Page 24 of Linebacker
“Let me take a look,” I say, stepping forward, my eyebrows knitted with concern that our star linebacker might be nursing a possible injury from my yoga class that could put him out of action. “It shouldn’t be anything serious.” When I get nearer to the bath, I see that Mars is wearing the tightest of shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. My eyes immediately fall to the crotch. Jesus, he’s in ice cold water, and he’s still got a distinguishable bulge. He lets out a snigger, no doubt catching me glaring at his goods, and as the heat hits my face, I snap my eyes away. “Show me where it hurts,” I ask of him, leaning over the edge of the bath to see if there’s any visible evidence of injury.
“Right here,” His submersed hand goes as if to point out the area of pain. Instead, it comes out of the water, wraps around my upper arm, and before I’ve even had a chance to take a breath, I hit the ice-cold water with a splash. My head is fully submerged. I immediately drop my phone from my hand, and out of the corner of my eye, I see it hit the bottom. I place each hand on the floor of the bath and try with urgency to push myself back upright. But as soon as I get tenure, a hand lands on the middle of my back and pushes me further under until the rest of my body follows into the punishing cold. It takes me a few seconds of wiggling around before I get my head above water. The muffled laughter, while submerged, instantly becomes loud and raucous. My lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves as I struggle to catch my breath. My whole body is shaking, and not only because my skin is like ice. I’m in full panic attack mode, and despite having my head out of the water, I feel like I’m drowning.
“Oh fuck,” I vaguely hear someone bark out, but I’m dizzy, disoriented and don’t know what’s going on or even really care. All I want is to be able to breathe. A feeling of weightlessness is followed by a softness that envelopes and warms me. “Come on, Hope, breathe with me. In, two, three. Now out, that’s it. Follow me.” Something clicks in my head, and I do as I’m told; somehow, my brain registers that it’s the right thing to do. As my vision comes back, my wits become clearer, and I realise that I’m sat on the hard floor with my back to the bathtub. I focus on Mars, who’s knelt on the floor in front of me, dripping water everywhere. I have one of the thick club towels wrapped around my body, along with Mars’ muscular arms as he rubs his hands vigorously up and down my back, trying to warm me up. His deep chocolate eyes, which are full of concern, stare at me intently. “That’s it, Hope.” My hand is on his bare, muscular chest, and with every rise and fall I feel against my fingertips, I find myself breathing to the same rhythm. “You’re okay; you’re okay.” I’m not sure if his mini chant is to placate himself or me.
“That was a shit thing to do,” I mutter, through chattering teeth.
“Shit, Hope. It was meant to be a joke.” The expression on his face tells me that he’s riddled with guilt. “I’m sorry, really, I am. If I thought…”
“Mmm but you didn’t think.” I reprimand. The towel is lovely. The warmth generated from the friction caused by the constant rubbing of his hands is great, but his touch is doing things to me that I need to put a stop to. Our eyes hold on to each other. Our lips are too close. There is an unmistakable connection between us, still lingering and I know he feels it too.
“I need to get out of these wet clothes,” I blurt out, shrugging out of his hold.
“I have a spare t-shirt and sweats. Let me go grab them for you.” He vanishes back into the main locker room. My legs are still shaky as I make my way over to a stack of towels on the side and grab a couple more. With my back to the door just in case Mars comes back in, I ditch the used towel, along with my wet t-shirt and wrap the dry one around my torso, and the other around my shoulders, cape-like. Mars bursts back through the door with a club t-shirt, and sweatpants over his forearm and another item of fabric that I can’t quite make out in his hand. He walks straight over to me.
“They’ll be too big on you, but at least they’ll be dry. I err… I’ve got you some boxers. I assure you they’re clean.” He unfolds the garment in his hand and holds them up to show me. They look remarkably small, which has me wondering how the hell they fit over his peachy arse, but then he pulls at the fabric, and they look to be super stretchy.
“Thank you,” I reply. My hand is still shaking when I take the garments from him and when our skin touches, my whole body lets out a violent judder.
“You’re still cold,” he mutters, although I’m not convinced that it’s the reason for my involuntary reaction. Well, he is still standing there, wet, topless. His soaked shorts stick to his body like a second skin and give me a perfect outline of his slack, but still very impressive, penis. I grab another clean towel from the stack and throw it over to him. I need him to cover up, as the task of keeping my eyes above his waistline is not easy. He catches it easily, and all hale to sweet baby Jesus, he immediately holds the corner against his chest as he dries his upper body, the rest hanging down and covering his man meat. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he says sheepishly as he hands me my very wet phone. “Sorry.” He adds before he turns to make his way out of the room. “Once I’ve got dressed, I’ll go grab you a hot drink from the vending machine, it will help warm you up.” I’m about to tell him not to bother, but the doors have already swung closed behind him.
Come to think of it, the idea of being able to hold my hands around something hot is appealing. My mind quickly falls on clinging fabric around an aesthetically pleasing penis and just what it would feel like to have my hand around it.
Damn-it.
Mind. Gutter. Out of.
I leave it a minute after the door has swung shut before I strip out of the rest of my wet clothes and start drying myself off properly before pulling on the loaned garments. The boxers are surprisingly comfortable. The t-shirt is way too big, so I grab the hem at one side, twist it and tie it in a knot above my right hip, leaving the rest of the material to drape down longer on the left. The sweatpants are way too long, but with a few roll overs at the waist and a few at the bottom of each leg, I think I’ll manage to walk without tripping. I may however have to keep a hold on the waistband when I move about.
Once decent, I pop my head around the door to see that the changing room is empty. When I get to Mars’ spot, the seat is littered with stuff, and it looks like he’s literary dumped the whole contents of his sports bag, so I drop down into the seat next to his.
I look down at the blank screen of my phone, then hold the button down on the side to power it up. Nothing happens, nada. This is a brand-new phone issued by the club that contains all the contact numbers of the players and staff. I press hard on the button a few more times, frustrated that I’ve barely had it in my hands and I’ve already fucked it up. A hand grabs my wrist, making me jump. I look up to find Mars standing in front of me balancing two takeout coffee cups, one on top of the other in his other hand. I hadn’t even heard him come into the room. Which is strange because usually, I feel his presence. Could be the water still whooshing around in my head.
“You shouldn’t try turning it on,” he says, releasing my hand. “Not yet anyway.” He hands me one of the cups, then after glancing at the mess beside me, drops into the next empty seat beside me. “You need to let it dry out first.”
“The bowl of rice trick?” I questioned.
“That’s doesn’t always work, and you risk getting dust inside it. Your best bet is silica.”
“Oh, right. Best nip down to the silica shop then.” I say with a sarcastic smirk on my face. “How am I meant to do my job now?” I violently shake my hand that’s still clutching the phone, as if it might miraculously make a difference.
“Here,” Mars holds out his hand. “I know someone who can fix it. He’s done it for me before and he usually gets it back to me the next day. I’ll give him a call and drop it over to him.”
“This has happened to you before?” I ask, dropping the phone into the palm of his hand. “Don’t tell me, you dropped it down the toilet when drunk?” I snicker as I watch him get to his feet and move around to grab his almost empty bag from the floor. He slips the phone into a side pocket and zips it closed. His hand comes up and rubs the side of his forehead before he mumbles a response.
“Something like that,” he replies. I try to catch his eye but he’s avoiding all eye contact. It’s a classic sign of embarrassment. The touching of the head, the inability to make eye contact, the definitive creasing of the brow. Well, well, well. Vance Marshall’s mask has slipped a little and has given me a glimpse of his feelings. I should really leave it alone, but the psychiatrist in me wants more.
“Sounds intriguing. Care to share?” Now he makes eye contact, and it’s not very pleasant. The caring, concerned glimpse of the Mars that had shown its face, was now gone. Dark, narrow eyes shot at me like sharp spears trying to pierce my skin.
“I do not.” He hisses back and begins vigorously stuffing the discarded items on his seat back into his bag. He doesn’t even attempt to fold any of the items of clothing that’s amongst the pile, and when I go to take one to do just that, it’s ripped out of my hands before I even get a chance to shake it out of its crumpled state. I can tell his temper is on the rise. By the time he’s onto the last few things, he’s using his full fist to punch them into the overfilled bag.
“If you folded them, they might go in easier,” I pipe up then clench my jaw as I try to hold the laugh that’s bubbling in my throat. When his head swings in my direction, the muscle ticks at the side of his jaw, his knuckles white as he grips onto the side of his bag, the tension on the leather so tight that I’m sure it’s about to pop every stitch, I can’t help it. A laugh, snort, and blubber bursts out of my mouth and nose, and however much I try to hide it with my hand, he sees it.
“Fuck off,” he growls at me as he slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder and turns away from me.
“As we still need to have that one-on-one session, and I know that your schedule is free for the rest of the day, I’ll see you in my office in say, an hour.” He stops, his hand inches away from grabbing the door handle to leave and turns to face me.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” he growls. I take the few steps needed with one hand clinging to the waistband of my pants until I’m stood by his side.
