Page 122 of Saving Sparrow
“I can make my mother’s famousMorir Soñanado. She’d sneak a splash of rum in it—but I can leave that out.” I didn’t think Sparrow would risk his control by drinking alcohol. “There’s other stuff I canmake too. And maybe we can make our own gifts. Nothing fancy,” I added quickly. “Just small, silly stuff, maybe. Or nothing at all. We could just do the tree. Or…” I trailed off when Sparrow’s lips twitched.
“You enjoyed seeing me squirm, didn’t you?” I drawled.
“Maybe,” he said with the tiniest hint of a smile.
“So, can we? Celebrate late-Christmas?”
“Maybe,” he repeated, his smile fully forming despite himself. It was beautiful, bright, and all his.
“Okay.” I bit my lip to suppress my own smile. “Are you tired?”
He had a little bruising under his eyes, but nothing too bad.
“No,” he answered, although I doubted he would’ve said yes if he were. “Why?”
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “I’d have to keep certain parts tame for you, but do you want to know how we found out Elliott loved us the same way we loved him?”
Sparrow leaned forward too, the slight sign of exhaustion now resembling interest. “Yes,” he said, then nearly knocked me backward when he whispered, “please.”
Miguel
Then
The Wembly athletics department implemented something called bonding-stays—an overnight event where incoming and existing players spent the day bonding. They ran drills, participated in team-building games, shared war stories, and got to know each other. The day ended with a banquet dinner hosted by the head coach. All the players’ families were welcome to attend.
Elliott refused to go, so instead of spending the night in Quentin’s hotel room, I was at home in bed alone, unable to fall asleep.
Elliott freaked out the morning after the whole nightmare-spanking happened. He was relieved we still loved him, still wanted him around, but he became cautious about not doing anything else to mess up our friendship. We swore it wasn’t messed up to begin with, but he didn’t believe us.
No more showers, no more voyeurism, no more sleeping in bed together. It had been the worst couple weeks of my life. Well, the worst since my mother died.
“We should’ve just told him the truth,”Quentin had said.
We probably should have, but Elliott setting boundaries didn’t mean he wanted us the way we wanted him. What if it meant he hated what happened and never wanted it to happen again? What if telling him only pushed him further away? At least he slept in the room across the hall. At least he was still close by.
None of us had gotten any real sleep since that night. Quentin walked around cranky, taking it out on the gym equipment, the tacklingdummies, andme. Any chance he got to fuck me, he took it. Even sliding into me after I’d fallen asleep.
When not in school or on the receiving end of Quentin, I sat around pouting all day with my head stuck in a book. Elliott read too—although not in my vicinity—or he walked around like a zombie, complaining about headaches. We’d become the mess Elliott wanted to avoid, and it was up to me to clean things up.
Sighing, I put on my glasses and rolled out of bed, then slipped into the loose shorts thrown over the foot before padding across the hall.
“Ellie?” I whispered into the dark room. The sound of sheets rustling filled the silence before the lamp came on.
“Hey.” He sounded exhausted, and his eyelids looked heavy.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked, gripping the doorframe. I didn’t want to break any boundaries by entering uninvited.
“No,” he admitted. “Every time I try, the same dream wakes me up.” He pushed his hair off his face, looking around the room as if it were unfamiliar to him. He belonged across the hall with us.
“Do you remember what this one was about?” He never seemed to remember, but we always asked anyway.
“It was about us. About you, me, and Quentin.”
“Oh.” I perked up. “Was it a good dream about us?”
“The best.” Elliott’s sad smile didn’t line up with his answer.
“Can I come in?”
