“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.
“I don’t want to leave you alone to ceiling-gaze all by your lonesome.”
“Being alone,” he says, “is not the same as being lonesome.”
“True. But sometimes it’s nice not to be alone.”
He stares up at me, those dark eyes unreadable, so frustratingly guarded. My heart slams in my chest. “You really should go,” he says, digging his palms into his eyes again and exhaling slowly. I see how much he’s hurting.
“Can I try to help first?”
He scoffs. “There’s no help.”
I have a few memories, growing up, when what was left of my dad’s leg ached fiercely, phantom nerve pain, pain from his prosthesis chafing against his skin. I remember him lying on the sofa one evening, his head in my mom’s lap, while the house swirled with chaos around them. Dinner waited. Extra TV time was allowed. I remember wondering, when it was his leg that hurt, why my mom didn’t just focus on that. Sure, she massaged his spasming thigh muscle, the place where his skin and muscles had healed around severed bone.
But she spent much more time slipping her fingers through his hair, down his neck, pressing kisses to his face, his temple, whispering words we weren’t meant to hear that made Dad groan and smile. I didn’t understand why.
Now that I’m older, after having broken bones and sprained joints, after seeing the people I love hurt and heal, I understand. So often, pain isn’t something we can cure or prevent, and that’s not why we lean into the people we love. We don’t need them to fix it for us or ask about all the things we could have done to avoid it or the ways we’ve tried to remedy it. We just need them to see us, to find ways to love us, not in spite of our pain, but through it.
Comfort was what my mom taught me to give and receive—not in an attempt to fix pain, but to love and be loved with humanizing touch, to give soothing pleasure where it could be had. The simple joy of having your hair played with, muscles that weren’t on fire and bones that weren’t broken stroked and kneaded and reminded: pain is part of you, but it’s not all of you. You’re hurting and you’re here, and I am, too.
“I know there’s no fixing it,” I tell him quietly. “That’s why I only want to help. Helping is different.” I lift a hand, reaching for his hair, wet from his shower, then stop myself. “Can I touch you?”
Gavin opens his eyes, then glares up at me. He’s silent for a long, tense minute. “Yes,” he finally says. “But lay so much as a finger on my knee, and I will rip your arm off.”
“Ten-four.” I scooch closer, then swipe my finger across his temple, over his nose, around his mouth. I trace his features, strong and sharp as if carved in stone. His eyes flutter shut, and a soft, slow breath eases out of him.
Next, I slip my fingers through his hair in slow, rhythmic strokes, scraping across his scalp, before moving on to massage his temples.
“Fuck,” he groans.
I pause. “Of the good or bad variety?”
“Very good,” he says hoarsely.
A smile lifts my mouth as I do it again. “Good.”
After a few minutes of that, I drift my hands down his neck, kneading the tight muscles joining his shoulders.
A pleased groan rolls out of him.
Using one hand to scrape my fingers softly across his scalp again, I roll the other over his shoulder, down his arm. Air saws in and out of his lungs. His eyes scrunch tight. “What are you doing?” he whispers.
“Helping,” I tell him, staring down at his severe features. Thick dark brows, lashes, beard—a beard that I’m still convinced hides a dimple. His nose just slightly off-center from when a player from Arsenal broke it with his elbow during a corner kick eight years ago.