I shrug, a long slow exhale escaping me, and even though the question stirs something unfamiliar and uncomfortable down in my chest, “That’s not even a thing, dude. He doesn’t know and I don’t want to tell him…”
“Why?” Mack asks, open and straightforward.
I shrug again. “I’m not ready for whatever would happen,” I answer truthfully.
He just nods, like he gets it. And, I don’t know, maybe he does. Maybe Mack has been in my situation before and was more prepared to actually face the new part of himself.
Then he stands, stretches a little, and without missing a beat he asks, “Want another beer?”
14
Jacob
I liketo think I’m pretty fucking good at reading people, which is a skill you don’t really get a choice about when you work with athletes, because they have this collective, deeply ingrained habit of lying through their teeth about pain as long as they think it might keep them in the game.
You learn fast how to watch instead of listen, how to read the way someone favors a side or tightens their jaw or goes just a little too still when you touch a spot that actually hurts, and over the years I’ve gotten damn good at picking up on those quiet tells.
Except now?
Now my brain feels like it’s short circuiting.
Because I cannot stop replaying this weekend in my head, like my thoughts have latched onto it and refused to let go, and no matter how many times I tell myself to be normal and professional and not a fucking idiot, I keep seeing it again and again: the way I stepped between Griffin’s knees without even thinking about it, the way my hands settled automatically on his shoulder like that’s exactly where they were supposed to be, theway his body reacted under my touch in a way I absolutely did not anticipate.
I can’t get the sound he made out of my head either…that low, involuntary groan that slid right under my skin and stayed there. And I definitely can’t unsee the way his body responded in a way that made my stomach clench and my thoughts scatter in every direction at once.
Which means, for the first time in a long time, I don’t trust my own read on the situation.
Because what if it was nothing?
What if it was just a physical response, the kind that happens when a muscle finally releases or when pressure hits exactly the right spot, completely detached from attraction or intent or anything remotely sexual?
That would make sense. That would be logical. That would be the most realistic explanation, and normally I’d latch onto that and move on.
But there’s this other possibility that keeps creeping in, uninvited and dangerous, whispering that maybe it wasn’t nothing at all. Maybe my hands on him did something more than relieve pain. Maybe the reaction wasn’t just about the massage, but aboutme.
And that thought is exactly where everything starts to unravel.
Because that’s the line Hughie warned me not to cross in my own head, the one he gently but firmly told me not to even consider, and here I am anyway, standing knee deep in it, letting myself wonder if there was something mutual in that moment instead of shutting it down like I should have.
I know better than this. I really do.
And yet here I am, questioning my own instincts, overanalyzing a moment that should have been straightforward, and hating myself a little for the fact that I can’t seem to stophope from flickering to life where it has absolutely no business being.
I push open the doors to the training center, the familiar scent of antiseptic and old sweat greeting me. It’s early but I didn’t sleep for shit last night and figured I might as well be productive instead of lying in bed, reliving every second of this weekends awkward disaster like it’s some kind of highlight reel from hell.
I make my way to the training room and come to a dead stop. Like a fucking nightmare there they are, Griffin and Mack, both sitting on the treatment tables like they own the damn place.
Griffin’s got his hoodie pulled up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, those thick forearms on full display as he scrolls his phone. Mack is beside him, and in front of Mack, unfortunately, and not at all subtly checking him out, is Lauren.
She’s leaning just a little too far forward, her glossy lips forming some exaggerated laugh, manicured hand lightly brushing Mack’s bicep as she says something that, judging by the pained look on Mack’s face, is either wildly unfunny or just plain confusing.
Probably both.
He looks like a man trapped. Honestly, it’s kind of hilarious.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I announce my presence, dropping my bag by the wall and raising a brow as Lauren straightens like she’s been caught doing something illicit.
Mack immediately shifts like he’s just been granted parole.
