I’m playing it cool with Viggo. I sent a nice No big deal text back while Gavin drove us home in silence and I stared out the window, fuming at my brother. I’m going to let Viggo think he didn’t piss me the heck off, when he knows Gavin’s my neighbor and he knows that taking my car meant Gavin would likely be the one to drive me home.
So much for his “you know your own path to happiness” bullshit. This was one of his “lead a horse to water” moments, and he might not have made me wear swimming trunks, but he certainly compelled me to carpool with my neighbor, who is also the guy I have a massive crush on, who I was tangled up in bed with this morning and inadvertently rubbing hard-ons with while he extracted us and then made me promise never to talk about it.
And for that I will make Viggo pay dearly. I’m only acting like I’m not upset with him because revenge will be sweetest if he thinks I’ve let it go and he lets his guard down first.
After Gavin and I are home and have parted ways, I decide to try to lighten my mood with music, so I’ve got David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” blasting in my house as I unpack my bag. Booty popping my way over to the hamper, I toss in my dirty clothes and freeze when I recognize a shirt that’s not mine.
Not that it isn’t obvious, given he and I were roommates, but I know by my senses alone whose it is. Black, soft. Clean and spicy.
Gavin’s.
I stare at the shirt, weighing my options. I could wash it, then return it to him at practice, two days from now, since we have a rest day tomorrow.
Or I could take it over to his house…now.
I mean, sure, he might not miss it, but what if he does? What if it’s his favorite shirt and not knowing where it is has him in agonies?
Agonies, listen to me.
I suppose I could simply text him and let him know that I have it. But then again, why waste the energy? Why make my cellphone work and contribute to the reckless waste of precious resources, when I can use my God-given legs, walk across the yard, bang on his door, and hopefully get lucky enough to see him in nothing but a towel and water dripping down his body as he scowls at me for having interrupted his post-flight shower?
Man, this is bad.
I’m a wreck. A horny, desperate wreck. I am six foot three of pure, unadulterated lust for that man and this morning did nothing to help. His hands, his body, the persistent press of his cock along my ass, rubbing me. The way he groaned against my skin and clutched my hand tighter when I pressed back against him, when I was so sure it was a dream, everything I was feeling, how good it felt.
It’s been a while—two years to be precise—but I can still remember plenty of what I’ve done sexually, the adventurous positions and explorations and wild, marathon nights. I miss none of that the way I miss the pleasure of simply being touched by him, held by him.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, this whole trip, from my episode on the flight to the end of our game, has made it worse, has made keeping my attraction to Gavin firmly contained in the box labeled Very understandable but nevertheless a very bad idea to act on—DO NOT ACT ON!
I know what I’m doing is a bad idea. But I can’t seem to care. I can’t stop myself as I slip on my sneakers, as I jog across his yard, as I stand at his back door, my fist hovering over the varnished wood… As I realize his door was left a tiny bit open, like he tried to shut it but didn’t muscle it closed the whole way.
Well, good thing I came over here rather than calling. So there, universe. I made a smart decision after all.
Now comes the great debate: do I tug the door shut, then knock?
Or do I just go in and announce myself?
My choice is made for me when a pained shout emanates from deep in his house. I’m inside, the door slammed behind me, before I’ve made a conscious decision.
“Hayes?” I yell.
A groan sounds from a room to the right, past the kitchen. I make a guess and head to the end of the hall for what I anticipate is the primary bedroom, seeing as I’m pretty sure his house is a mirror layout of mine.
I open the door and stop short. Gavin lies on his bed, on his back. I got my wish, mostly, but I can’t even enjoy it. Sure, he’s in nothing but a pair of lightweight, black pajama bottoms, hair wet, water beading on his massive chest as he scowls at me.
But he’s obviously not okay.
“What in the fuck are you doing here?” he growls.
I lift his shirt, which is balled in my hand, and say intelligently, “Your shirt.”
His gaze snaps from me to the shirt, then back to me. “Put it down, then leave.”
I drop his shirt on the dresser beside me, which is—shocker—charcoal gray. “Not until I know you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, pressing his palms into his eyes. His hands are trembling. He’s in such terrible pain, he’s shaking.
I’m fine.
Clearly he’s not fine. And the fierce, unyielding part of me, the part Gavin rightly—much as I hate to admit—said that I hide and suppress so much to be my pleasant, friendly, easygoing self, will not be subdued right now.
“I don’t believe you,” I tell him.
He drops his hands, glaring at me. “Well, then even if I’m lying, it’s still none of your business, is it?”
“Excuse me,” I tell him, crossing the room, taking in the white walls, the black-and-white photos that are really beautiful, if not a little melancholy. “We promised we’d be honest about anything that affects the team—”
“A promise that I am swiftly and deeply regretting,” he mutters.
I gesture to his prone position. “And this right here indicates that your body, which happens to be pretty pivotal to the team, is affected. So, c’mon. Let’s talk it out. Tell your old co-cap what’s going on.”
“Fucking hell,” he groans.
I stop beside his bed. “Mind if I pull up a spot? We did a pretty good job talking this way yesterday.”
He sighs, scowling up at me. “Fine.”
Careful not to bounce the mattress and jostle his body, I ease onto the bed until I’m flat on my back like Gavin. Lacing my hands behind my head, I stare up at the ceiling, which is a boring cloud white, except for the textural swirls created when it was painted.
“I confess,” I tell him, “that while I love a good skygazing, I don’t quite see the appeal of the ceiling-gaze. But yours does have little swirly doodads adding texture, so I suppose I can work with that. Only thing is, I’m not one of those people who stares at the clouds and sees elephants and ice cream cones and jellyfish, so I doubt I’ll find anything of merit on your ceiling, but there’s a first time for everything. When I look at clouds, all I see are big old cumulonimbus and stratus clouds, which, you know, are pretty cool on their own—condensed water vapor just floating up in the sky, waiting to let it all out and give Earth a good scrub-a-dub—”
“Bergman.”
I glance his way. Gavin’s dark eyes hold mine, tight at the corners. “Why the fuck are you here?”
I swallow roughly, trying very hard not to look at his bare chest, rising and falling, his hands clenched at his sides. “I told you, I had your shirt.”
“Which you returned.”
“And now we’re gonna talk.”
“You’ve talked. I’ve just talked. Now you can leave.”
I search his eyes, knowing that I’m doing something I shouldn’t. That staring at Gavin, feeling my heart crack open and flood my good sense with something dangerously close to affection, means I should leave. I should run out that door and just keep running and never look back. Because I swore to myself I wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t let myself care and want and long for anyone I played with or worked with, especially not him.
Pushing up on my elbow, I peer down at Gavin. “You’ve spoken, but you haven’t talked, haven’t said what needs to be said, and we both know it. Now listen, if embarrassment is stopping you, in this situation, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Well, besides your stunning lack of appreciation for color in home decoration, but other than that—”
“It’s my knee,” he says tightly. “It gave out, and it burns like hell. Dan or Maria will sort it out tomorrow.”
“Day after tomorrow,” I remind him.
He sighs heavily. “Right.”
“And until then?”
“I’ll be able to stand in a little and hobble around until I can get a corticosteroid jabbed into it.”
“Mmm, sounds lovely.”
“The joys of aging.” Slowly, he glances up at me.
I hold his eyes, examining them. Dark eyes flecked with gold. Thick dark lashes. His eyes seem to search mine, too. Something shifts between us, not unlike the moment the wind swirls in a new direction, replacing what was cool and bitter with a new, welcome warmth.
“You should leave,” he says quietly.
He’s right. I should. But I can’t seem to make myself.