll get you a towel,” Artie said, but she wasn't moving. She was staring at Tyson's chest like it held the secrets of the universe.
“I've got an extra shirt in my car,” Tyson said. “But first, want me to help move that couch? Looks heavy.”
He then proceeded to help rearrange our living room furniture, shirtless, flexing with every lift, while Artie watched and I died inside.
Flynn and Tyson kept making eye contact, and at one point I swear Flynn mouthed “nice” when Tyson did a particularly unnecessary muscle flex while moving an ottoman that weighed maybe ten pounds.
“Your roommate is very strong,” Coach observed, settling into his newly positioned chair.
“He's not my roommate,” I said. “He's just a teammate.”
“I meant Artemis,” Coach said, pointing to where Artie was now helping Tyson move the coffee table. “Look at those arms.”
Right. Artie. My actual roommate. Who was currently admiring my shirtless teammate's abs from very close range.
“Gryff,” Artie called out, and I was instantly at her side because I had no self-control. “Come outside with me for a second?”
She led me to the front porch where a pet carrier was complete with a bow on top.
“Happy birthday,” she said, suddenly shy. “I know we said no big gifts, but I couldn't resist.”
She opened the carrier and out walked the most perfect baby goat I'd ever seen. Black and white spotted, with one ear that flopped sideways and eyes that looked like they held wisdom beyond his weeks.
“This is Vincent Van Goat,” she said, picking him up and placing him in my arms. “He's ten weeks old, he was born without one ear, and he absolutely needs a home with someone who'll love him exactly as he is.”
Vincent looked up at me and bleated softly, then immediately tried to eat my shirt.
“Artie,” I breathed, falling completely in love with this little creature. “He's perfect. I have something to give you too.”
“But it’s your birthday. I don’t understand.” she replied as I tucked Vincent under my arm like a football and took her hand to lead her around the house into our fenced in backyard.