We play around in a circle, just different warm-up moves, trying to steal the ball from each other. Whenever Nowak gets the ball, he goofs around like a circus clown doing all sorts of random tricks. Riley growls at him each time, “Don’t hog the ball, fucker,” or “No wonder your bed is empty every night if that’s your best move.”
“Just so you know, it isn’t.” Nowak smirks back, grabbing his junk and doing a frantic wiggle move. “You jealous, Riley?” He makes a kissy face.
“The fuck I am,” Riley spits. “Now pass the damn ball!” I don’t know what the deal is with our center and right-wing, but there isn’t a day that goes by where they aren’t at each other’s throats. It never turns ugly; no, it isn’t anything like that. It’s just this constant banter back and forth, often with crude innuendos referring to getting laid or lack thereof.
When Luke gets the ball, he starts doing Around the World, the other players counting out loud, some of them cheeringAntoine, Antoine, Antoine.I have zero clue what they’re on about. As far as I know, Luke’s last name is Carrington, but perhaps his middle name is Antoine. I don’t know him that well yet, but it seems to be a thing with the guys. With a focused frown between his dark brows and the tip of his tongue peeking from the left corner of his mouth, Luke continues to circle the ball around his right foot.35, 36, 37.
On autopilot, my gaze zeroes in on his thick thighs, the muscles flexing with every circular movement of his foot. His brown locks fall into his forehead, his nose scrunched in a cute frown.41, 42, 43.His arms hover away from his upper body, keeping his balance, his fists clenching and unclenching as he concentrates on not dropping the ball. He has sturdy hands. I noticed that the other night when he held out the Tylenol to me. Mine are slender, with long slim fingers. As I take him in, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to hold his hand, my fingers tangled through his, squeezing them gently, my thumb brushing across his knuckles.
I love holding hands. It’s one of my favorite things to do. I used to hold Leo’s hand whenever I could get away with it. Sometimes I had both of my hands wrapped around one of his as we walked through the nearby park or sat at our preferred corner table at the local coffee shop. I miss it. It’s not Leo I miss, though. Not anymore. But I miss the togetherness. Holding hands. Kissing someone who means something to me. Cuddling up with someone next to me on the couch, waving my fingers through soft strands of hair, burying my face against someone’s neck, breathing them in. Knowing they’re mine.
There are many ways of being ace. Hell, there are as many ways as there are ace people. It’s up to you to define how far you want to go with another person. For me, it has always been about intimacy. The sensations. I love the closeness and the touching. The exploring of the other person’s face. Mapping out their features with my fingers and my mouth. After I decided not to have sex anymore, I never went further than kissing, touching, and cuddling. For me, those are the natural limits of my sexuality. I don’t feel that sexual arousal when I’m physical with another person. I rarely feel it on my own either. It has nothing to do with an aversion to sex. I understand why otherpeople want to have it, but for me, it’s something I’ve realized I don’t need or want.
That’s why I got the tattoo; a permanent reminder to myself that I’m okay the way I am. That I don’t need to conform. Change. Being ace is not something missing, and I can be a whole person without sex in my life. And maybe someday, I’ll meet someone who understands that. Who accepts it and perhaps feels the same way.
“100!” The guys yell in unison, Riley flying over to Luke, picking him up, sprinting around the room with him over his shoulder. Kennedy picks up the ball and makes a few moves before passing it to Nowak, who kicks the ball directly at the ceiling, hitting a halogen lamp. With a loud crash, the lamp goes flying to the floor, a few sparks flying.
“For fuck’s sake,” Badura yells, kicking after Nowak, who dodges him by the skin of his teeth.
“Shit,” Buckhammer grins. “You killed another one.” He brushes a hand through his hair as he looks at Nowak with what appears to be admiration. “What’s your body count, dude?” Nowak, who’s retreated behind me to avoid the wrath of Badura, counts quietly on his fingers, a smug smile playing on his lips.
“Four,” he pants. “No, wait. There was that one in Atlanta, too. Five,” he glowers.
“Yeah, well, let’s wrap it up, guys,” Caps claps his hands together. Pointing a finger at Nowak, he raises a brow in warning. “You find someone to get this mess cleaned up.” Nowak nods as he creeps out from behind me. Luke comes jogging toward me as he presses his lips against an emblem on his tee across the left side of his chest, murmuring something against the fabric. I now recognize that his shirt looks like a team jersey, with red-and-white stripes running down his torso and the shoulders all red.
“Hey man,” he stops in front of me. “You okay?” He tilts his head, his eyes coasting across my face. “You didn’t get hit by any shrapnel?” he chuckles.
“Nah, I’m all in one piece,” I smile. Licking my bottom lip, my gaze zeroes in on what’s definitely a team emblem on his chest. “What’s with the tee?” I nod at his chest.
“Oh, this?” Luke pulls at the fabric, his entire face lighting up, cheeks flushed from exertion. “It’s my lucky charm,” he smirks, rubbing across the emblem. “It’s Antoine,” he whispers, a dreamy look in his chocolate eyes.
“Antoine?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, eyes hooded. “Antoine Griezmann. The French soccer player. He plays for the national team, but this is his club jersey. Atlético Madrid. It’s a Spanish team.”
“Is it the same one that’s around your neck?” I blurt before even realizing what I’m saying. Luke just laughs, pulling the chain from behind his jersey and holding out the small locket between us.
“Nah, that’s just my man Hermes,” he says, as though everyone knows who that is. I make a note to myself to look up this Hermes dude later.
“Yeah, I don’t know anything about soccer,” I shrug apologetically.
“Neither does Carrington,” Riley booms, coming up next to us and ruffling Luke’s hair fondly. “He only knows about this French dude.”
“Shut up,” Luke mutters. “Iknowabout soccer…”
“Right.” Riley nods solemnly before his face explodes into a huge grin. Turning to me, he leans in, whisper-yelling, “It’s his celebrity crush.”
“Jesus, dude,” Luke groans. “He’s not my crush. I just… I like the way he plays. He’s a great athlete.”
“You like the way he playsball, right, Carrington?” Crane smirks.
“Shut the fuck up, Crane,” Riley spits. I’ve noticed a couple of times how protective the Canadian is of Luke. He can give him as much shit as he wants, but if anyone else comes at Luke, he goes into full-on mama-bear mode.
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Crane shoots daggers at Riley. “We all have celebrity crushes.” As if on cue, the rest of the guys start name-dropping, rolling their eyes in pretend ecstasy. Names of famous actresses or models. A few female athletes, too. Once the guys settle down and start moving toward the locker room, Luke turns to me, a curious frown between his brows.
“So, what about you, Mitchell? Who’s your celebrity crush?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, his eyes a smoldering shade of brown.
“Uhm, I don’t know,” I mumble, rubbing at my neck. Isodo know.
