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He smiled a little. “Maybe. I’ve never been to a Sunday practice.”
“Some stalker you are.”
“Can’t show up every time, you might start to notice me.”
Would have been nice of me to say I always noticed him, but it would have been a lie, too. I never actually paid any attention to who showed up at practice unless they made an ass of themselves like a few dads who’d try to sideline coach or girls screaming trying to get someone’s attention. Plus, somehow, as big as he was, The Beast was always really good at making himself invisible. I felt like maybe that was my fault. Like probably I picked on him so much when we were kids he learned how to blend into the scenery.
“Starts at one,” I finally told him. “Till about three usually. Sometimes it goes long, just depends.”
“On what?” he asked, like he was actually interested. Fucking curious cat.
I shrugged. “Whether we won on Friday. Who we’re playing. If Coach is pissed off or not… You just never know. But you don’t need to come.” I wasn’t sure if I secretly wanted him there or secretly didn’t. Getting stalked was complicated.
“Okay,” he said again, agreeable as fuck, and maybe I was secretly a little disappointed.
“I have Monday through Thursday practice too,” I added. “After school. Till four-thirty. Six. Whenever he lets us go.”
“That’s a lot of practice. That’s like a part-time job.”
I nodded. It built up, but you never really thought about how many hours it was altogether. Just how sore you were and how long until another water break. Felt nice having someone acknowledge it though, even somebody who didn’t know anything about football.
“And games on Friday mostly,” I said, wrapping it up. I wasn’t sure why laying out my football schedule seemed so important, but I guess maybe I was trying to convince us both that I wouldn’t take up much space, that I’d really barely be here. That there was a reason for all this that made some kind of sense, I had an actual purpose. “I have to go to practice. I can’t quit football.”
“I…” He looked confused, and yeah, I was being confusing. “Do you think I want you to quit football?” he asked me.
“I don’t know what you want,” I admitted. Things felt jumbled up, and my brain wasfucked. It just really did not want me to enjoy being here for one minute, wanted me to already feel like a freeloader for wasting his time and his gas and his bathwater, and Jesus, I was tired of that feeling. “I don’t know what you want me to do. To… I mean, I can get a job. But football season—”
“Stop.” He shook his head slowly. “I told you, I’m not expecting anything. This isn’t… All I want you to do is study hard and be safe and focus on graduating. That’s it. That’s what’s important, and you don’t have to worry about anything else. I’ll take care of everything. Your only job right now is to let me do that, okay?”
He really seemed like he wanted an answer to that stupid fucking question, that too-good-to-be-true explanation, so I nodded. I wasn’t so sure what I was trying to say anyway.
“Good boy. Now. Why don’t you lay down on the bed, on your stomach, and let me take care of you until the food gets here.”
He had me atgood boy, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, but I was sold on the rest too, pretty much all my favorite things and I didn’t even have to pick one.
“Yeah. Alright.” I picked my towel up off the bed, twisting and untwisting, not sure what to do with it. Part of me wanted to keep holding onto it just because it felt so nice in my hands.
Caleb reached out and took it from me gently, hanging it over the side of a big basket I’d thought was just decoration, but I guess was a hamper. Then he grabbed my shoulder and turned me around, gave me a little push toward the bed and I dropped down on it, about fifty percent less awake the second I landed.
He sat down next to me and for a minute stroked the back of my neck, almost scratching, but not quite, just strong, soft rakes of his fingertips that pushed me further toward sleep as I sighed hard.
“How do you feel?” he asked me.
That was way too much question. “I don’t know. Fine.”
He patted me on the ass with his other hand. “Sore?”
Easier question.
“A little. I looked in the bathroom. It wasn’t so bad. Just pink.”
“Mind if I look?”
He asked that a lot— mind if I take your clothes off, mind if I suck your dick, and the politeness didn’t really vibe with the no-talking, no-bullshit way I liked fooling around, but I guess I did like the extra attention. Plus, those decisions were easy.
“Go ahead.”
He grabbed my waistband, and I eased my hips up, helping him work his sweatpants down off me, tugging them to just above my knees, and there I was, half-naked, pressed against his bed, getting hard just knowing he was looking, andgodI felt good, justgoodall over.
