Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(31)

When I jolted awake as we touched down, Gavin slowly released my hand, then used it to wrap his old-school earbuds around his phone like it was nothing. I didn’t know what to say or do. So, since then, I’ve said and done nothing except move like a zombie, going through the motions. Deplaning, getting on the bus, staring out the window as we rode to our hotel, then accepting my key. Riding the elevator with Gavin.

Walking down the hall with Gavin.

Stopping outside the same room as Gavin.

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, tossing his bag aside and heading for the bathroom.

Which only has one shower.

Not that I’m thinking about sharing a shower with Gavin Hayes like I’ll be sharing a bed.

“I call window side,” I say to his back, trying to defuse the massive tension in the room.

He lifts his hand, and a long, thick middle finger, before disappearing into the bathroom with a thud of the door.

“Warm and cuddly as ever,” I mutter, crossing the room and setting my bag on the dresser. I pull back the curtains and glance around, trying to distract myself with the view of Foxborough and Gillette Stadium, but it’s pointless.

I can’t shake what happened on the plane.

Worse, I don’t want to.





9





GAVIN





Playlist: “Come a Little Closer,” Cage The Elephant





There’s a lot about my life that’s felt like a downgrade since signing with an MLS team. That probably sounds arrogant and spoiled, and maybe it is, but after playing for some of the most cash-rich, prestigious teams in European football—soccer, that is—it’s been an adjustment. At least it was, at first. I’ve gotten used to it after two years: sharing commercial flights with passengers, sharing stadiums with the other local professional teams, sharing hotel rooms.

Not sharing a bed.

Hiding in the bathroom, I pull out my phone. This is exceptionally unprofessional, Alexis.

Three dots appear. Then Lexi’s—Coach’s—response, which makes my phone chime quietly. Not that I’m agreeing to your assertion that making co-captains share a room is unprofessional, but who says I made you two roommates?

Not just roommates, I write. There’s only one. Fucking. Bed.

Yikes, she texts. Best hope Bergman doesn’t hog the mattress.

“Jesus Christ.” I drop my phone on the counter, splaying my palms across the cool quartz surface. With a glance up, I lock eyes with my reflection. Dark eyes. Darker smudges beneath them. I look exhausted. Because I fucking am.

In so many ways.

I cannot stop replaying what happened on the plane any more than I can stop the ache in my chest that pounds in time with my heart.

Or maybe it is my heart.

It fucking hurts. It’s a festering, nagging ache that wants me to do something foolish like hold Oliver, crush him to my chest and make him tell me where the hell that came from and how the hell I can make it never happen again.

Which is…a problem.

This is why I’ve kept my distance. This is why I’ve held him at arm’s length.

Because I knew this is how it would be. The moment I let him punch through those icy walls I’ve built around myself, I’d melt faster than a dropped ice cream cone on a Los Angeles sidewalk in July.

And I cannot do that. Except I can’t seem to fucking help myself.

“Goddammit.” I grip the counter harder, then push away, scrubbing my face. With a flick of the handle, I flush the toilet to make it seem like I was doing my business instead of losing my fucking mind in our bathroom. Then I turn on the faucet, run cold water, and splash my face.

Right. I’ve got this.

I look at my reflection. “You’ve got this.”

My reflection does not look convinced. Which is why I turn away from it and whip open the door.

Oliver leans against the windowsill, pinning the curtain between his shoulder and the wall. He stares out at the view, which from here I can see includes the stadium. When he senses me, he glances over his shoulder, those glittering pale eyes meeting mine.

For a moment that holds an eternity, he doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. The world is nothing but the warmth of sunlight spilling across his face, casting one side in sharp shadow. The faint whir of forced air from the vents, the distant sounds of guests shutting doors, their suitcase wheels crushing plush carpet, the ding of an elevator.

I drink in the moment like a magnificently tall glass of ice water after a run in brutal heat. I’m hot, and as I absorb what I’m doing, fierce coolness works its way through me, a shock, a warning: This is not wise.

And yet I couldn’t look away if my life depended on it. I stare at sunlight sparkling off his lashes, slipping down his long, straight nose in a whispering warmth like a lover’s caress, over sharp cheekbones and soft lips. An intimacy I’ll never have with him.

Not that I want it.

Too much.

Because I haven’t let myself. I haven’t let myself look and linger and think and dream. It’s pointless. Futile. His life’s just beginning. Mine’s coming to a fucking end—at least the meaningful part of it. He’s young. I’m old. I’m a miserable, pain-riddled misanthrope, and he’s a perennially happy ray of fucking sunshine.

Or so I thought.