Just a Bit Unhealthy (Straight Guys 3)

With a contented sigh, Gabriel relaxed.

Jared focused on working on the kinks, trying to ignore the flawless pale skin he was touching. Gabriel’s back was strong and lean with well-toned muscles. Jared’s gaze traveled down the graceful curve of Gabriel’s back to the pert ass clad only in thin blue shorts.

Setting his jaw, Jared averted his eyes and cleared his throat. “So what’s got you sulking?”

Gabriel tensed a little before slowly relaxing again as Jared kneaded his lower back. “The coach wants to move me to the right wing.”

Jared’s eyebrows furrowed. Gabriel was one of the best wingers in Europe, but it was common knowledge that he was uncomfortable playing on the right wing. He always played on the left. Always.

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” Gabriel said, not without bitterness. “Because of the golden boy.”

Jared smiled a little. “He’s your brother, Gabe.”

“No, he isn’t. We aren’t related by blood.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jared said.

“Tell that to him. He’s the one who constantly reminds the press that he’s English, while I’m French—or Ukrainian—whatever suits him best.”

Jared shook his head to himself. He’d never understood the fierce rivalry between Gabriel and his adoptive brother, Tristan. They were the same age, both orphans, both loved football and both were incredibly talented, but they couldn’t stand each other. Maybe the problem was that Gabriel and Tristan hadn’t lived as brothers for long: their adoptive parents, the DuVals, had died when they were nine and they’d been left in the care of distant relatives who didn’t particularly want to raise two difficult children who weren’t even related to them by blood. To get them off their hands, the relatives had enrolled the boys into the youth academy of a French football club. Fast-forward six years, and the boys caught the eye of Chelsea’s scouting network. Jared thought it was pretty ironic that Gabriel and Tristan hated each other but couldn’t get rid of each other’s company, even in England.

“What’s Tristan done now?” Jared asked, resuming the massage. “It’s not his fault if the coach decided to move him to your normal position.”

Gabriel snorted. “Do you really believe that? He always wanted to take my position. He never passes the ball to me and always tries to make me look bad, and everyone loves him because he’s so likable and English, and you know how it is. The British media loves to stir up rubbish and keeps claiming that I’m ruining the development of a future English superstar.” Gabriel scoffed. “And that prick constantly adds fuel to the fire and hints to the press that he would have been playing much better if he played on the left wing.”

Jared ran his hands over the expanse of Gabriel’s back. “Tristan isn’t a bad kid. I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way.”

“The hell he didn’t!” Gabriel’s muscles became stiff under his hands. “He’s a manipulative little shit. Why can no one see it but me? He’s a two-faced suck-up, but everyone thinks he’s such a nice guy. Even you! I thought…” Gabriel’s voice became tight. “I thought you’d be on my side. But you’re always so nice to him.”

Jared stopped massaging him and stared at the back of his dark blond head. “I’m the senior doctor of this football club,” he said slowly. “And he’s a first team player. It’s my job to be nice to him and make sure he’s fit and in top form.” He didn’t know why he was even explaining this. He didn’t have to explain to Gabriel anything. Strictly speaking, Gabriel was just one of seventy-eight sportsmen of various ages under his care. It was none of Gabriel’s business how he treated other players.

Except apparently Gabriel thought differently. “I don’t want you to be nice to him.”

Jared blinked. “What?”

Gabriel turned onto his back, his lips pursed into an unhappy line. “Didn’t you notice how sweet he is with you? I know him. He’s never sweet without a reason.”

Jared suppressed a sigh. He could see where this was going. Gabriel was very possessive of his things. He didn’t talk much about his early childhood in Ukraine—he claimed that he didn’t remember—but Jared could make an educated guess. Ukrainian orphanages couldn’t have been nice places to live. As a child, Gabriel hadn’t had much, so it was only natural he had grown accustomed to jealously guarding what little he had. It didn’t matter that Gabriel was no longer a child and could afford anything he wanted; he had never quite outgrown his possessiveness. Everyone knew that Gabriel DuVal was very bad at sharing. It was obvious on the football pitch, too: he was often selfish and ruthless, wanting to be the one to score all the goals. For that reason he was the favorite target of the media’s scathing criticism, universally hated and reluctantly admired.

When Jared had been assigned as Gabriel’s physio at the rehabilitation center, he’d already heard of the boy’s difficult personality. Truth be told, at the time Jared hadn’t been thrilled about the assignment. Residency was exhausting as it was, and looking after a difficult, paralyzed teenager wasn’t something he was looking forward to. Besides, he hated cases like Gabriel’s: when there was little hope for full recovery and he could do little to truly help.