LION'S DEN

LION'S DEN
Adam's Pov

I slept in the locker room last night, a few shirts under my head.

The air smelled as usual; of sweat as well as disinfectant. Every breath was a confusing mixture but it didn't bother me.
Neither does the ache in my back, the stiffness that grips my neck when I look any which way. I'm used to it.

The only thing that has me groaning is how cold the floor is, even with a towel I laid down. I'm up immediately my eyes open, straight into the showers to take a hot bath.

After, I dedicate an extra half hour to stretch myself out. My muscles groan in protest, pulling tight like taut strings but I keep at it. Slowly, my body answers, thawing for the day ahead.

Very soon, I'm thankful for those moments.

Coach is relentless today. From the minute his whistle shrieks, we're off. Drills bleed into formations, formations into passing sequences, until my body feel like it's about to walk off the field, away from me. Sweat stings my eyes, and at one point the ground tilts slightly beneath my feet, but I keep running, keep jumping, keep catching.

I keep doing what I’m supposed to do. Emerson doesn't understand this.

But deep down, I know the real problem isn’t my endurance. It’s not my technique, or my focus. I know these plays like the back of my hand. I breathe, eat and live football, enough to be cocky enough to only play one game the entire year.

What I’m worried about is the fear. I'm still terrified of losing my leg all over. It hovers around me quietly, like a ghost trying not to scare me.

The morning blurs into afternoon, and afternoon drags into evening, with just enough breaks for food and water. The locker room hums with tired voices and the hiss of showers when Coach finally lets us go. One by one, my teammates leave, no doubt heading for their beds.

I sigh as I dry off. I don't want to do it but I have to. I have to go back to the dorm.

There's no other reason, really, than comfort. I’d like to be more comfortable than I was last night is all, so I wake up well rested.

I just need a pillow, a blanket and some pajamas. Maybe some food or at the very least a little snack. That's it. I'll be quick. In and out.

Nodding to myself, I pull on some clothes and head out. But my heart begins to race the closer I get to the dorm room. I mean of course I feel this way at the prospect of seeing himnafter everything that happened yesterday. That's normal.

And then I'm standing in front of our dorm room, fidgeting like I have a needle in my shoe. I must have been standing here for ten minutes before I sigh, frustrated with myself.

This is ridiculous. I need to get back to the locker rooms. So, taking a deep breath outside the door, I push. It creaks open, and I pause immediately I see him, even knowing what to expect.

Emerson is there, lying on the floor close to the kitchen. His legs are propped up against the wall, hands sprawled out around him. His hair is sticking up, his chest bare.

He looks up when he hears me enter. His eyes widen, sitting up to tucking his legs under him and I swallow when I see a slight hickey in his neck.

From me, that's from me.

“Adam,” he calls, a note of please surprised ringing out loudly.

I nod, trying to keep my face neutral. “Hey. I just need to grab some stuff.”

He shifts, but remains where he is. “Oh okay. How are you?”

“Fine.”

The silence stretches as I walk to the closet, determined to be fast. I can feel it pressing between us, filling up all the air in the room. But then Emerson starts talking, words tumbling out like he’s trying to drown the quiet.

“Petra says to say hi. I called her today to talk. She’s visiting her mom abroad. Oh, and I saw Ivy too. She said I should say hi to you. She’s fine as well. Everybody’s fine.”

His words blur together, a nervous stream that doesn’t sound like him. He’s fidgeting with the band of his sweatpants, eyes darting anywhere but mine.

“That’s great,” I say, keeping my tone flat, steady. I shouldn't engage with him. “Tell them I say hi too.”

I shove a few shirts into my backpack, as well as an older duvet. I don't think I'll have time for that snack. I need to leave, the air here is almost suffocating, a physical arm that wraps around my throat.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Emerson stand. I sling the bag over my shoulder and give him a nod, ready to leave before the silence swallows us again.

I've barely taken a few steps when the sound of his bare feet padding behind me catches up. Then I feel it, pausing my escape— a gentle tug at the back of my shirt.

“Couldn’t you stay?”

His voice is quiet, but it cuts right through me. I turn, slowly, debating the sinking feeling in my stomach that says it's a bad idea.

Emerson is looking at me, his eyes shining with something soft and vulnerable, like he already knows the answer but he's hoping against it.

“No, Em,” I say softly, clearing my throat at the nickname. “I can’t stay. I have to get ready for the game.”

It’s supposed to sound firm, decisive but it doesn't. Instead, it comes out almost like an apology.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. The fabric of my shirt is still grasped in his fingers, knuckles white.

He’s a distraction, I tell myself. That’s what this is. He makes me lose focus, makes me feel things that put football in jeopardy, things I’m not supposed to.

And he knows that, because he wants to keep me right where I am, advertently or inadvertently.

But when I look at him again, that thought doesn’t hold. His eyes are on my face with quick, flickering glances to my lips that make me swallow.

And suddenly, yesterday crashes into me with the force of a tidal wave I can't outrun.
The way he looked at me, clenched around me. The way his body gave in to my every whim, how warm he was in my arms after. The random giggles, the hand in skin tracing a contented path. . .

And now, standing this close, I can smell him too and it's really not helping. His clean skin, his breath, fuck. It all joins forces to hit me in the chest.

My hand comes up to his jaw before I can stop it, my thumb tracing his smooth face. His breath catches. His lips part just slightly. It's so near, I could just slide my fingers over and I know he'll let me in. He'd suck in them, and he'd give me his eyes. . .

And then I’m kissing him.