Page 21 of Strong Side

The song ends, and the dance floor clears as people leave to get their next drink, yet Rocky and I remain still. I can feel everyone’s eyes on us, but as far as I’m concerned, they can all fuck off.

“I’m—I’m, uh, feeling a bit tired. You wanna—You wanna go to bed?” he asks me nervously.

“Yeah, I was planning on staying here tonight anyway. My stuff is upstairs in their extra room. You sure you don’t want to stay down here and ride out the rest of the party, though?” Right on cue, he hiccups and sways in my hold.

“Yeahhhhh. I think I’ve had enough.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Come on. Jax should have an extra toothbrush somewhere. If he doesn’t, you can just steal Emerson’s.”

Reluctantly, I let go of him, grab my flannel from the back of the couch—ignoring Jax’s know-it-all smile—and head toward the stairs. I let Rocky go first so I can catch him just in case he falls.

After rifling through the bathroom drawers, I find a spare toothbrush and watch in amusement as Rocky brushes his teeth, all while trying not to throw up. I brush my own, shove two aspirin down his throat, along with a glass of water, and practically shove him down the hall and into the guest bedroom.

Thankfully, I had enough wherewithal to pack an extra T-shirt and basketball shorts. Grabbing them out of my duffle, I help Rocky get undressed, letting my hands graze over his bare skin slightly longer than necessary, and put on the clean clothes.

Once I slide his arms through the shirt, he reaches up and brushes a wayward curl off of my forehead. “You really are so pretty,” he says.

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that from both men and women since I started at this school four years ago, but something about the way he says it has a blush spreading across my face. “So are you. Now let’s get you to bed before you pass out.”

I shuffle him backward until his calves hit the bed, and he plops down like a sack of potatoes. I lay him back and cover him with the comforter before he looks up at me and pouts. “You’re not coming in with me?”

God, do I fucking want to.

“No, I’m not coming in with you. You’re drunk, and I’m sleeping on the floor.” I grab the extra pillow and blanket and set up shop on the floor next to him. “But I’ll be right here if you need me, okay?”

I can already see him nuzzling further into the pillow as his eyes start to drift closed. His mouth opens into the largest yawn known to mankind. “Thank you for the party, Clayton.”

“You’re welcome, Rockwell.”

It takes all of point-two seconds for a snore to fall from his pouty lips, and I stare there, absolutely bewildered by everything that is him for a moment before stepping up to the side of the bed. Going against everyone of my instincts, I bend down, caress the side of his face, softly press my lips to his forehead, and whisper, “Happy Birthday, Baby.”

I’m so fucked.

1. My Bad - Teddy Swims

14

What Happens in New Orleans…

Rockwell

The New Orleans Renegades put up a fight, but we pulled the season opener out of our asses in two sets. The two of us are locked in. When I say we’re in our groove, we’re in the goddamn groove.

Wearethe groove.

The Renegades’ campus is cool as fuck and in the heart of downtown New Orleans. In previous seasons I never did anything after away games because Sanders wasn’t someone I wanted to be around if I couldhelp it. Everything in me told me that’s exactly how Clay and I were going to be, but fuck… he’s grown on me.

The shops, bars, and restaurants littering Bourbon Street are almost too much to take in at once, but I don’t have a chance to look for long anyway when I hear Clay shriek at the top of his lungs, literally sounding like a toddler who has found their long-lost toy.

Whipping my head around, I grit out, “What in the flying fuck are you screeching about, Clayton?”

“Don’t you dare start the Clayton shit,Rockwell. And this!” He shoots his arms out toward a little cafe on the corner. It is cute I’ll give him that, but was all that really necessary?

Is anything ever necessary with Clay?

He keeps going, of course. “This is the home of the best pastries you’ll ever taste! The Beignets in New Orleans aren’t like anything you’ve ever tasted. Come on, we have to get some!”

I’m looking at him in awe. Never have I ever seen this man light up like this. Is it psychotic that I want to be a Beignet so I can bring him this much happiness?

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