Page 10 of Flagrant Foul
It looked small in Sev’s hand. Soft pink that faded to green near the stem. His fingers curled around it easily, tips almost touching as he held it. He was wearing a black tank that had once been a boxy T-shirt. He’d cut the sleeves off with a razor blade one night, and with time,the fabric had frayed. He’d done a mediocre job of the alteration that only added to the appeal. What was left of the right sleeve was narrower than the left and gaped under his arm more than it should have if modesty was his goal.
When he lifted his arms, I got a glimpse of black hair. Whenever it happened, the air in the room grew thick and moved around me more slowly than usual.
He straightened his hand and let the apple balance on his palm, then he tossed it and caught it easily with his other hand. He did it a few times. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Sev loved playing ball, and he did things like that all the time. It was just that when he did it that day, my gaze landed just below the swell of his shoulder. His bicep bunched into a tight ball that tied me in knots as it rolled slowly up and down his arm as he moved. A strange heat spilled down my face and neck. Down my chest, and even lower.
I couldn’t look away. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to look away. It was that I couldn’t. I couldn’t make my eyes move, not even an inch. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t swallow.
His skin was tanned from days spent in the sun. Tightly wrapped over muscle and bone. There were fourfreckles on his forearm, erratically placed, yet they drew my eye to the vein that meandered down to his hand.
Sev was nearly eighteen by then. More man than boy. More man than other boys his age for sure. I knew him well. Better than anyone, almost. He was part of the family. A brother who wasn’t blood. I knew everything about him, and not just the good things. I knew the bad too. I knew his weaknesses. His flaws and his failings.
It’s not that I didn’t. It’s just that, to me, they didn’t matter.
To me, he was perfect.
Nate was still humming and had started tapping the stainless-steel slotted turner against the edge of the pan as he readied himself to flip the omelet he was making. Sev said my name and gently lobbed the apple to me when I looked at him. I caught it and smiled, knowing what was coming next. Sev was a creature of habit, someone who liked repetition and ritual. This was one of his habits I loved best. One that existed for no reason but to put a smile on my face.
I turned the apple this way and that to find the perfect first bite. As I leaned in to take it, Sev dove in and bit into the apple before I had time to. Enamel crunched into soft, fleshy fruit.
He shook his head from side to side like a dog as he tore out his stolen prize.
I made a silly high-pitched sound that drew Nate’s attention. He looked at Sev, features neutral and friendly, and said, “Knock it off.”
If I’d been paying more attention to Nate, I’d have seen something in his eyes. A turn. A firmness that had never been there before when he’d spoken to Sev.
I wasn’t paying attention to Nate though. I was staring at the apple in my hand, watching in wonder as sweet, sticky juice that had touched Sev Delorean’s lips and teeth trickled slowly down my palm.
Before taking my first bite, I raised my hand to my mouth, glancing furtively to make sure Nate and Sev weren’t looking. When I was sure they weren’t, I put my tongue out, licked up the juice, and swallowed my secret.
6
Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly
“HasanyoneseenSev?”I ask, taking care to stop my voice from lilting up. As I focus on that, the muscle near the corner of my mouth goes into a spasm and starts ticking from my attempt to hide “the tiny bit of tension” I now know lurks there.
We’re in the lounge at the airport and Sev’s late. It’s exactly like him. He always does this. He’s not late exactly, but close enough that my ass starts to sweat right before boarding every fucking time we fly anywhere. I swear it’s like a Pavlovian response at this point.
During the off-season, I went to Hawaii on my own, not for hockey, and my ass still sweated at boarding even though Sev wasn’t flying with me.
No matter how many times I tell myself to chill, I can’t. What if this is the time he plays it too close to the wire and manages to take it fromso-close-to-late-the-vein-on-Coach’s-forehead-pops-out to officially late. Missed the flight late. Off the scorecard and suspended late.
An unpleasant hot thing takes hold in my chest, making my thoughts fizz and leaving me frantically searching the throng of passengers for a glimpse of him.
I’m about to call him and give him hell when the expression of a female staff member nearby alerts me to his presence. Her eyes widen and her jaw drops slightly. I follow her gaze and, unsurprisingly, there Sev is. He has a bag over his shoulder and not a care in the world as he takes long, unhurried strides toward us. His sweats are low-slung, clinging to his hips and offering a tiny glimpse of his side when he hitches his bag up. I know that if I put my hands under his shirt, his skin will be hot to the touch. Abnormally hot. He’s one of those people who runs hotter than others. So hot that when you touch him, your insides ignite.
I don’t know how I know that. I’ve never had my hands under his shirt. But I know it all the same.
“How many times have I told you that you need carry-on luggage with wheels?” I chide as soon as he’s in earshot. “That big-ass bag slows you down. You can never find your wallet or proof of ID in it. You’re going to miss your flight one of these days, and that bag will be the reason.”
He tilts his head condescendingly in my direction. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
He looks like a wreck and annoyingly attractive at the same time. He has bags under his eyes and his hair is disheveled. It’s shoulder-length and tied back in a loose bun at his nape. In my humble opinion, it’s a hairstyle that men should have to apply for a license to wear. A license that anyone anywhere near as hot as Sev should be denied outright in the interest of public health and safety.
At least, that’s the look he’s going for. Today, more hair has escaped the confines of his hair tie than succumbed to it, and that’s infuriating too.
I want to attack him. To pull his hair tie out and throw it on the floor. To tear at his shirt and put my hands all over him.
I ache to do it.
