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.
Sighing, he leans against his pillow and peers out the window, the stadium’s lights and streetlamps twinkling in the darkness. “I’m dealing with a few…chronic issues that didn’t resolve in the off-season, that have affected my play since we started and will affect my play tomorrow…indefinitely, really.”
Pain, is what he’s not saying. He’s in pain. And if he’s admitting it to me, if he’s admitting it’s affecting his performance—his speed, his agility—that means he’s in agony.
My heart twists. For once, though, I stay quiet, listening, waiting. I can tell he’s not done, that he needs time to say whatever else he wants me to know.
“I won’t be terribly fast,” he says, gaze pinned on the view outside. “When we’re counter-attacking, on breakaways, don’t count on me being right behind you.”
I force an easy smile and lean on an elbow. “You like bossing from the command center anyway. I don’t need you up top, cramping my style.”
He gives me an I see right through you look. “And let me take the fucking set piece kicks. You shank the shit out of them and becoming co-captain hasn’t suddenly made you better outside twenty yards.”
My mouth quirks. “Fair enough.”
“Now,” he says sternly. “A name, as promised.”
I swallow, debating lying, but what good would it be to tell him the wrong name? Finally, I tell him, “Bryce Burrows.”
“Bryce Burrows?” He grimaces. “That fucking diving wanker?”
I bite my lip. “He does tend to dive.”
Retrieving his book from the nightstand, Gavin opens it to the dog-eared page. “Can’t believe you were with Burrows. Christ.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” I now recognize what a waste of time Bryce was. I just wish I hadn’t been a lovesick wreck after he cheated on me. I wish I could have had the perspective I have now so much sooner. And I wish the thought of seeing him again didn’t kick up my insecurities, didn’t wound my pride all over again.
But I’m not going to wallow in those negative thoughts. I’m going to remind myself what my therapist said—that cheating reflects the character of the cheater, not the cheated on—and I’m going to distract myself with comfort TV.
Scooping up the remote, I sink onto the bed and stretch out.
“Burrows,” he mutters again, disgust painting his face. “Of all the people—”
“It was college,” I say defensively. “I was young and—”
“Delusional?” he offers, flipping the page of his book a little roughly. “Indulging in a particularly masochistic phase?”
“He was charming and cute. I mean he seemed like it back then.”
Gavin snorts, shaking his head as he flips another page. “Whatever.”
“I definitely had on rose-colored glasses when it came to him. I saw what I wanted to instead of what was there.” Staring down at the remote, I slip my fingers across the buttons. “He’s the last person I dated, actually. I don’t really trust myself not to make the same mistake twice.”
Gavin goes still for a moment, before clearing his throat and focusing back on the book in his hand.
I turn on my side, still looking at him. “Who was the last person you dated?”
Sighing, Gavin glares down at me. “Really? Pillow talk?”
I shrug. “I’m just asking.”
“Yes, well—” He turns the page in his book again and sniffs. “Seeing as I agreed to honesty only as it pertains to the team and our co-captaincy, I’m going to not so politely tell you to fuck off and go to sleep.”
“Aw, c’mon. Let’s bond. Swap heartbreak stories.”
His jaw twitches. “I’d rather not.”
“So you do have a heartbreak story?”
“Everyone has some kind of heartbreak story,” he says gruffly.
My stomach flips. There’s something wounded and guarded in how he’s said that. Something raw in how tight he holds his book. I don’t push the topic. I can recognize when someone’s been hurt and doesn’t want to hurt anymore by talking about it.
“What are you reading?” I ask, switching gears.
He lifts the book, showing me the cover. “Poetry. Carl Phillips.”
“Is he any good?” I ask.
He turns the page again, eyes darting left–right. “Very.”
“Is he queer?”
“Very,” he says again.
“Nice.” I drum my fingers on the bed and sigh, recognizing I’ve hit a wall with Gavin. Then again, we got a lot farther than I thought we would. We still don’t exactly get along or feel too happy about these close quarters, but at least some of that tension’s gone. A swell of relief crests inside me. I feel calmer than I have in days.
That is, until I realize how warm I’ve gotten. I’m sweating. Gavin is, too.
“Is it blistering hot in here?” I ask. “Or is it just me?”
Gavin clears his throat. “No, you’re right.”
“Mark it down, folks. Gavin Hayes said I’m right about something.”
He rolls his eyes. “I tried turning down the thermostat after my shower. I’m guessing it didn’t work.”
I hop off the bed and stroll over to the thermostat. “It’s blinking. Is that bad?”
Gavin groans as he tosses aside his book. He eases off the bed stiffly, then stalks my way.
I peer closer at the thermostat. “Think it’s broken.”
He nudges past me to get a look for himself. “Fucking hell.”
Sweat drips down his temple. It beads along my throat. It’s so damn hot.
“We can ask them to come fix it,” I offer.
Gavin turns away, shaking his head. “It’s late. And even if they could get someone in here to fix it, I told you already, there are no free rooms. We’ll be stuck, sitting up and waiting for the HVAC guy to leave, and we’ll lose out on sleep.”