Page 46 of These Wicked Games
“You’re an idiot.” A smile slips onto my lips, though. I can’t help it. He’s just, I don’t know . . . him. He’s Andre, and even shitfaced drunkhe makes me smile. “I’m going to change your shirt because I don’t want throw-up clothes in my bed.”
“I threw up.” He presses his chin down to look, as if he can see it. I’m trying not to look at it. I wish I could get him in the shower but this will have to do.
“Come here.” I help him take his shirt off. He flops back down once it’s gone.
“Holy fuck, Andre.” His brown skin is marred with black and purple bruises mottling up the side of his ribs. “What the fuck happened?”
He hiccups, looking down again, smooshing his chin. “Oli. I’m . . . drink. So drink.”
“Yeah, no shit.” I look down at his stomach; it’s worse on the left side. They look like puck shots. “Andre, what the hell happened to you?”
I flinch when his fingers lace with mine. “Oli.” He swallows, his eyes unfocused on me. “You’re my best friend.”
Shaking my head, I focus on the bruises and not the warmth spreading through my fingers from the feeling of his in mine. “What happened?”
These look fresh, maybe only days old. I try to think back to our last game, but I can’t remember him getting hurt. Not like this. Plus, we have gear. The goalies have gear on steroids. This couldn’t have happened then. “Oli, I don’t want to ruin it,” he says sleepily, and I grab for the clean shirt, helping him up to lift it over his head. I pull it down, covering the bruises on his sides.
“Ruin what?”
“Everything. I’ll ruin it.”
“Ruin what?”
“Your ideas. Him.”
“Him?” His eyesflutter closed. Fuck, I want him to drink some water. “Andre.” I slap his face lightly. He snorts, opening his eyes. Grabbing the glass of water, I help him lift his head. “Take these and drink this, okay.”
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t, just drink.” Not like there’s anywhere for me to go. Our living room is far too small for me to sleep out there and my mother is comfortable in her bed. I watch him drink, still looking at his ribs as if I can see through the shirt. Puck shots? How the hell did that happen?
He finishes the glass and collapses back down. Getting up, I slowly pull down his jeans, pausing when I see there are more bruises up his legs. Did he get hurt during the last game and I never noticed? We lost, miserably. I remember that. Seven to two. Halfway through Andre’s father pulled him from the game. He never got hurt during it, though. I’m sure of it. Not at this level.
I strip down to my underwear and slide in beside him. He’s snoring like a fucking freight train now. I am getting zero sleep tonight and not just because of the ungodly sounds coming out of my best friend. Slowly I run my hand down one of his thighs, where the bruises litter his otherwise flawless skin.
He moves out of my touch.
Rolling onto my back, it’s not Andre’s snores that keep me awake. It’s the mental gymnastics I do to figure out what could have happened. I come up blank and still can’t relax. Andre’s passed out, and I give in to the thought that comes to my mind. I throw my arm around him, hugging him against my body, wanting nothing more than toprotect him. I don’t know why, or even from what. I just know that I need to.
I feel weighed down, tethered, and it takes a few moments for my eyes to blink open and realize why. My brain comes online, and my first instinct is to flinch away. Why the fuck is he in my bed!? I lift my head up, looking around. The room is still dark, but I can see the morning sun starting to make its presence known. What the hell is he doing?
More importantly, why don’t I want to move? I soften back against the bed, with his arm draped across my chest as he softly snores. My brain isn’t telling me to push him off. My dick certainly isn’t either, with his leg slung over my thigh dangerously close to my balls.
Last night comes back in full force. Andre asked what we’re doing, but I have no answers. I only have more questions. None of them have anything to do with the fact that Andre’s a guy, though. I don’t give a fuck about that. Sex is sex. I don’t care that he’s a guy. I care that he’s . . . him. His betrayal tugs at my soul whenever I see him.
I think back to that day. I remember his protests, his absolute determination to get me to believe him. I want to—I do—but I just can’t. How else would those labels have gotten switched? Andre and I had plans after, and he’d been partying a lot at the time,so I was confused that he wasn’t worried about getting flagged. My mother had called, and he took the cup without a question. Insisted on it.
The hearts on his cup. It had to be him. There’s no other explanation. It’s not like they could have just switched cups. The entire label had to have been peeled off and replaced. Not a hard thing to do if you have both cups in your hand before you hand them off.
Andre shifts in his sleep, hugging me tighter, his face pressed into my shoulder, and just for a single moment I let my intrusive thoughts win. I reach out, brushing a strand of curly black hair behind his ear. The freckles across his nose stand out. I brush his hair back away from his shoulders, taking in the things I did to him last night. The red marks have faded into a purplish bruise around his neck. Shit. I almost feel bad, then remember the depraved way he looked at me. In all this confusion one thing is certain—Andre likes it rough. He likes to be dominated. That submissive nature speaks to a deep part of me. This need to control my partner’s pleasure. Andre gave it up so willingly. Begged for it.Fuck.He sure is a beautiful bastard.
I need to get out of here.
Slowly I slip out of his hold and walk to my dresser, slipping on sweats and a hoodie. Pulling on socks and my sneakers, I quietly leave the hotel room. I pass a clock, checking the time. Damn, I didn’t get much sleep. We have one more away game tomorrow night and then finally a stretch of home games. I can’t wait to crash in my own bed and not talk to anyone for days.
Once I’m outside I break into a run. The chilly morning air slowly starts to heat as my feet slap on the pavement. It’s only seven. I should have slept longer. I’m not one of the guys who can sleep on the plane. I’m too wired for that. We’re playing the Utah Yetis next, a team at the bottom of the central conference. It should be an easy game, and I think Landon will be in the crease to give Andre a break.
I lose track of time, and I’m out of breath when I see our hotel up ahead and two familiar faces coming out of it. “Hey.” Atlas turns to me, waiting for me to catch up to them. “Why are you running this damn early?” He rubs his temples.
