And now I want to laugh because mine is much more incriminating than his. “Just looking for something.”
Flipping the cap, I dribble some of the liquid onto his skin and use my hand to stop it from flowing down onto his sheets. He stiffens again under my touch.
“Sorry. Is it cold?”
“Is that…lube?”
“How about we think of it as a massage oil alternative?”
The choked sound he lets out is cut off by a low groan when I apply pressure to the tight muscles on each side of his spine. I wish I had a magic eraser to remove the red and white scarringon his back and the event that caused them, but I’ll settle for that sound. Circling over the cords in his back, I make slow sweeps toward his sides, drawing away the tension. His breathing deepens, his body relaxing a fraction like he’s no longer fighting the idea of letting me pamper him.
“That feels good,” he whispers, his voice tight.
“See? Lube for the win. You’ll be ‘Mighty’ again in no time.” The grunt he makes doesn’t sound like it’s from relief. Eyes closed, lines form around the corner of his mouth. I think I hit a nerve, and not one in his back. “I guess no one probably calls you that anymore.”
“If they did, I’d ask them not to. It was a stupid fucking name.”
“You didn’t like it? I thought you used to have a keychain with—” I’m quick to cut myself off when he glances back at me in surprise. Face burning, I shift my attention to his back, grateful for the dim lighting in here. “It was just something I noticed,” I add to cover my tracks, but now I’m curious. “So…when all your fans were chanting your nickname, that’s why you were out there scowling? And here I thought it was just your game face.”
I think one of my favorite things about older Chris is that he likes my stupid jokes and never makes me feel awkward for blurting out something embarrassing, like I just did. I still don’t see how it wasn’t obvious that I was a sucker for him back then, but I plan to ease into this crush with better compliments than that one.
He makes no comment, so I focus on working systematically up his spine to the brick wall that is his overworked shoulders. Damn, how many crunches did he do? There are enough knots here to open a Shibari exhibit.
“After the accident…there was an article…”
My hands slow. His voice comes out so quiet and forlorn that I barely catch what he’s saying.
“Well, there were a lot of articles, but there was this one sports journal,Football Today. I’d never even readFootball Todaybefore. I’ll never forget the headline:Mighty The Fallen. I remember staring at it through a swollen eyelid from where my face hit the dashboard and thinking, yeah, that about sums it up.”
I don’t realize my hands have gone still until his back rises and falls on a sigh. My heart twists inside my chest.
“It was a good article,” he remarks casually. “The guy was a hell of a writer. A year later, I was sitting at Austin Limits High School, my cane propped against the bleachers, watching a game just as a reason to get away from my parents for a few hours, and then it hit me.Icould bethatguy, maybe… I mean, my fingers still worked. I could cover athletics—without the poetic doom and gloom that he did, of course. That was my one condition. Anyhow.” He shrugs against my hands. “So, what do I know? Maybe itwasthe perfect name.”
The pain in the center of my chest radiates to my throat, making it difficult to form words. He’d just realized his ambitions were ruined, only to have someone come along and trample all over the rubble. He was twenty-three.Onlytwenty-three, and a news headline essentially told him he was nothing and never would be again. I don’t condone the poor decision he made, but that doesn’t seem fair.
Clearing his throat, he shifts in place. “Sorry. You were expecting a workout partner and instead got sucked into having to put your hands on an ex-hookup while he tells you uplifting stories.” He leans back like he’s intent on rolling back onto the mattress, but my knee prevents him from going further. Craning his head, he flashes me a stoic look. “You don’t have to doctor me. I’ve lived with this for years.”
“It’s fine,” I practically choke, rattling my head back and forth. I ease my hands off him, though. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, thank you. Don’t get me wrong. It felt good, but…I’d rather be in pain than see you feeling sorry for me.”
He lets out a self-deprecating puff, a meek smile playing on his lips. However, there’s nothing humorous about the moment. He just shared a piece of his trauma with me, and I can tell it cost him something. I want to trade him a hell of a lot more than a massage for that in return.
I think now is a good time to quit holding back the sentimental thoughts I’ve had about him. This isn’t a crush. It’s an attachment that’s rooted so deep in my heart that whatever home I build on it will withstand a lifetime of storms with a foundation that strong.
“Ifeel sorry… fornot being therewhen you needed someone, because I would have been. And I put my hands on you because… Well, I’m kind of addicted to making you feel better.”
You’d think I spoke in tongues the way he’s gaping at me. I see the moment when my spilled secrets really register. A flush creeps up his cheeks, and he redirects his gaze to the mattress. Okay. Not awkward.
He clears his throat as his fingers play with a ripple in the duvet. “As a Narcotics Anonymous graduate, I feel like I should probably tell you to seek some kind of treatment program for that, but,”—he pauses, darting a peek at me, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips—“if you’re looking for an enabler, I won’t complain if you don’t stop.”
Well…that settles that. Nowmyface is probably red too. I cover my chuckle with a cough and pick up where I left off. The soft grunt he makes as I knead his shoulders has me wanting to bend down and press a kiss to the offended area.
“I doubt there’s a cure,” I murmur, half-intending that to have only been for my ears. But heck, I’m on a roll. I still have the need to heal young Chris as much as older Chris, so I set another confession free. “I, um, had a really hard time seeing you go,actually. That’s why Jamie was so standoffish with you. I kind of sulked about it for…” Okay, maybe specifics would be too much of a confession. “For a while.”
This time, I don’t get a flirty, encouraging reply. I get silence. He’s gone tense again under my touch. The longer I continue to work on his muscles, the more self-conscious I feel. Side note: Some secrets are apparently better left unspoken. I open my mouth to try to get my foot out of it, but a stupefied whisper beats me to it.
“You never said anything.”
