Page 28

Nicko, December 20th

T he next morning, I wake from a wild dream about my unsigned contract with the Rebels. My shirt is sticking to my skin from the effort it took to chase after the documents in my sleep. Every time I held the papers in my hand, management would rip them away, urging me to get another knee surgery first.

I groan and rub a hand over my face, trying to wipe the nightmare away. Apparently, not even fucking my rival can put a stop to these worries.

Which, honestly, is something I shouldn’t spend a thought on before breakfast. I do wonder, however, if Hart has regular contact with the team; maybe even received a draft of his contract already. Not that I could bring myself to ask about it. It’s bad enough that I sucked him off in the locker room, he doesn’t need another thing to hold over my head.

I try and fail to find my way back to sleep, restlessly rolling from one side to the other while yesterday’s events replay in my mind.

Dinner would have been an awkward affair if Nate hadn’t entertained us with his observations from the ER.

I don’t have a good excuse for what happened last night. My intoxication and Hart’s confusion about my identity made it easy enough to explain away the kiss, just like rage caused us to snap in the locker room. But there was no logical reason for me to sprint back from the neighbors’ so I could maul Hart in the hallway.

Maybe we really just need to get this out of our systems, like walking out a kink in a cramping muscle. It’s just…when I think back on the way my dick slipped in and out of his taunt ass, I realize I might have a lot more walking to do in order to get rid of this one specific kink.

It’s still dark outside when I finally give up and crawl out of bed. Pulling a hockey hoodie over my head, I decide to move to the downstairs couch for some low-quality TV entertainment.

As soon as I step into the hallway, soft clattering catches my attention. Following the sound, I take a detour to the kitchen.

I blink several times, rubbing a hand over my eyes, but the picture in front of me doesn’t change.

Hart is standing in the middle of the room, wearing high socks with his knee-length sweatpants. Black strands of hair stick up in every direction while he frowns at our stove. Pans and pots in different sizes are piled on the counters around him, and a large carton of eggs sits out in the open.

“You have to tap it,” I tell him when I realize he’s trying to turn on the stovetop. It’s an induction cooking stove similar to the one we had in the Netherlands, because the gas ones freak dad out.

Hart jumps at the sound of my rough voice, one hand flying to his chest.

“Shit, Nicko,” he curses softly.

“Maybe I’m Nate.” It was meant to tease, but there’s a sharp undertone I didn’t aim for.

Hart raises a single brow at me, then points at my B-Tech hoodie.

I snort. “Fair enough.”

“I can tell you apart without it, too, you know,” he informs me, a deep frown etched into his forehead.

“Yeah, because we’re not trying to confuse you anymore.” I try to keep my voice light as I step up to him and tap the stove to turn on the plate.

I know I shouldn’t remind him of the switch when we just started to barely tolerate each other, but I can’t help myself—it’s like having to touch a hot plate with the full awareness of getting burned.

“Is that something you do often? Switch places? Fuck with people’s minds?”

I know this is not the actual question he’s wanting to ask, so I give myself time to answer. I turn on the coffee machine, a monstrosity that only makes one cup at a time, so it takes forever to serve a group of guests.

The unexpected noise of grinding beans has Hart wincing.

“Dad doesn’t believe in coffee-to-go. He thinks it’s too expensive.”

Hart just nods as he regards me quietly, arms crossed over his chest. By now the hotplate turned off again from lack of usage.

“We haven’t switched since starting college,” I finally answer his original question with an eye-roll. “So you don’t need to worry your pretty head about accidentally having been nice to me before.”

Hart’s shoulders slump instantly, his jaw visibly unclenching when he takes the information in.

“I don’t– That’s not…I mean, why do it in the first place?” he sighs, throwing his hands up.

I shrug, then lean back against the counter while the coffee machine fills the first cup.

“We never meant any harm by it. Sure, we swapped places for a test or presentation in high school, but most of the time it was just to prank our friends and– oh, come on, don’t look at me like that.” I roll my eyes when instantly there’s this air of judgment around him again, his brows pinched.

“What you did is basically cheating. You know that, right?”

I take a deep breath to prevent myself from throwing an egg at his face.

“No, but thank you for making me aware. I will now do the only right thing and return my high school diploma—Jesus Christ, Hart! Don’t tell me you weren’t up to a little mischief at that age.”

“I had other worries then.”

I snap my mouth shut with an audible clank of my teeth. It’s common knowledge that Hart was adopted by his mothers after the death of his parents. But he never made any details public; in fact, this is the first time I’ve heard him reference it.

Probably by accident, because his hand flies up to his mouth in a belated attempt to keep the words in.

I shift in my spot, very aware that there’s no good response to this, nothing I can do to make this situation any less awkward.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe out after another moment of no sound other than the coffee maker filling up the second cup. “That you had those worries, I mean.”

It’s a true sentiment. No stupid-ass fight could be big enough to wish that on any of my rivals.

“Don’t be. I have wonderful mothers.”

I blink once, and he’s back to his usual self, posture straight and eyes hard, like he’s gearing up for a face off. But there’s a slight tremble to his fingers as he’s reaching for the eggs.

“So no reason to act nice just because you feel sorry for me,” he adds as he cracks the first egg on the edge of the counter. There’s way too much force behind it, the egg white spraying the surface and then slowly dripping to the floor. Hart curses and dumps the egg, along with some of the shell, into the cold pan.

“What’s wrong with feeling sorry for your loss? It’s a horrible experience to go through,” I tell him cautiously as I watch him try to fish out the pieces of shell with his fingers.

“You don’t need to find another reason for why the Rebels drafted me. You know, losing my parents in addition to me being gay.”

I huff, taken aback by his words. “I never said you got drafted because you are gay. That’s what you made out of it in your fucking head.”

“Is that so? Because I’m pretty sure we can still find the sound bite online and– fuck!”

I bite the inside of my cheek against a laugh. Hart has stepped into the small puddle of egg white on the floor, slipping and stubbing his toe against the kitchen island. Letting out another string of curses, he leans against the opposite counter, rubbing his foot.

“What are you even doing here?” I finally ask, gesturing around us in an attempt to escape all of these uncomfortable topics.

“Making breakfast.”

“Ah, good to know. It looks more like a crime scene.”

Hart glares at me as he still balances on one foot. “I wanted to surprise your parents as a thank you for hosting me over the holidays,” he huffs out, a pink flush blooming on his cheeks.

I grab one of the coffee cups, mainly to hide my grin behind as I take the first sip. “And here I thought you were trying to impress me.”

“What, the orgasm I gave you wasn’t impressive enough?”

I snort into my coffee at that, the hot liquid burning my tongue and throat. Hart snickers, and I glare at him while I cough and bend over the sink.

“You actually don’t deserve this,” I inform him as I press the second cup of coffee into his hand a moment later, then shoo him away from the stove.

Hart retreats with quiet protest, pulling himself up to sit on the counter, his long legs dangling next to me while he observes my actions with quiet curiosity.

“You know how to cook?”

“It’s scrambled eggs, Hart, not rocket science.” I extract the last pieces of shell with the tip of a knife before pouring the sad yolk into a bowl. Despite my words I can’t help showing off by cracking the next egg one-handedly.

“Show-off,” Hart huffs predictably, nudging me with his foot, which has me grinning.

“Did I stumble upon a weakness of Alexander The Great Hart?” I muse.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Ah, right, first names. Just Alex then.”

“It’s Xander ,” he corrects me with a dark growl, and I’m suddenly reminded of yesterday. An unexpected shiver chases down my spine at the memory of how he rolled on top of me so easily, his hips pressed against my own. I shake my head to get rid of the mental image.

“Why are you so intense about the nickname?” I ask as I start beating the eggs.

Hart stays quiet for a beat, gnawing on his lower lip as he watches me work. “There’s too many Alexes,” he provides with a sigh. “There were three in the foster home I stayed in after my parents died.”

I want to fucking kick myself for accidentally circling us back to this topic.

“So you…” I begin, but trail off when I pour the eggs into the now preheated pan, right on top of the melting butter.

“So I felt the need to set myself apart. Be the polka-dotted puppy in a brown litter.”

He grins crookedly, but my heart sinks at the horrible thought of children waiting to be picked up like puppies at a dog pound before Christmas.

“Did you want to get adopted?” I ask, after realizing I know nothing of his origins. One would assume it’s the ultimate goal, but the longer I ponder it, the more horrified the thought of continuing life with absolute strangers leaves me.

“From what I remember, no, not at first. It was more like…what everyone expected I would want?” Hart clears his throat. His blue eyes are trained on where my hands are pushing the egg mixture around with a spatula.

“When I went to stay with my mothers, it took me a long while to understand that it was okay to allow myself to love them as parents. That by doing so, I wasn’t somehow cheating on my birth parents.”

My breath comes out in short little bursts, and I pluck at my shirt. This is not a talk I imagined I would have with Hart this morning. Or ever. Somehow, I can’t get over what he said about needing to set himself apart. To stand out and please.

“I will need an entirely new nickname for you then,” I tell him after a long moment of silence. The first batch of scrambled eggs is distributed on the plates, and I have settled Hart with a cutting board and some bell peppers.

“Why can’t you just use the nickname I already have?” he asks with a groan, and I smirk.

“Because everyone calls you that—and I like to be a special polka-dotted bitch, too.”