Page 12 of Melting the Ice

He was tired, exhausted, really, but his mind was still churning.

Not just with his regular worries of money and class and grades and practice but with the news that his prospective agent had brought to him about the scouting data.

Apparently some teams had the same worry Wes did. That he was too intense. Too focused. That he’d crack up, once he got into the NFL, and the pressure became too much.

He wouldn’t.

Hecouldn’t.

Dean didn’t have a very good imagination, but he couldn’t imagine having one great enough to think that after he’d been gifted this chance—through all this fucking hard work—that he’d screw it up.

He walked into the living room, thinking he’d throw a frozen pizza into the oven and shove it in his face while reading his chapters for tomorrow’s classes. But before he could, he spotted Brody, sitting on the old stained sofa, ESPN turned down low, a bag of frozen peas on his knee and a frown on his face as he scanned something on his tablet.

He could possibly keep his head down, escape to the kitchen and then his room, and not even bother Brody, but with Wes’ warning echoing in his head, he changed his mind.

“Hey,” Dean said, walking into the living room and dropping his duffel bag onto the floor next to the couch.

There was only the couch—not even a chair—so there was nowhere to sit but next to Brody.

Dean knew he was big so he kept his body plastered to one side of the medium-sized sofa.

“Hey,” Brody said, glancing over at him.

His eyes were warm brown, a little darker than the honey Dean liked to put in the tea he pretended he didn’t drink in the evenings to try to cycle down after one of his very long days.

“Your knee okay?” Dean said gesturing towards Brody’s makeshift ice pack. “Hurt yourself at practice?”

“Not this time, anyway. I tore my ACL late last season. Had surgery. Spent the summer in PT.”

“And the ice?”

Brody shrugged. Dean hadn’t known him very long, but anything the guy seemed to do—from whipping up a protein shake to carrying boxes to brushing his teeth—seemed graceful and purposeful, so he could already tell that he was awkward about this.

About his injury.

“I’m making sure there isn’t any inflammation. I figure better safe than sorry.” Brody looked almost embarrassed now, like he’d been caught doing something that he shouldn’t have been.

But DeangotBrody’s worry. Better than probably about anyone else.

He was terrified an injury might derail his plan and his chances just when he got right up to when he was going to deliver.

Maybe Brody didn’t have to worry about what his future looked like, but it would still be terrifying to have the hazy possibility of it, right there in front of him, and then lose it.

“I could probably use some ice too. I think there’s a few ice packs in the freezer, if you want to use them.” They were cheap since Dean had picked them up at the dollar store, but they had to be better than a bag of frozen peas.

“You’ve never used peas?” Brody smiled, unexpectedly, and it was so bright it was hard to look at him. Dean barely ever noticed people’s looks—because what werelooksgoing to do for him, long-term?—but thepretty boynickname he’d given Brody felt both still accurate and not quite accurate enough.

He wasn’t pretty; he was actually kind of beautiful.

Whoa. Where did that thought come from?

Dean pushed it away, because he didn’t understand it, but even more because he didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with it.

“No?”

God, it felt like he’d been broke forever, but he’d never been forced to turn to the frozen vegetable aisle to reduce inflammation.

“They’re the best. The way they shift and you can adjust them exactly around the area is just . . .” Brody grinned again. “Just fucking awesome.”

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