Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(29)

Oliver coughs, then clears his throat. He turns, shirtless, skin gleaming, his jersey balled in one hand. “Damn, Hayes, that’s rough. Whoever’s bad side you got on, I sure would want to mend fences with them, if this is what they’re capable of.” Strolling by, he lowers his voice and says, “Especially when they’re just getting started.”





8





OLIVER





Playlist: “It Ain’t Easy,” Delta Spirit





Well. It seems I underestimated Gavin Hayes. Who knew he had it in him?

“Oliver,” Santi says as he steps up behind me at the airport. “Tu pelo. How do you get it so…soft?”

Gavin stands ahead of us, eyes down on his phone, expressionless as always, a statue named Innocent Disinterest.

Even though he’s anything but.

I silently wish him a swift, violent case of diarrhea the moment we board the plane, then turn to face Santiago. “Nothing like a deep-conditioning treatment, Santi. Does wonders for it.”

Santi reaches for my hair, then stops. “May I touch?”

“Be my guest.”

He slides his hand down my hair, which after five home washes last night has only just begun to feel like it’s not shellacked with butter. After I realized Gavin—and it was undoubtedly Gavin—swapped the conditioner and shampoo in the dispensers of my favorite shower stall at the facility (I tried not to think about how he even knew which one was my favorite), my head looked like I’d dipped it in a bowl of oil.

Such a dirty move. Then again, I’d forked his yard the night before and coated his outside doorknob with peanut butter that looked very much like poop after I’d added some cocoa powder and red food dye, so I should have seen it coming.

He just seemed way too curmudgeonly to be the retaliatory pranking type.

“Wow,” Santi says in awe, stroking my hair some more. Andre joins him. Then Ben.

“Oi,” Gavin snaps. They all look at him, dropping their hands like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. “We’re in an airport, not a petting zoo.”

I shrug. “We’re modeling a healthy departure from toxic masculinity, wouldn’t you say, fellas?”

Their heads swing my way.

Gavin’s jaw tightens, his left eye twitching as he glares back down at his phone. He may not be looking right at me, but he’s paying attention. I smile my widest, sweetest smile.

“Men,” I say, loud enough for him to hear from his few feet away, “are taught touching each other without roughness, reasons deemed socially acceptable, like a contact sport, is a sign of weakness or—heteronormative patriarchy forbid—having feelings for one another.”

“Ah, yes,” Gavin drawls, eyes still on his phone. “If anyone needs a lecture on homophobia’s inherency in patriarchal constructs, professional sports, and broader culture, it’s me.”

“Not a lecture. Just saying, would a few pictures on the internet of the guys touching my hair be the end of the world? Would it maybe even be…a good thing?”

Slowly, Gavin glances up from his phone, eyes searching mine.

“Beautifully said,” Carlo mutters. “Ollie, you should write a book. You speak so…inspirationally.”

“Nah. But that’s nice of you, Carlo.”

Ben blinks, sniffling. “Man, that really hit a chord with me.”

Amobi pats him on the back in reassurance. Ben turns, throwing an arm around him and says, “I love you, man.”

“I love you, too, but get off.” Amobi shoves him, smiling. “Just because we’re unpacking our embedded patriarchy doesn’t mean I like unsolicited hugs.”





Unlike lots of other professional sports teams, the MLS, up until last year, flew its teams almost exclusively commercial. This year, after basically a decade of back-and-forth with the powers that be, we’ve been guaranteed at least eight chartered flights, and the cross-country trek for our first preseason game against New England has been deemed a solid candidate.

So, rather than packing onto a regular old Boeing 747 along with everyone and their grandmother, we’re stepping onto a private plane. No screaming babies or awkward rubbernecking to sneak pictures of us. No legs squished in a seat whose row doesn’t begin to accommodate my six-three frame. No layovers lasting hours on end.

I should be ecstatic.

Instead, my chest is tightening in an invisible vise named anxiety triggered by new environments meets general fear of flying.

“Bergman. Hayes.” Coach points to the pair of wide leather seats that comprise the lone first row on the plane. “Seats of honor.” She raises her eyebrows, her expression loud and clear: I’m watching you. Play nice.

Without waiting for us to answer, she walks past us and joins Jas in the next row, who’s already tugging on their headphones to tune out the team’s noise.

Gavin exhales a slow, measured breath, turns, and pops open the first compartment, then throws his bag in there before easing down to his seat. I follow suit, lifting my bag to stash it in the overhead compartment, but my hands are so shaky, I drop it.

The bag lands right on Gavin’s knee. The one that seems to bother him most.

“Fuck’s sake,” he growls under his breath. He glances up, angry coffee-dark eyes pinning mine.