“Blake likes to cook.” It blurts out before I can stop myself. A memory comes with it: I was seven and mad because Blake was in the kitchen following around our grandma and not paying attention to me. I complained to Brad about it. He slapped me in the ear, told me to stop whining, then dragged Blake out to play. After that, I never asked again. “He used to, anyway.”
“You miss him?”
Obviously, I miss him, he’s my brother.What I said whenever a reporter asked me about what it was like to play without Blake. Now I think of Brad hauling him out of that kitchen. Of how I called Blake in the middle of the night from a holding cell, knowing that if he came and got me, everything would be fine the way it always was. “Boston is better for him.”
Next to me, Asher pauses as he’s eating, sets his fork inside the container, then knocks his shoulder into mine. “And I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t left an opening at first base.”
“You play center now.”
“You noticed that too, huh?” Asher’s lips tug at the edges. His eyes shine with laughter—with me, not at me, different from the hard way he looked at me when we first met.
I take the mostly empty container of food from him and set it on the nightstand. Rub my hands over the front of my sweatpants to gather my courage. “I’m going to kiss you.” What I said to Savannah at our wedding—when I was afraid that if I took her in my arms, I’d never want to let go.
Asher doesn’t brace himself the way Savannah did all those months ago. He just sits next to me, waiting, like it’s okay if I take my time. I cup his jaw again. His stubble is rough under my fingers. I wonder if it will sting my lips. I want it to, somehow—want to get on the plane after our game tomorrow knowing that I kissed him.
Before Savannah, kissing was something that I just did, not thinking, but not really feeling anything either. With her, I’m aware of every moment, my body attuned to her every breath and heartbeat.
With Asher, I watch the slow rise of his chest as he inhales, the flick of his eyes over my face. A look he’s given me before, one I denied—if I denied that he was looking at me, I could deny that I was looking right back.
I kiss him, once. Tip our foreheads together. Search myself for any sign of revulsion.
“You good?” Asher asks.
“You don’t have to do that.” My voice comes out shaky and I’m not sure why.
His lips edge up. “Disagree.”
“Are you gonna argue or?—?”
He cuts me off with a kiss, this one less like we’re fighting and more like we’re trying to figure each other out. I tighten my grip, urge him back onto the bed, ruck up his shirt. The skin of his belly isn’t much paler than what’s on his arms, but it looks softer, somehow.
“I want to—” I skim my hand up his torso, as he pulls off his shirt, then lower my mouth to his stomach. Press a kiss just above his waistband. Wait for some reaction. If he’ll get impatient and want something else. At church, they told us that anything between men would be rushed, impersonal.Selfish. “Have you done this before?” I ask.
“I kissed you two nights ago.”
“You drop into a lot of people’s marriages?”
He bristles at that. “Is that what I’m doing—dropping in?”
Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. Sav would be better at this—better at finding the right words, at understanding the things beneath the surface of a conversation. I kiss him again, this time at his cheek, my chest resting against his. “No, that’s not all.”
He rolls his body against mine. Kisses me back. “I’ve done this before. With men and with women. Usually only one at a time.”
“Usually?” I ask.
He smirks. I lean up and kiss the edge of his mouth, the tendon in his neck. Down to the black ink of his tattoo. His shoulders stiffen. AnoI can read even if he doesn’t say it out loud.
A month ago, when I thought we hated each other, I would have—I don’t know. Hoped that I was a good enough person not to use that against him. But it’s possible I would have—that I would have flung any perceived weakness at him in an effort to keep him away. I shift to the uninked skin on his shoulder, try to memorize the feeling of his ribs under my palm. Asher is hard and flat and muscular—different from Savannah’s curves—but still somehow the shape of my hands.
He groans. His hair is hanging messy over his forehead. There’s a bruise coming up on his chest I must have left with my mouth. “Your head okay?” I ask, feeling clumsy about it the way I had when Sav first told me she had migraines and I wasn’t sure what that meant.
“My head’s good, B.” Asher’s called me that a few times. Most of the team just calls meForsyth. I wonder how many do that so they don’t have to remember that I’m not my brother. Blake could beBtoo, I guess, but the way Asher says it sounds a little too like he’s both slightly exasperated and also wants me to kiss him again to be about anyone else.
I shift so I’m holding more of my weight off him. “You’re not supposed to do strenuous activities post-concussion.”
“I don’t think this counts as strenuous.” He adjusts how he’s lying, the ridge of his cock visible through the fabric of his sweats. “You’re doing all the work.”
“So you finally admit someone else does just as much as you—” I begin, but I can’t finish the sentence when Asher flips us so that I’m on my back and he’s on top of me. He’s wiry but strong, and he has a ballplayer’s ass—thick, muscular, currently right on top of my erection. He grinds down on me. I groan the way he did a minute ago.
