Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
He scoffs. “Chason.”
“Miller,” I fire back.
He gives me that you can’t be serious look, and oh shit. I know where this is going. I go hot all over.
“You can sleep with me,” Derek says. As I expected and it still sends a jolt down my spine. “I’ve shared with guys before. In the minors. When we were traveling or whatever.”
I have too but Derek isn’t a random player I roomed with. “You sure?” I ask because I don’t trust myself not to make this weird. I’m not going to pounce on him unwanted—more like once we get in bed, I’ll be an open book. I’m sure my cheeks will flush, or my breath will hitch.
Or, more likely, I’ll pop instant wood. I imagine it, the two of us pressed together—or more likely spending the night trying to stay apart through an unspoken agreement. Because that night in Arizona is on the list of things we’re not talking about, even if we’ve talked about everything else.
Derek shrugs then answers lightly with, “We can sleep.” As if something other than sleep could be on the menu.
Maybe it’s just me wanting more.
I swallow, throat dry, then nod. “Okay.”
I’m feeling less and less certain—trying to remember why hooking up with a teammate is a bad idea. None of those reasons feels particularly substantial now. It’d make things…complicated, I remind myself, even if spending a night in his bed already feels pretty complicated.
We clean up for another few minutes—Derek transporting my sodden bedsheets and towels to the washer, then finding a bucket somewhere to put under the drip. From there, we spend a normal evening, the two of us parked on the couch, but with the knowledge that, in a little while, we’re going to sleep in the same bed. We watch…something. I couldn’t tell you what if you paid me. A show of some kind, though I’m sure my eyes are seeing images on the screen and hearing sounds from the speakers. We’re not sitting that far apart. His knee is very close to mine. Different from sliding up next to a dugout railing to talk about the game. Different from sitting near each other on the team jet. I glance down at where our legs are almost—not quite—touching.
Until Derek nudges his thigh against mine, and I startle more than is warranted. “Are you watching this?” he asks.
I blink at the TV screen like I’m seeing it for the first time. “Not really.”
“Me neither.” With that, a long yawn, maybe from genuine tiredness, since we’re all tired at this point in the season. Or maybe he’s as keyed up as I am and trying to cover it up.
I retreat to my darkened bedroom to change, pulling on sweats and a T-shirt, even if I mostly just sleep in my boxers.
When I get into Derek’s room, he’s scrolling on his phone, and he clearly had the same thought I did because he is—disappointingly—also wearing a shirt.
“Are you tired?” I ask. A couple-y question, even among guys living together for just over a week.
A shrug, a lift of one shoulder, and he’s on top of the comforter, but soon he’ll be under it. We’ll be under it. Closer than we’ve been in a while but not quite close enough. “I'm ready to crash,” he says.
“Cool. Me too.” My mouth is dry. I should have brought a bottle of water. Something other than my phone and its charger, myself in gray sweatpants that conceal…well, I should get under the covers. Sooner rather than later.
Derek flips up the bedding and slides in. I follow. The lights are still on. It’s awkward. For a second, we lie there, both still, bodies six inches apart, closer than we need to be. I can feel the heat coming off him in waves. He shifts. Our hands brush. And it’s nothing—no different than our fingers overlapping when he hands me something in the kitchen or when we’re doing defensive work out on the field. Nothing, except for how my breath can’t seem to settle. How my mind supplies thoughts—specifically, of Derek on his knees smiling up at me challengingly—in a pulse like the persistent drip of water.
“Let me get the lamp.” He clicks it off. The only light comes in through the uncovered window, the distant glitter of the city. We lie for a minute, breathing in the dark.
“It’s been a while since I slept with someone,” I say, then want to kick myself. Because what he doesn’t need is a reminder of how I got up and left. “I mean…”
He laughs, slightly, a small ripple in the bedding. His sheets smell like him, like soap and the faint scent of rainwater cologne. “It’s been a while for me too.”
“Sorry,” I say, a little anemically. “For leaving that night.” The night we’re not supposed to talk about, even if everything comes easier, here in the dark, with his thigh close to mine.