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“If that’s what it takes, that’s what I’ll do.” My hands ache to touch him, to cup his jaw or run through his floppy red hair. I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m not straight. I’m still figuring out where I fall on the spectrum of LGBTQIA+, but I also don’t really care to label myself.
“You wouldn’t do that to me.” He’s not confident about his words.
I lift an eyebrow and stare at him. “You sure about that?”
He deflates and looks like a spoiled brat about ready to stomp his foot. It’s harder than it should be not to smile at him.
“Pizza will be here soon, then sleep. We have a game tomorrow.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know.”
Brendon slithers past me, his body brushing mine, then there’s a knock on the door. I open it and take the pizza boxes from the delivery guy.
Brendon grabs them from me and rushes toward my bed, cackling like a lunatic when he opens them. The delivery guy watches him warily for a second, then hands me the receipt to sign.
“Have a good night,” I say and close the door.
Brendon is sitting cross-legged on my bed, a garlic twist in one hand and a slice of pizza shoved into his mouth with the other. I sigh and shake my head.
He looks up at me and tries to say “what” around the mouthful of food, but it’s just a garbled sound.
“Why do you always make a mess onmybed?” I reach for a garlic twist and take a big bite.
“Why would I make a mess of my own bed?” he scoffs. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
I shove him over, and he laughs but moves enough for me to be able to sit down. Once one of his hands is empty, he turns on my Xbox and TV, then flips through shit even though I know he’s going to pick something from theStar Warsuniverse because he always does.
After ten minutes, he settles on Disney+ and turns onThe Mandalorian. Brendon scarfs down half the pizza and three twists before laying back on my pillows and rubbing his stomach. I move the pizza boxes, and he stretches out, pulling my blanket over him.
“I ate too much,” he whines. “My stomach hurts.”
He pulls his shirt up to show me how round his stomach is as I lay down next to him.
“You shouldn’t have eaten the last two garlic twists.”
Brendon scoffs, “But they’re so tasty.”
He reaches for my hand and places it on his stomach. I lift an eyebrow and look up at him.
“Am I waiting to feel the baby kick?”
“Rub it; it hurts.”
I sigh but readjust on the bed so I can rub his stomach, the big baby. Secretly, I love it. I like taking care of him. I like that I can touch him sometimes, and I like that he only letsmedo this for him.
We make it halfway through an episode before he falls asleep and rolls over, dragging me in behind him to spoon. He mumbles something in his sleep, and I smile into his shoulder when he settles and snores softly.
For a little while, I can almost pretend like he’s mine and fall asleep with him in my bed.
2
Brendon
In the locker room two days later, we’re all stripping out of our suits and changing into workout gear to prepare for the second game against Maine. There’s an excited buzz to the locker room like always. Every athlete thinks they’re going to win the game. There’s a pressure we put on ourselves to perform perfectly, or we’ve let everyone down. Logically, we know it’s a team sport and not one person wins or loses a game, but in our heads, we know the truth. If we lose, it’s our own fault.
“Goddamn, Albrooke!” Willis, one of our defenders, calls a few cubbies down from me. “Wild night, buddy?”
Everyone turns to look at Jeremy, and when I step back to get a look at him, I can see why. He’s absolutely covered in hickies, bite marks, and scratches. Now that everyone knows Jeremy and Preston are together, the ribbing over the sex marks is worse. Preston says nothing, only smirks if someone comes up with something clever, but Jeremy blushes like a virgin. I have to admit, it’s pretty fucking hilarious.
