A Helping Hand Chapter 3 (Patreon)

All characters engaged in sexual activity are 18 or older.

I’m rudely woken up the next morning with sunlight assaulting my eyes and my blanket pulled from my body. “What the hell?” I mutter, rubbing my eyes to see Dean sitting at the edge of my bed with a grin on his face. 

“Good morning, sunshine! It’s time to wake up,” he says in a teasing voice. 

I shoot him a glare and pull the blanket back, accidentally straining my aching muscles. “Damnit, Dean. Is this payback for making you wash my dick yesterday?” 

I regret the words immediately, a deep red blooming across his face. “Uh… no, I didn’t mind that—fuck—I mean, I don’t care about that, bro. It’s no biggie.” He looks away and fidgets with my comforter, tracing the geometric patterns decorating it. After an awkward moment of silence, he clears his throat, pulling at the collar of his t-shirt. “So… uh, Coach asked me if I could bring you to the arena today after class. He said that he wanted to talk to you, if you’re up to it.” 

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah. Sure. We can go there, only got one class today, anyway.” Dread fills my veins. I think I know what he wants to talk about, and I’m not looking forward to it. 

Dean nods and shoots me a nervous smile. “Okay, I’m going to shower and then I’ll be back to help you get ready.” 

The moment he’s gone, I slip out of bed and head to the kitchen. It’s bad enough that I can’t dress myself; the least I can do is make us some coffee. I add water to the reservoir and gingerly reach up into the cabinet where we keep the mugs. There’s less pain today than there was yesterday, but it still hurts to move my arm too much. 

Thankfully, I’m able to get the two steaming mugs of coffee onto the counter, but when I scoop out a spoon of sugar, it goes flying everywhere from my hand shaking so much. I stare at the mess I made and groan, “God damnit!” 

“What? What’s going on?” Dean walks out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel, wearing only tight boxer-briefs. 

“Nothing,” I mumble. “Just made a mess is all.” 

“Here, let me clean it up. Go and sit down. You shouldn’t be doing these things. You just got out of the hospital yesterday.” Dean guides me over to the barstool and helps me take a seat. He works with quick efficiency, making my coffee just the way I like it, and then pulls out a pan and pancake mix. 

My stomach rumbles watching him whip up the batter, and he shoots me a smirk over his shoulder. “Hungry, huh?” 

I nod, the smell hitting me the moment he pours the batter into the pan, adding chocolate chips on top. “Damn, if I had known getting hurt would lead you to waiting on me hand and foot like this, then I would have done it a while ago.” 

Dean frowns at me from the stove, then bites his lower lip like he wants to say something. Instead, he just turns back around to flip the pancake. His back muscles ripple as he works, shoulders peppered with freckles like a constellation of stars. 

The sight of a near-naked Dean shouldn’t affect me. We see each other naked in the locker room all the time, and we’re usually shirtless at home. But seeing his boxer-briefs cling to his ass reminds me of those underwear models that look unrealistically good, like they were sculpted from stone rather than flesh and bone like everyone else. My cock throbs with interest as I imagine him getting naked the next time he helps me shower. 

What the fuck? Why am I thinking about that?

Clearly, I hit my head, and I’m still recovering from some type of trauma or something. I shoot Dean a grateful smile as he plates my pancakes, and choke out a laugh when he cuts them up into little pieces. “Dude, I can do that myself.” 

“Oh yeah? With what hand? Last I remember, you’re a righty. There’s no way I’m giving you a knife to use with your left hand.” 

I roll my eyes at him. “Yes, mom.” 

Dean flips me off, then sits down next to me with his own plate of pancakes. We eat in silence for a few minutes before he says, “We’re going to need to talk to the disability office so they can arrange for someone to take notes for you in class. I can do it for the class we have today, but since that’s the only one we share…” 

I nod, grateful to have such an amazing best friend to help me through this shit. 

###

By the time we pull into the players’ parking lot at the arena, my anxiety is through the roof. I’ve been trying to think of other reasons Coach might want to talk to me, but I keep coming back to one thing. 

“You okay?” Dean looks over at me with the same worried face for the thousandth time today. He’s been taking care of me all day, from making sure I’m comfortable in class to preventing people from accidentally knocking into me while we’re walking, and even buying me pasta for lunch so I can eat with one hand. He even took me to the disability office and made all the arrangements for me while I just sat there watching like a little kid. 

I puff out my cheeks and slowly exhale. “Yeah, just nervous, I guess.” 

“Hey.” He grabs my bouncing knee. “Whatever he says, you’re going to be fine.” 

I shoot him a warm smile. Example one million of him taking care of me today. “Thanks, Dean, for everything.” 

“Of course,” he says simply. 

The locker room echoes with our teammates talking and laughing as they get changed for practice. But we’re noticed the moment we walk in, half of them surrounding us in a heartbeat, even though some of them are fully naked. 

“Toby, how are you doing?” Kyle asks with genuine concern in his voice. 

“Yeah, Cap, that was a real nasty hit you took there. That arm don’t look too good,” Anthony adds, his Boston accent making me smile like always. 

“I’ve been better, guys, but I appreciate all the texts and funny TikTok videos you’ve been sending my way.” Truth be told, the concern my teammates have shown me has been great. Even the freshmen got in on it and started a group chat with just me and them, where they bounced around ideas on how to get back at the player who broke my arm. I told them they’re not allowed to do any of that, but it’s the thought that counts. 

Much to Dean’s dismay, all the guys end up giving me hugs or pats on the back, leaving my body a little more sore than when I walked in, but my heart feeling fuller. 

That is until Coach comes out of his office a few minutes later. “Toby, it’s good to see you, son. Why don’t we talk in my office?”

I nod and give Dean a reassuring wave I’m fine before following him. Coach pulls the chair across his desk back for me, and I sit with a sigh of relief. I didn’t realize how tired I’d gotten from just a few minutes of being around the guys, trying to match their energy. 

“So let me start by saying how sorry I am about what happened. The NCAA reached out to me and told me the player that checked you was suspended for three games,” Coach says. 

My jaw clenches as I process the information. The asshole only misses three games while I’m out half the season. 

“I know that’s probably not what you wanted to hear, but they wouldn’t budge on giving him a longer suspension.” 

I nod and try to control my breathing. 

I move to stand when Coach adds, “There’s also one more thing I need to talk to you about.” The stress comes back in full force. This is it, what I’ve been worrying about all day long. Coach leans forward in his chair, his eyes genuinely apologetic. “Unfortunately, because you’re going to be out for a while, I’m going to need to name someone else team captain. You’re more than welcome to come to practices and watch, but of course you won’t be able to play until you get the all-clear from the doctors. I’m really sorry.” 

I close my eyes and see my entire future going down the drain. Someday some random YouTuber will make a video about washed out college athletes. Where are they now? Toby Monroe, son of legendary right winger, Lucas Monroe working some random desk job selling insurance or worse, denying sick people coverage. 

I sigh and get up from the chair much too quickly. “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate everything,” I stammer out. 

Coach gives me a sympathetic smile and a gentle pat on the back as he opens the door for me. I walk past my teammates and head to the seats where I’ll be spending the next several months wondering where it all went wrong.