Chapter 27
Milo
Beau is where he usually is when I get home, sitting on the couch and watching me walk through the door.
The television is decidedly not on, so I can’t yell at him for watching it when he should be resting his poor concussed brain.
Even though we both know he’s going to magically know a lot about the game as soon as I sit down.
He looks nervous tonight, something shifting in his eyes as I move across the room.
“Look,” I start, a smile creeping up my cheeks. It feels fake, false, like I’m trying to stamp happiness where it doesn’t belong. “Let me get out of this suit, and you can tell me everything we did wrong tonight.” I start to laugh, but Beau just kind of hiccups and turns quickly from me.
He hiccups again, and I’m staring at the side of his head.
Is he…?
He wouldn’t…
But did he actually…?
I peek around the space and notice a bottle sitting on the counter. The lid is off. There’s a clean whiskey glass in the sink.
He didn’t.
“Beau…” I stare at him sideways, narrowing my eyes to a distrusting slant. Because he wouldn’t be stupid enough to be drinking less than a week after a concussion diagnosis. And he especially wouldn’t be stupid enough to mix alcohol and his pain meds for his collarbone fracture.
He wouldn’t.
So do I ask him?
I stare down at him for a moment while he looks anywhere but at me. Something in my gut is fluttering, and not in the good way. This feels bad. This feels like deception.
No, I walk away, slipping my jacket off as I go.
Now not only stressed and angry at myself for letting in that goal tonight, I’m also stressed about whatever is going on with him.
I’m not sure I’m emotionally in it enough to be able to confront him tonight.
I’m not sure I have it in me to be that person tonight.
I recognize the behavior. I see it in him, and it scares me. Because I know what’s going on.
My heart twinges a little.
I slide out of my suit and into a pair of sweats. I look down at the shirt in my hand before tossing it on the bed. It lies there in a rumpled heap as I leave to head back to the living room to find out what the hell is going on with my… Beau.
Maybe it’s sleazy to try and use my body to win over this argument, if it even becomes an argument, but sometimes you have to fight dirty.
I saunter back out to the living room and plop down beside Beau, who’s still decidedly not looking at me.
We sit there for some time, silence falling over us. For the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t feel amicable. The silence feels stilted and heavy, and I really don’t like it, but it has to be done.
“Beau, you know this isn’t okay, right?” I ask slowly, trying desperately to catch his eye. He hiccups again before blushing furiously and looking over at me shyly.
“I don’t—”
“You have to know exactly what you’re doing.” My voice is harsh, direct. I don’t mean for it to sound as brash as it does, but he flinches.
Fuck.
This isn’t how I wanted to bring this up, but I know I have to. I can’t keep watching him drink his life to oblivion. I can’t keep watching him hide behind inebriation.
I think back to the bar and meeting Jamie. Jamie, who is incredibly sweet and flirty and not at all my type. And then looking across the bar and seeing Beau seething at us. It was great for my scheming and plotting and whatnot, but looking back, Beau was painfully drunk every time.
Win?
Drunk.
Lose?
Drunk.
Sitting at home with a fractured collarbone and a concussion?
Drunk.
Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe this is all in my head, and Beau doesn’t display alcoholic tendencies.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe this is biting off more than I can chew. Maybe I can’t be enough for him. Maybe I can’t… Fuck, maybe I’m not enough.
He’s looking at me now, and … and I think those are tears in his eyes. A very obvious drop drips down his cheek, and now I know he’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, staring down at his lap, tears piling up and overflowing.
We sit there in a staggering silence, unable to move and unable to grasp what’s happening.
Am I really mad at Beau for drinking? Any other time, I’d say no, but this time, so fresh off a concussion… Yeah, I’m actually mad.
“Do you have any idea how bad this could be?”
Hiccup.
I groan and wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer. His body shakes a little as his tears really begin to flow.
“Fuck, Beau, you’re scaring me, you know? When you do this, you scare me.” I squeeze him a little, still trying to be cognizant of the fracture. I’m upset, but I don’t want to hurt him.
“I just hate the way this feels, the way I feel.” He slumps forward in a way that can’t be comfortable for his shoulder.
“I feel so useless like this, like I’m nothing if I’m not contributing.
” He vaguely gestures around the house. “I tried to clean, but it fucking hurt, and I felt like you would see how useless I am. I’m afraid that the team will realize how useless I am, and they’ll trade me again, and then I’ll lose everything. ”
I look around the house as he speaks and see where he attempted to clean, but my brows scrunch together. How could I possibly see him as useless?
“Beau,” I start, my hand running in large circles along his back, “my feelings for you are not tied to your usefulness. They’re not tied to what you can offer me.”
We sit there for a while, silence squeezing us, more like an awkward embrace than anything.
My feelings for him are suffocating me. I want to tell him exactly how I feel, but I know he’s only just accepted that we’re an item. I don’t know how long it’ll be before he’s ready for any grand declarations of feelings.
“You don’t have to hide behind drinks.” I try to get him to look at me. “You don’t have to hide behind getting drunk. You don’t need to be numb. Not with me.”
I climb up on his lap, cradling his head in my hands and holding him close to me. His body is shaking a little, like maybe he’s crying. I try to shush him, to bring him comfort. My fingers run through his dark curls, and I tilt his head up to look at me.
Large amber eyes, swimming in tears, wet lashes, but he tries with a sad sap smile. I wipe at those teary eyes, and they close. He leans into my touch.
I hate that he feels that he has to numb his emotions. I hate that I haven’t made him feel safe enough.
I hate that he’s felt this alone.
I can’t help but feel little bouts of anger bubble up in my stomach as I slide off Beau’s lap and pull him to his feet. I don’t feel like anything is resolved. If anything, I feel more confused than ever.
Beau stumbles behind me as we make our way to the bedroom—our room, if I have anything to say about it. The drunkenness combined with the concussion is a recipe for disaster.
“Oh, baby, you want me to rock your world?” he asks, still sniffling and wiping away at his tear-streaked face. His cheeks are red and splotchy, but I turn back and smile at him, because of course that’s where his mind goes.
Flicking on the lights, I pull him into me and give him a push toward the bed. He starts purring and moaning at me, clearly still thinking this is going to lead to sexy fun times. I roll my eyes skyward.
He runs his fingers through my hair as I kneel down and help him out of his sweats. Yanking them down bit by bit while he wiggles his hips to “help” me is quite a feat. And then I’m treated to a fun little surprise.
He’s gone commando.
Although, he must be pretty drunk because his dick is still hanging limply between his legs.
“If you suck it, I’ll be good to go, I swear.” I try not to laugh at his charming offer. He’s standing pressed against a bed in a sling, a T-shirt, socks, and that’s it. Pooh Bear-ing it has never looked so good.
“Come on, baby.” I urge him into the bed, and he grabs at my ass, leaning into my body, his forehead resting against my chest.
“Mine.”
I chuckle at his drunken declaration.
“Yes, sweetheart, yours.”
I’m all yours, forever, if you’ll have me.
He cradles my head in his hands, tilting my face down to look at him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, eyes glassy, words slurred.
“And you’re so drunk.” I laugh, hiding the scoff.
“Yes, I’m drunk." He nods, hiding his face against my abdomen. “And you’re beautiful. But tomorrow I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be beautiful.”