“You’re the one who led with a dick joke,” I point out.
He sighs as he turns with an armful of clothes in his hands. “Trust me, I regret it. Had I known it would lead us here, I never would have said a word. Now I’m going to shower. And while I’m in there, you’re going to eat.”
He grabs the container I noticed him carrying in, slaps the package of disposable plasticware on top of it, and shoves it into my hands. “You barely ate anything at dinner, and you’ll be useless tomorrow if you don’t carbo-load tonight.”
“I was going to eat a high-carb bar,” I mutter, hearing how peevish I sound as I open the container and unwrap my fork.
He arches an eyebrow. “Inadequate. Eat that. Then, when I come out of the shower, you’re going to go in and shower next. After that, we are going to put all the pillows we don’t need between us on that mattress, and not talk about penises belonging to anything on land or sea, and get some fucking sleep. Understood?”
I peer up at him, a massive bite of grilled chicken and pasta arrabiata giving me chipmunk cheeks. It tastes so much better now that my stomach’s not knotted with nerves. “Anyone ever tell you you’re bossy as hell?”
He smirks. “All the time. Now eat.”
11
OLIVER
Playlist: “Lay Down,” Son Little
Turns out eating a real meal makes me feel a lot better. So does a bit of teasing with Gavin, who emerges from the bathroom in one of his grayscale outfits—charcoal joggers, black T-shirt, dark hair dripping wet and curling at the ends.
My whole body tightens, an ache settling deep and low in my groin. Looking at him now, replaying when he told me to eat with the kind of concerned command that absolutely turns my crank, I spring off the bed and rush toward the bathroom, before Gavin has the chance to notice how worked up I am.
I haven’t had sex in years. I went through a phase that first year I was with the Galaxy when it felt like all I did was have sex, soaking up the attention, the appreciative gazes and touches and kisses. It felt good. I needed it. I needed to wipe away the sadness I associated with sex because of Bryce. I needed to have sex that was fun and carefree and simply for pleasure’s sake, no feelings, no repeats. But then—and no, I’m not going to analyze the timing—by the time our second season started, it began to feel unsatisfying. What once made me happy started to hurt. I knew why. I was ready again, not for the rush of anonymous release and relief, but familiarity, comfort and cuddles…
Intimacy.
I’ve wanted it. I just haven’t known how or where to find it. The team and all the publicity I do for it is time-consuming. I spend nearly the whole year training or playing. And unlike most other folks, meeting and falling in love with a coworker is off the table for me. I won’t risk anything imploding my joy in my profession or compromising its stability like I let my relationship with Bryce mess with my college career, even if it did end up leading me to make the best choice I could have in signing with the Galaxy rather than staying with UCLA and finishing my degree.
It makes sense, knowing this loneliness inside me, that I’d feel drawn to Gavin after such a long day, after he witnessed my vulnerability and actually showed me compassion for it.
But just because in a way it makes sense doesn’t mean it’s anything I’m acting on. Or acknowledging. I don’t even rub one out in the shower because I know what I’d fantasize about if I did. And that’s exactly the direction I can’t let my mind, body, or feelings wander.
Despite leaving me uncomfortable in the erection department, my chaste shower makes me feel otherwise pretty damn incredible, the hot water soothing my tense and sore muscles. Full of chicken and pasta arrabiata, blissed out from a steamy shower and my comfy clothes, I’m whistling happily to myself when I exit the bathroom.
Then my whistle dies like the sound of Wile E. Coyote plummeting to his doom.
My insides resemble that moment when poor Wile E. runs right off the ledge and hovers in the air, suspended in time before he realizes he’s in seriously deep shit.
Gavin sits on the bed—our bed—legs crossed at the ankles, bare feet, long, thick legs tight in his charcoal sweatpants. A book rests on his flat stomach as he frowns down at the page, then turns it. “Look your fill?” he asks without glancing up.
“Couldn’t tell if that was you or your shadow,” I quip.
He snorts. “At least I don’t look like Rainbow Brite.”
I’m wearing a lime-green shirt and navy-blue joggers. “I don’t know who they are, but by name alone, they sound like a good time.”
“A TV character from my childhood,” he says, turning the page again. “Which is obviously before your time.”
“There was color television back then?”
He rolls his eyes. “Piss off, Bergman.”
“I want to hear about Rainbow Brite. Clearly, they have a great eye for color, since I remind you of them.”
He peers up at me, eyebrow arched, before his expression blanks. His gaze darts halfway down my body before he refocuses on his book. “Go to bed.”
My stomach knots as I stare down at him, as I remember what Viggo encouraged me to do.
Talk to him.
“First, we need to talk,” I tell him.
Sighing heavily, he closes his book and tosses it onto the nightstand. “Let’s have it, then.”
I sit on the edge of my side of the bed, the middle of the mattress divided by a row of pillows Gavin must have lined up while I was in the shower. “I know you said we can’t be friends. I know things are…strained between us.”
He shifts slightly on the bed, then clears his throat. But he doesn’t say anything.
I peer up to find him staring right at me. “I can accept that we won’t be friendly, only civil. But this tension…”
Our eyes hold.
Gavin swallows thickly. “Yes,” he says. His voice is low and rough.
Heat slips through my veins, warms me. I tamp it down, remind myself what I’m trying to do. “This tension is wearing me out. It’s distracting and exhausting, and believe it or not, even though you think I’m a big old softie on the field, I don’t want distractions or anything draining me, Hayes. I want to win. I want us being co-captains to make this team even better. I want to crush New England tomorrow, and I want to tear through our preseason undefeated. I can’t do that when we’re like this.”
His eyes search mine. “Meaning?”
I lift my chin, steeling myself. “I want honesty and respect between us. No more games.”
“No more games, as in, no more shit-looking peanut butter on my doorknob?”
“Or conditioner in the shampoo dispenser,” I fire back.
He tips his head, his expression infuriatingly inscrutable. “Honesty when it comes to what?”
“Whatever’s affecting our performance, our ability to be our best for the team. Any baggage we’re bringing to the field, anything that’s preventing us from having the united front that our team deserves.”
Quiet holds between us. His jaw clenches. “Agreed.”
“And respect?” I prompt.
“I’ll respect you on the field.” His mouth quirks. “But off it, I’m still going to bust your ass.”
“Likewise. However, in front of the team, any and all public appearances—”
“Yes. We’ll be respectful.”
“Okay…” I stare down at my hands, picking at a cuticle. “Then, in the spirit of honesty and counting on your respect, I’m just going to…get this out.”
He shifts again on the bed, facing me more fully. “I’m listening.”
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I’m nervous to wear a captain’s armband alongside one of the greatest players of all time. I’m nervous I’m going to fail to be a leader on the field. I’m nervous I’ll disappoint everyone who’s counting on me, and that I’ll do it in front of a guy who really messed me up.”
His expression sharpens. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
He leans in, hands clasped between his legs. “Who messed you up? When?”
I’m taken aback by the intensity of his voice, the fire in his eyes. “Uh…one of the guys on New England’s team. It was years ago, though. Water under the bridge, except when I play against him and it seems to kick up stuff.”
“Name, Bergman. I want a name.”
I search his eyes further, wishing he wasn’t difficult to read. “Why?”
“Because you promised honesty, and I deserve to know.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I want some honesty from you first. A little quid pro quo, if you please.”
He glares at me. I glare back.