Page 25 of Christmas Cheer

“You’re such a good rally girl,” he purrs against my neck as his hand slides down my stomach.

The hairs on my body stand up as everything tingles. The lights are crazy bright in here. The air is circulating gently, and all I can smell is the strange, fruity scent of the blue hair dye, but the intimacy of his touch paired with this act of trust, as silly as it is, is overwhelming.

There’s a future — a non-existent one because it’s a future that includes us both — but there’s this vision of a future where this is our banal private moment we share the night before every game. And every time he takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair, I would remember him touching me so affectionately as I sat in his lap dying his hair and wonder if he’s thinking about me.

“I’d kiss that frown away if I could,” he murmurs. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

“My past is my past,” he says gruffly. “Forget about it because I can’t change it and it doesn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t thinking about your past.” Although once he says it, I wonder how many rally girlshavedone this for him. How many do think about it every time he touches his hair, even if the process of coloring it isn’t any more intimate than the salon? Does he think of—

“Stop,” he growls more gruffly.

“I didn’t think I was, but then you said that, and now—”

“I think you need a cock in your pussy,” he says in all seriousness.

“Ok, well, I only have the one set of gloves so I can’t take them off to get up, and you have lost your mind if you think I’ll let you try to lift me. We’ll both end up cracking our heads on the floor and bleeding out, so you can take that thought right out of your brain.”

I know better than to tell Evan he can’t do something. I’ve learned this lesson enough times. Hell, it took him eight years to figure it out, but he finally tricked me into being his rally girl. But truly, there is no way for me to stand without a disaster one way or the other, and there’s no way to get my pants down enough to do anything.

He kicks a bath mat out of the way to roll us down to a toiletry bag sitting on the counter while I unclip the next section of hair and start saturating it in the sapphire dye. His mouth goes back to my boob, sucking it more gently this time, the sensation more soothing than jarring. As I rub the dye through, I mindlessly hum one of the tunes the band’s been playing regularly.

Evan sucks in cadence with it.

My eyes get a bit heavy, but I unclip the last dry section hair and get to work.

Something metal clatters on the marble counter. “Are those nose hair trimmers?” I ask, confused, when I see that it’s strange little scissors.

“Listen, nose hairs are a natural thing, and I don’t need your judgment.”

“I was just asking! Good grief. Now how do I get the midnight—what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles as he passes the scissors from one hand to the other and feels around my butt. “Just rub it in but try to avoid the tips. But no big deal if you get some of the tips. You’ll do great.”

Okay, well, it’s nice that he trusts me this much, so I’m sure it will all work out and—

Riiiiiiip.

“Evan?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did you just cut the seam of my leggings?”

“Yeah.”

I close my eyes and take a deep, calming breath, reminding myself that if I kill him now, I’ll get dye all over myself and will look a mess at the game tomorrow.

“Hoooooow am I going to get back to my room now?”

“I’ll give you my pants. My special work out ones. Because you’re special.”

His special workout pants say ALLORE across the ass. He gifted the entire team with them — with their own names — last year, and half those idiots wear them.

Several of them gave them to their girlfriends.

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