Generally, I think we do quite well at the platonic thing for guys who’ve had epic sex with each other. We’ve mastered the art of pretending that night never happened. Well, Jared has. I’m still working on not remembering whenever he stretches and his shirt rides up to expose his skin. But I guess it’s easier for him to forget when the face looking back at him now is so different from the one hidden under green paint that night.
Jared swallows. “Did you know goose bumps are useless too? They’re supposed to make our fur stand up, except we don’t have fur anymore.”
“Is this your way of telling me I need to manscape? Because I’ll have you know my three chest hairs are very proud of themselves.”
“Three? That’s generous.”
“Fine, two and a half. The half one is still developing. It has dreams.”
Jared’s smiling now. “Your chest hair has dreams?”
“Big ones. Mostly about becoming visible without direct sunlight.”
We both laugh, and my chest loosens slightly. This is what Jared does. He makes me forget to be anxious, forget to monitor myself.
“We’re here,” Jared says, pulling into the car park.
The team is already warming up, all dressed in fluorescent rainbow jerseys that are so bright they must be visible from space. My stomach does a little flip.
“You can still back out,” Jared says. “Though Scott will never let me hear the end of it. I talked you up at the game on Saturday.”
My pulse goes from normal to hummingbird-having-a-panic-attack in about two seconds. “You’ve been talking about me?”
“Just your soccer skills,” he says quickly, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
The thing is, with Jared next to me, I actually believe I can do this. He makes me feel like I’m still worth knowing, scars and all.
We get out and head toward the field. A guy with dark hair and a confident swagger jogs over. This must be Scott, the team captain Jared’s told me about.
“Jared! This is the friend you mentioned?”
“Scott, this is Felix. Felix, Scott.”
Scott’s gaze catches on my face, and I see him mentally recalibrate before his grin kicks in. “Jared says you’ve got skills. We’ll see about that.”
“I’ve got skills at falling over. Does that count?”
“Depends on how dramatically you do it and whether you get a penalty,” Scott replies.
Before I can respond, more players are drifting over. I’m introduced to the team members. There’s Declan, who looks about fifteen but moves like he was born with a ball at his feet; a quieter guy with glasses, whom Jared introduces as Seb; Tim and Jamie, who are clearly together from the way they orbit each other like binary stars; and Mattie, an attractive guy with an eyebrow ring and a sardonic smirk whose whole demeanor screams edgy and cool.
Each introduction brings that familiar pause—the moment where they process what they’re seeing before their social training takes over. My shoulders creep up toward my ears.
Then Jared does something that makes my heart stop.
He casually steps behind me and rests his hand on my lower back. Not possessive, not obvious, just…there. A warm point of contact that says “I’ve got you” without words.
My shoulders drop. My breathing evens out. Everything’s okay.
“Right,” Scott calls out. “Let’s do some drills. Felix, you’re with Jared, Mattie, and Declan.”
The next twenty minutes are an exercise in trying not to stare at Jared. Which is basically impossible because Jared in athletic gear should come with a warning label. The way his shorts sit on his hips. The way his shirt rides up when he heads the ball, showing a strip of stomach that makes my mouth go dry.
I’m supposed to be focusing on the drill, but instead, I’m cataloging how sweat makes his skin glow in the afternoon sun.
“Felix!” The ball smacks me in the chest because I’m too busy watching Jared laugh at something Declan said.
“Sorry! I was…planning my next move.”
