Page 22 of Tempting the Teammate
NINE
Andrei
I hadno idea what had possessed Trevor to do this. Maybe he really was the sweet guy you couldn’t resist petting when you passed him by. With thick, floppy hair and huge brown eyes, there was something puppy-like about him that Jen and her team had noticed right away.
Except, I thought we would keep our roles strictly for the cameras. And Trevor was channeling that little brother energy around the clock.
Saturday evening, most of the team was down in the basement, sharing stories over beer, leaning against the soccer table nobody ever used, or fighting over the arcades like preschoolers fighting over a grocery store coin-operated pony ride.
I was on the two-seater sofa, back sinking into the pillows, legs spread, hoodie pulled over my head, a pillow hugged in my lap, and my overheating phone in my hands. Checking the online chatter was becoming an unhealthy obsession these days.
Griff sat next to me, striking an even more casual pose. His upper half sprawled over his side of the sofa, elbow planted on the armrest, some ridiculous comic book with a broken spineand pages hanging by the last thread in his hands, and his left leg tossed casually over my right one.
I didn’t mind it.
I never minded Griffin leaning onto me, throwing his arm around my shoulders, tossing his leg into my lap, or placing a pillow pretty much on my ass and cuddling up when we occasionally watched a movie together. Well, he’d put the pillow on my hip, to be precise, and I’d curl up to make space for him on the couch.
I loved that he was so carefree that he cuddled in plain sight. I’d never have the balls to do that to someone. Even to him. Especially to him.
Griffin had the luxury of touchiness and physical proximity because he didn’t hide a secret that was eating him from the inside. Leaning into me didn’t make Griffin boil with desperate feelings screaming to be released. Running his fingers through my hair like I was his little brother didn’t make his teeth itch to bite unspeakable parts of me. He didn’t need to lean forward and hum a tune to himself to hide the growing bulge every time a random thought possessed him.
Because Griffin wasn’t into me like that.
So when Trevor brought his laptop into the basement and hooked it up to the TV, I didn’t know what to expect. My thoughts were entirely consumed by the weight of Griffin’s leg on mine and the need to keep the pillow close in my lap without anyone suspecting what I might be hiding. I would have gotten up and walked away sooner, but that was kind of impossible.
“Attention, boys,” Trevor announced, his voice high and cracking with excitement. “If you could all turn your eyes to the screen, it would mean a lot to me and the NextPlay guys who helped me put this together.”
“What’s this about?” Phoenix asked, suspicious. He was suspicious of most things that had anything to do with NextPlayMedia. Three episodes into the series, and every edit made him look like he was wringing his fingers with unspeakable anxiety over being the only gay guy on the team.
Little did they know, they had put the anxious gay boy into the role of a brooding baddie, while Phoenix was an out and proud trouper.
The screen flickered to life, and Trevor’s excited face appeared in a small window in the corner while the main display showed a title card: “Arctic Titans: Then and Now.” Cheesy transition music started playing, the kind you’d hear in a high school yearbook video.
“Oh no,” Mason groaned from his spot near the dartboard. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
But it was exactly what he thought it was. The first photo appeared on-screen: a tiny Phoenix in a youth hockey uniform that was three sizes too big for him, grinning toothlessly at the camera. His helmet sat crooked on his head, and one of his skates was unlaced.
“Jesus Christ,” Phoenix muttered, but I could see him fighting a smile. “How did you even find that?”
“I have my ways,” Trevor said mysteriously, which probably meant he’d called everyone’s parents.
The photo dissolved into the next one: Mason at maybe ten years old, missing both front teeth, holding up a trophy that was nearly as tall as he was. His hair was bleached platinum blond.
“Dude, you looked like a Q-tip,” Damon called out, earning laughs from around the room.
“My mom went through a phase,” Mason said defensively. “At least I didn’t cry when I lost a game.”
The montage continued through each team member’s younger years. Damon as a serious-faced twelve-year-old who looked exactly the same but smaller. A gap-toothed version of another teammate whose growth spurt clearly hadn’t hit yet.
Then Griffin’s photo appeared, and my breath caught in my chest.
He was maybe eleven, all gangly limbs and that same floppy hair, wearing a jersey that said “Shaw” in letters that seemed too big for his narrow frame. His grin was pure sunshine, the same expression he wore now when he was genuinely happy about something. One hand held his helmet; the other was giving a thumbs-up to whoever was taking the picture.
“Look at that face,” someone called out. “Some things never change.”
Griffin chuckled beside me, his leg still draped over mine, moving, rubbing. “My mom insisted on the thumbs-up in every sports photo. Said it showed a positive attitude.”
The next photo made my stomach drop.
