“I haven’t showered since game day. That was four days ago.” He gestured at himself with obvious disgust. “I smell like a locker room floor. I need a shower.”
He had a point. Not that I was going to tell him that.
“The boot?—”
“I ordered a waterproof cover. Got here this morning along with the shower chair and knee scooter.” He nodded toward the packages by the front door, which I’d brought in for him. “I can do this.”
“You can’t manage stairs on crutches yet.”
“So, help me up the stairs.”
I studied him. He’d been off the heavy pain med for two days now, managing with just Tylenol. The pain was clearly better—he could shift positions without wincing, could focus on conversations without that glazed look the opioid had given him. But stairs were still a challenge, and getting in and out of a shower seemed like a recipe for disaster.
But I also understood the need. Four days without a shower would make anyone desperate, and Marco had always been particular about personal hygiene. I’d helped him wash up at the powder room sink, but it wasn’t the same. Had helped him change his clothes and boxer briefs too, though he’d been visibly uncomfortable the whole time—tense and avoiding eye contact. Yet here he was, asking for help with a shower anyway. That’s how desperate he’d gotten.
The stubborn set to his jaw told me he was doing this whether I helped or not.
“Okay,” I said, standing up. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
Getting him up the stairs took longer than I’d expected. Even with me supporting most of his weight and taking it one step at a time, it was slow going. By the time we made it to the second floor, he was breathing hard, and I could see the strain around his eyes.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just need a minute.”
We stood in the hallway, my arm still around his waist, my shoulder under his, both of us catching our breath. His bedroom was straight ahead—the master with the en-suite bathroom. I’d only been in there a handful of times, usually to grab something when he’d asked. Going in there now felt like crossing some invisible line.
But he needed help, so that’s what I’d give him.
The bathroom was nice—all black marble and white cabinets, with a large walk-in shower that had a rainshowerhead. I was a little envious of it compared to the standard tub and shower combination in the hall bathroom.
But looking at it while helping Marco settle onto the closed toilet lid, I felt something other than envy. Something closer to dread.
Because there was no way he was getting in and out of that shower without significant help.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Let’s figure this out.”
I went back downstairs and opened the packages by the front door. I pulled out the waterproof boot cover and the shower chair. The chair was simple enough—just a plastic seat with rubber feet that would keep it stable. The boot cover was trickier, but I figured out how it worked.
I returned to Marco. “You need help with your clothes?” I asked, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet. “Can’t really stand to get my shorts off.”
That was fine. That was normal. I’d seen Marco naked probably hundreds of times over our three years of being teammates. Locker rooms, showers after games. This was no different.
Except itwasdifferent. Because this wasn’t the locker room. This was his bathroom, in his house, and there was something intimate about it that made my hands clumsy as I reached for the hem of his T-shirt. “Arms up.”
He raised his arms, and I pulled the shirt over his head, trying not to notice the way his muscles shifted, the breadth of his shoulders, the dark hair on his chest. Things I’d seen before but somehow never really looked at.
His gym shorts were next. I hooked my fingers in the waistband, and he lifted his hips so I could pull them down. His boxer briefs came with them, freeing his cock. His long,thick cock in a nest of dark curls. I averted my gaze to give him some privacy.
I told myself this was fine, this was common; teammates helped each other.
But my heart was beating too fast, and I couldn’t quite shake the awareness that I was undressing my best friend in his bathroom, that he was naked in front of me, that something about this felt different than it ever had before.
“Boot cover,” I said, more to distract myself than anything.
I carefully fitted the waterproof cover over his boot, trying to focus on the mechanics of it rather than the way his leg was right there, solid muscle under my hands.
