Page 19 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
When I finally push open the trainer’s room door, he’s there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, a fresh pair of gloves in one hand.
“Took you long enough.”
“Had to make myself presentable.” I flash him a grin. “Didn’t want to distract you too much while you’re working.”
He shakes his head, but I swear there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth before he snaps the gloves on and motions to the table.
I hop up onto the table with barely a wince, planting my hands on my thighs and letting my legs hang. The trainer’s table creaks under the shift, and I tip my head back just enough to look as though I’m settling in for something far more interesting than a medical check.
Max steps in, his shadow cutting across me, and plants his hands on either side of my hips, caging me in without actually touching.
“Sit up straight,” he says, voice low enough that it’s almost a growl. “And quit looking as if this is some kind of game.”
I let my smile deepen, tilting my head so we’re nearly eye level. “Who says I’m playing?”
He exhales through his nose, the sound tight. His hands leave the table only to brush along my arm, fingertips pressing lightly over my shoulder, just enough to make my breath hitch.
“Still tender?” he asks.
“Only when you touch me,” I shoot back, not bothering to hide the smirk.
His jaw works, eyes narrowing for a heartbeat before he slides his palm along to my shoulder blade. The warmth of his hand bleeds through my shirt, lingering a little too long on the muscle there before he forces himself to move it.
I let out a low, drawn-out moan. Fake, sure, but convincing enough that his eyes snap to mine instantly, green and sharp and so close we’re breathing the same air.
For a second, neither of us moves. His hand is still on my shoulder, fingers curved as though he hasn’t decided whether to let go or pull me closer. I can feel the subtle press of his thumb through my shirt, steady but warm. It’s as if the quiet thrum of the room, filled with the faint smell of his cologne, and the heat between us dares one of us to close the last inch.
His breath brushes my cheek, just faint enough to make me lean in a fraction, tilting my head testing how far I can push him. The air between us hums, thick and charged, and my pulse drums in my ears with the possibility of what might happen if one of us stops pretending.
But I’m the first to move, leaning back just enough to keep him guessing, a smile playing at my lips. “So…you going home for Thanksgiving next week?”
I don’t expect the way he reacts to that question. One second he’s right here, eyes locked on mine, and the next it’s as though someone flipped a switch, green eyes going flat, jaw tightening, his hand pulling back as if he just remembered he’s not supposed to touch me the way he was starting, too.
His gaze drops to the floor for half a beat before he straightens, reaching for the edge of the table to put more space between us.
“Staying here,” he says, voice clipped. “Got a paper I need to finish for my grad program. Can’t exactly do that if I’m halfway across the country eating turkey.”
It’s matter-of-fact, but there’s something underneath it, something tight, that tells me it’s more than just homework keeping him here. His posture’s gone rigid, shoulders squared like the topic alone is enough to make him pull the walls up higher.
I study him for a moment, watching the way his jaw sets and his shoulders go stiff. Not exactly the reaction you get from someone looking forward to a holiday at home and having to miss it.
I poke my tongue into my cheek, weighing my next words. Maybe I can tease him out of whatever wall he just bricked up around himself.
“Paper must be one hell of a page-turner if it’s worth skipping pie for,” I say lightly, trying to keep it playful. But in the back of my mind, I’m filing it away, the way he shut down, the way the mention of ‘home’ seemed to hit him hard.
Not every family’s the same as mine. Some people don’t get to come home to open arms and a ‘bring whoever you’re dating, we’ll set an extra plate.’ Max doesn’t talk about his and…I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason.
Max turns away, tugging off his gloves with quick, precise movements, more focused on getting them off and into the trash than on me.
“You could come home with me,” I say, letting it hang there just long enough for him to glance over his shoulder. “I have pie. And turkey. And you still have to eat, so it wouldn’t even take time from your paper.”
It’s not a come-on. Not really. Just…an offer. From one gay man who knows damn well not everyone’s welcome at their own table, to another who’s acting as if he’s got no table at all.
His mouth twitches as the words hit somewhere deeper than surface level, but not deep enough to crack him open. “Appreciate it, Starling,” he says, tone steady. “But I’ve got a deadline. Paper’s not gonna write itself.”
And just like that, the wall’s back in place.
I nod, licking my lips as I hop down from the table. The thud of my sneakers on the floor echoes in the quiet, and I close the distance between us until we’re standing close enough for him to back up into the counter.
