Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(37)

Despite leaving me uncomfortable in the erection department, my chaste shower makes me feel otherwise pretty damn incredible, the hot water soothing my tense and sore muscles. Full of chicken and pasta arrabiata, blissed out from a steamy shower and my comfy clothes, I’m whistling happily to myself when I exit the bathroom.

Then my whistle dies like the sound of Wile E. Coyote plummeting to his doom.

My insides resemble that moment when poor Wile E. runs right off the ledge and hovers in the air, suspended in time before he realizes he’s in seriously deep shit.

Gavin sits on the bed—our bed—legs crossed at the ankles, bare feet, long, thick legs tight in his charcoal sweatpants. A book rests on his flat stomach as he frowns down at the page, then turns it. “Look your fill?” he asks without glancing up.

“Couldn’t tell if that was you or your shadow,” I quip.

He snorts. “At least I don’t look like Rainbow Brite.”

I’m wearing a lime-green shirt and navy-blue joggers. “I don’t know who they are, but by name alone, they sound like a good time.”

“A TV character from my childhood,” he says, turning the page again. “Which is obviously before your time.”

“There was color television back then?”

He rolls his eyes. “Piss off, Bergman.”

“I want to hear about Rainbow Brite. Clearly, they have a great eye for color, since I remind you of them.”

He peers up at me, eyebrow arched, before his expression blanks. His gaze darts halfway down my body before he refocuses on his book. “Go to bed.”

My stomach knots as I stare down at him, as I remember what Viggo encouraged me to do.

Talk to him.

“First, we need to talk,” I tell him.

Sighing heavily, he closes his book and tosses it onto the nightstand. “Let’s have it, then.”

I sit on the edge of my side of the bed, the middle of the mattress divided by a row of pillows Gavin must have lined up while I was in the shower. “I know you said we can’t be friends. I know things are…strained between us.”

He shifts slightly on the bed, then clears his throat. But he doesn’t say anything.

I peer up to find him staring right at me. “I can accept that we won’t be friendly, only civil. But this tension…”

Our eyes hold.

Gavin swallows thickly. “Yes,” he says. His voice is low and rough.

Heat slips through my veins, warms me. I tamp it down, remind myself what I’m trying to do. “This tension is wearing me out. It’s distracting and exhausting, and believe it or not, even though you think I’m a big old softie on the field, I don’t want distractions or anything draining me, Hayes. I want to win. I want us being co-captains to make this team even better. I want to crush New England tomorrow, and I want to tear through our preseason undefeated. I can’t do that when we’re like this.”

His eyes search mine. “Meaning?”

I lift my chin, steeling myself. “I want honesty and respect between us. No more games.”

“No more games, as in, no more shit-looking peanut butter on my doorknob?”

“Or conditioner in the shampoo dispenser,” I fire back.

He tips his head, his expression infuriatingly inscrutable. “Honesty when it comes to what?”

“Whatever’s affecting our performance, our ability to be our best for the team. Any baggage we’re bringing to the field, anything that’s preventing us from having the united front that our team deserves.”

Quiet holds between us. His jaw clenches. “Agreed.”

“And respect?” I prompt.

“I’ll respect you on the field.” His mouth quirks. “But off it, I’m still going to bust your ass.”

“Likewise. However, in front of the team, any and all public appearances—”

“Yes. We’ll be respectful.”

“Okay…” I stare down at my hands, picking at a cuticle. “Then, in the spirit of honesty and counting on your respect, I’m just going to…get this out.”

He shifts again on the bed, facing me more fully. “I’m listening.”

“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I’m nervous to wear a captain’s armband alongside one of the greatest players of all time. I’m nervous I’m going to fail to be a leader on the field. I’m nervous I’ll disappoint everyone who’s counting on me, and that I’ll do it in front of a guy who really messed me up.”

His expression sharpens. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?”

He leans in, hands clasped between his legs. “Who messed you up? When?”

I’m taken aback by the intensity of his voice, the fire in his eyes. “Uh…one of the guys on New England’s team. It was years ago, though. Water under the bridge, except when I play against him and it seems to kick up stuff.”

“Name, Bergman. I want a name.”

I search his eyes further, wishing he wasn’t difficult to read. “Why?”

“Because you promised honesty, and I deserve to know.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I want some honesty from you first. A little quid pro quo, if you please.”

He glares at me. I glare back.