Page 17 of Sweat

“Okay.”

He must see my anxiety, because he says, “Don’t worry. Half the guys there are chumps. You’ll be fine. Just…don’t be one of the chumps.”

“Don’t be a chump,” I mutter. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Rowan smirks and says, “Good boy.” It goes straight to my dick.

“We should exchange numbers, yeah?”

“We should?”

“In case I’m late tomorrow, or—”

“Don’t be late.”

“Or in case I get sick, and I can’t show up one of these nights.”

“Don’t be sick.”

I toss my head back and laugh. “Do you, like, not have a phone or something?”

His brows wrinkle, staring at something in the middle of my body. One of the many sweat stains on my shirt? Before I can figure out what it is, Rowan dives back into his bag, this time taking out his phone. He gives it up, unlocked and vulnerable.

The home screen is a landscape shot, a beach at dusk. Spotify app, Kindle, Wordscapes, a guided yoga app. Nothing exciting. I tap on the phone icon, program my number, and send a textto myself so I can save his number later. I send the first emoji in Rowan’s recents. The fingers-crossed one. Feels fitting.

“I’m going to talk to Coach McDonough about you,” Rowan says, standing now and slipping his phone from my hand. “Try to get you on the team in time for summer training. Just have to find the right time. McDonough is a fucking meathead.”

“Well, even if it doesn’t work out—”

“Don’t be a quitter.”

I’m in awe of how stern Rowan looks when he’s actually being nice to me. “Let’s see. Don’t be a chump, don’t be late, don’t be sick, and don’t be a quitter. The Rowan Hughes guide to success.”

He smiles. “Exactly.”

5

Rowan

Giving Tommy my number makes me anxious. Makes me even more anxious that I’ve got his number. I’m still not one-hundred on why I’m trying to get this beefcake on my team. We’re stacked. A few weak points here and there, but nothing Tommy can obviously fill. He was a thorn in my side during some pretty big matches back in high school, but he’s rusty as hell and his endurance is shit.

The pickup match at McKinley proves Tommy still has skill, though, and he puts his broad chest and thick arms to good use from time to time. Nearly trips me on my ass a couple times, pushing that hard body against me when it’s the difference between winning and losing.

At one point, he gets his foot between mine at just the right time and pops the ball right out of my command. If he were anyone else, I’d cuss him out, but the adrenaline coursing through me just wants to go again. I could spar with Tommy all night, maybe let him win a time or two just to keep his spirits up. The way he lights up when Levi kicks a go-ahead goal has me feeling like a proud papa.

Zeke throws the ball out, then Connor bats it down with a chest shot and passes to some doorknob named Bartlett who kicks the ball foul. Raisel takes possession, aiming the ball over his head and eyeing my availability.

My boy Tommy has the right idea to put that body in front of me. The way his ass bumps against my hip makes me snicker. If I wasn’t positive he’s straight, I’d think he’s trying to rile me up. Maybe he’s still trying to rile me up. Wouldn’t be the first time a straight guy baited me, but I learned a long time ago never to fall into the trap, no matter how convincing.

“Don’t lose me, baby boy,” I tell him close to his ear before I swerve out from behind him. A hip check disorients Tommy long enough for Raisel to toss me the ball and head knock it to a kid named Gimenez.

We win by one, but by the looks of the field after time winds down, Tommy’s the winner. He’s quickly passing Levi, Raisel and Connor’s sniff test, at least. They’re seeing what I see. They’re living what I remember from high school, during those matches where Tommy made it his singular mission to keep me and the ball as far apart as possible. He rarely succeeded, but damn, he made me sweat for it.

“Yo, Tommy.” I drop my shin guards on my bag and join the guys in their little bro huddle.

The way my voice draws his attention immediately is an ego boost. Whenever those blue eyes fix on me, it’s like I’ve got him. In what way, I’m not sure, but there’s ambition in those eyes. He knows I’m helping him, even when he’s fussy. He rakes his honey waves off his wet forehead, greasing the strands to make them damp too.

“You looked good.” I hold out my fist and he taps it with his.

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