“Obviously I’m a fan of the latter,” he states dryly. “But I’ll be here for you either way. Whatever you need.”
Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I can only nod.
I steer the conversation to lighter topics. Between bites, we talk about classes and he tells me a little about how he’s helping at practices. It’s comfortable and easy to be with him, but there’s the slightest tension in the way we interact. We’re careful to keep our hands to ourselves, and the one time he bumps my leg under the table, I jump so high in my seat he apologizes like he’s wounded me deeply.
We’re us, but we aren’t. This isn’t Bless it’s Weir—the weird, nonsensical version of our cooler couple alter ego.
“Thank you for—” I start to speak at the same time he does.
“Listen, I—”
“You first,” we say at the same time and smile.
I open my palm toward him in a silent offering for him to go first.
“I owe you an explanation for the way I acted. After my injury, you were trying to be there for me and I wouldn’t let you. I pushed you away. I destroyed what we had.”
“You were dealing,” I say simply. I always knew the why, but his apology doesn’t fix the hurt it caused or the pain he inflicted when he removed himself from my life.
“It wasn’t just that.” He lets out a shaky breath and meets my eyes. His blue stare is melancholy and regret. “I wanted to hurt you. You pushed your way into my life, bringing your optimism and joy, and it changed me. I made room for something in my life besides ball. But then I was laying in that hospital bed, hearing your bubbly voice tell me to flip the negativity and see the positive, and I didn’t want to. I wasn’t ready to do anything but be angry and bitter.”
“No one expected you to see the positive in this. Least of all me.”
“I know.” He shakes his head. “It was petty and childish. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it. I miss you. Fuck, I miss you. I’m just not sure who I am or what I’m doing anymore. I don’t want to be this miserable guy who is pissed at the world, not when I’m with you. You deserve better than that.”
“You’re allowed to have bad days or months. This isn’t exactly my banner year so far.” I wave my hands as I speak. “Relationships are ugly sometimes.” I shrug and inwardly cringe because I just used the word relationship when we never put a label on whatever we were before.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. The warmth of his fingers soothes something that’s been aching without his touch. “I’m crazy about you, but I gotta be honest that I’m still going through some shit.”
“Well, I can handle your grumpiness if you can put up with my optimism and spunk.”
“Deal.”
My heart swells with that one word. Deal.
It isn’t until we’ve said goodnight that I realize I have no idea what we just agreed to. Are we in a relationship? Are we friends?
He didn’t kiss me. We said goodbye with a long hug and a promise to hang out tomorrow afternoon, but did I just agree to a friendly hang out or Netflix and chill?
I’m still wondering as I sit on his bed the following day, watching him pack for a team away game.
Joel knocks on the door and pokes his head in. “You still have that Spanish textbook from last year?”
Wes nods toward his bookshelf. “Yeah, it’s on the shelf. What’s up?”
“I told someone I’d help her. Just want to get an idea of how much they’re covering in introductory Spanish.”
“You’re tutoring someone?” Wes asks, his tone as disbelieving as the thoughts running through my head.
“Shut up,” Joel grumbles.
Wes crosses the room and pulls the book from the shelf. He stops in front of Joel and holds the book, obviously using it as bait for more information.
Joel mutters, “I guess I promised her I’d help with Spanish to get her to sleep with me. There, happy now?”
We laugh at his expense. “Dude, that’s low even for you.”
“Shut the fuck up. I don’t even remember saying it . . . or doing it for that matter.” He shakes his head. “She says we hung out at the baseball party last week. I was so drunk that night I crashed on Mario’s couch, so anything is possible.” Joel looks at me. “This is your fault. You told me chicks dig the Spanish.”
I hold my hands up. “Don’t put this on me. I didn’t tell you to use it as a bargaining chip for sex.”
“Good luck.” Wes tosses the book at him and Joel walks backward out of the door already flipping through the pages.
I turn to Wes. “You know you guys are sitting on an untapped gold mine. Women would”—I pause and point after Joel—“and apparently already do, go to great lengths to have a hot, smart male tutor.”
“Whatever you’re suggesting, hard pass.”
“Come on, the marketing alone would be fantastic.” I wave my hand in front of my face like I’m seeing it on a billboard. “Smart Jocks: Get an A while enjoying eye candy too.”
“That’s a terrible slogan.”
“It was my first attempt. Oh! I have it! Smart Jocks: Their brains are as big as their—”
“Don’t finish that statement.” He holds a hand up. “I want to imagine the possibilities of that last word.”
I toss a pillow at him.
“How about. Smart Jocks: Figure it out your damn self. I’m busy.”
I tap my chin. “Hmmm. I dunno, I mean it certainly sounds like something you’d say, but it’s a bit grumpy.”
“I thought you agreed to put up with my grumpy ass.” He leans down and places a kiss at the corner of my mouth.
It’s the first time his lips have touched mine in a month, and my insides turn to total mush. Instead of responding, I grab his hand and tug him closer. He lets out a throaty chuckle as he brings our lips back together. The dam has broken, and our kiss becomes frantic and needy. He places two strong hands under my ass and lifts me, bringing me upright with him. I wrap my legs around his waist as he walks us to the door, shuts, and locks it. Crossing back to the bed in two long steps, he drops us to the bed and settles on top of me. He breaks away to stare down at me. “You’re so beautiful. Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of looking at you or kissing you.”
He steals another kiss, as if proving his point. “You always taste like sugar . . . so damn sweet.”
He continues his worship and praise of my body, getting us undressed in record time. We’re hot and sweaty and can’t keep our hands off each other. Looks as if he didn’t listen to Joel this time. Or maybe he just hadn’t planned for this to happen.
“Gotta head out in ten.” Nathan yells and knocks from the other side as Wes tears open a condom and covers himself.
“Sadly, I’m not gonna need that long,” he says around a smile, just loud enough that I can hear.
The giggle that tickles my throat is lost when he enters me, stretching me and filling me completely. He stills, braced above me, his expression fixed in exquisite torment.
“Have to make this up to you when I get back on Saturday night.”
But there’s nothing to make up for. I’m as needy and close as he is. Each thrust threatens to push me over the edge. His breathing is labored and sweat beads on his chest. He’s holding back, delaying his pleasure to get me there. If that isn’t the most deliciously sexy thing a man could do in bed, I don’t know what is.
“I’m close,” I rasp. It isn’t a warning. It’s permission for him to let go.
Still, he waits until the orgasm takes over my body before he growls out, shuddering as he gives into his release.
He rests his forehead on mine. “Last thing I want to do is get out of this bed and get on a flight with a bunch of dudes.”
But he has to, and I watch him as he slides from the bed, disposing of the condom and dressing quickly. He tosses my jeans and shirt onto the bed before he shoves stuff into his duffel bag.
“I gotta run. Stay as long as you want. In fact
, if you want to be in that same spot when I get back, I won’t complain.” He winks and drops a hurried kiss on my lips.”
“Good luck,” I call to his back.
When I hear the faint sound of the front door slamming closed, I pull Wes’s comforter around me and inhale. I’m in deep again. No, not again. My feelings never changed. I feel like I never left, but his feelings have bounced around, and I don’t want to be on the bench, waiting for more time in the game. Yep, I’m in deep. Even my thoughts have converted to basketball analogies for his sake.
I’ve done exactly what Vanessa warned me against. I’ve fallen into old habits where Wes and I spend time together without ever really discussing the depth of it. Maybe it’s positive thinking or maybe it’s just plain idiotic to hope things will work out on their own. Pushing away the negative and focusing on being happy is the only real choice because my heart is already his.
36
Wes
We win our game in Oregon, which has everyone in good spirits on the way back. It’s a long ass flight and then an hour bus ride to get back to Valley, and every minute feels like torture. I don’t know where to sit on the bus. Ridiculous as it sounds, everything has changed, and I’m no longer one of them. If I were an injured sophomore or even junior, it’d be different, but I’m never gonna be a real member of this team again.
I settle next to Z, but his silence only makes my nervous energy feel more pronounced. The tension I usually release on the floor has built up, and I can’t sit still. Shaw sits across the aisle and catches my eye. “You all right? Foot bothering you?”
“What?” It takes a second for his attempt at polite conversation to register. “Nah, just feel restless.”
He nods as if he could possibly understand. “Look, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I’m really sorry about the way things went down. You were a good player. The guys really respect and look to you. It’s tough shoes to fill. I just want you to know I don’t take the job lightly.”
I resist an eye roll but can’t stop the disbelieving grunt that escapes.
“What is your problem with me, anyway? You’ve been on my ass since I arrived at Valley, so I know it isn’t just that I’ve taken your spot.”
Count to five and consider keeping my mouth shut. The consideration is rejected. “I don’t like that you’re dividing your time. Pick a sport. Coaches might be okay with it, but no one else is. It’s damn risky, and it makes both teams feel like you aren’t giving one hundred percent.”
“That’s such bullshit,” he says and shakes his head. “I work my ass off to be a part of both teams. Twice as many practices, double the coaches and training routines.”
“Why do that to yourself? Just pick one and give it your all. Save yourself and all of us a lot of heartache when you get burned out or injured.”
“You just don’t get it. I can’t pick between the two of them like it’s a choice of pizza or tacos. I love basketball. I love the sound of shoes squeaking on the floor and the echo of the ball in an empty gym. But I love baseball too.”
“Yeah, sure. I loved football once upon a time, but I made the decision to put everything into one sport.” Most of us played other sports as kids, but at one point or another we gave the others up and made basketball the primary focus.
“You didn’t love football as much as basketball.” He is adamant, and that pisses me off.
“Excuse me?”
“You couldn’t have. There’s no way I could pick between basketball and baseball. Come on, you know what it’s like to love two things so much you can’t give either up. How is my loving two sports different from you playing ball and having a girlfriend?”
“You’re really comparing your situation to my dating life?”
His head bobbles like he’s waiting for me to figure out the connection.
“It isn’t the same,” I finally say.
“Sure it is. You split your time between the two. They both consume your thoughts. Your main objective for both is to score.”
I roll my eyes at his lame attempt at humor. “That is the weakest analogy I’ve ever heard, rook. We’re done here.”
I stand and move to the front next to Joel. He looks me over and nods appreciatively. “Nice work today. You have a knack for keeping Shaw and the bench ready to go. And you look damn good doing it. Getting laid agrees with you.”
“Jesus H Christ,” I mutter and stand again. The only other available seat is next to Coach.
He takes off his glasses and looks me over as if I’ve personally offended him by invading his bubble. “The guys are in rare form after that win.”
“It was a good game. Shaw is finally finding his rhythm. Thanks to you.”
“Please don’t thank me.” I scrub a hand along my jaw and around my neck. “I resent every second of it.”
He laughs. “You won’t after a while.”
I narrow my eyes as if that’ll help me understand him better.
“I wasn’t always a coach,” he says
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “Baylor, player of the year in 1999.”
“That’s right.” He nods with a proud look on his face, and I see a bit of that cocky player he had to have been back then. Z and I looked up old clips once; Coach was a beast. “I played all four seasons. Four great seasons. Still hurts just the same no matter when you have to give it up.”
“Why’d you become a coach if you resent not playing anymore?”
He studies me. “Why’d you decide to come back and sit with the team?”
I shrug.
“The only thing that hurts more than not playing is losing it completely. They’ll have to drag me off that court kicking and screaming when I’m ninety years old.”
“I guess I came back because I didn’t know what else to do. Who else to be.”
He shifts in his seat and studies me. “You thought about what you might want to do after you graduate?”
“My dad has offered me a junior analyst job at his company.” I shrug. I haven’t really allowed myself to think beyond May.
“Coach Lewis is moving on, we’ll have an assistant coaching spot if you’re interested. Think about it. Pay is crap and you’d have to keep working with these knuckleheads, but for what it’s worth, I think you have a real talent for it. You’ve already made a difference in Shaw. Maybe coaching at Valley, with guys you played with, is too much, but you say the word, and I’ll make some calls to other programs.”
Somehow, I manage to speak through the shock. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
Be a coach? We sit in an uncomfortable silence. It’s already been a night out of bizzaro land, so I ask the question that’s been floating around in my head since Shaw mentioned it.
“Do you think it’s possible to love two things equally?”
He regards me seriously but waits for me to say more.
“Like two different sports or two different women or anything as much as I love basketball.”
“If you find a penny today, are you more or less likely to find a penny tomorrow?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what the statistical likelihood is, but I think I’d worry less about trying to quantify it and grab on to anything that can even begin to compare to your love of the game. Especially now.”
I mull that over for the rest of the trip, closing my eyes and faking sleep. Maybe quantifying love is a losing man’s game. It doesn’t matter if I love Blair the same way I love basketball, it just matters that I love her. She’s been beside me for the worst year of my life, and when I try to picture it any other way, I don’t know if I would have survived. She’s breathed life into me again. I might still be bitter, but I’m no longer scared of what the future holds as long as she’s by my side, forcing me to look at the positives and putting up with my grumpy ass.
The bus pulls into the fieldhouse after six. Been a long ass day, but I’m not tired. Ain’t that a first. I gimp home, unable to wait for my roommates to shower and drop off their jersey
s.
I’ve already texted Blair to give her an ETA on our arrival. So many times, I’ve come home to her waiting for me, giving up her life to be part of mine. I’m not selfless enough to think we’d be where we are today if she hadn’t. She gave, and I took. I’ve always known what a badass chick she is, but I wouldn’t have gone out of my way for her.
Not then, but I will now. I’ll follow her around campus for the next four months, tell everyone that’ll listen that she’s mine, prove day in and day out that I’m not going anywhere.
I’m not happy that I can’t play ball. There’s no positive spin I’m putting on it today or any day in the future. Going out like this sucks, and I’ll always wonder what-if and wish I’d been able to savor those last games knowing it was the end.
Nah, I’m not an optimist like Blair. I’m a grumpy motherfucker, and I probably always will be, but that’s why I’m not letting go of her. She evens out my dark. Makes all the dull and gray seem polished and new.
Blair
Wes: Bus just got back. Where are you?
Me: Tutor Center. Want me to head over when we close?
Wes: Got some stuff to do first. I’ll text ya.
My phone rings with a video call from Vanessa.
“What’s up?”
Vanessa sets the phone down and steps back, turning side to side to show me her outfit.
“Mario is picking me up in fifteen minutes. Help!”
“Where’s he taking you?”
“He won’t say, which is why I can’t figure out what to wear. All he’ll say is it would be a night to remember.”
“Maybe he’s gonna propose.”
She places a hand to her lips. “Oh my God, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”
The Assist (Smart Jocks #1) Page 22