Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Awesome,” he says, offering a fist for knocking. I knock back as he adds, “Really appreciate you helping out, Bryant. You’re my eyes so I don’t have to worry about her.”
I bristle. She’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need a babysitter.
He seems to be waiting for me to say something, but it’s not like I’m going to tell him all the details of her life like what she’s eating, and when she leaves, and if she did her dishes this morning. “It’s all good.”
He sighs, contentedly. “My kiddos are good, my wife is good, we won the game. And my little sister is fine. I guess my work here tonight is done.” He stands and surveys the post-game scene, then shoots one last look my way. “You still doing those post-game workouts?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll join you when you’re done in the media room.”
This is when I really need a poker face because I did not expect that response. “Cool,” I say evenly, and after I talk briefly to the press, I take off for the weight room.
Here, I definitely don’t have to fight off teammates for use of the equipment. It’s only the team captain and me, moving through push-ups and bench presses, shooting the breeze about the game, the guys on the other team, and who we’re playing next.
When we’re done, he says, “If you ever need anything, Bryant, you let me know. I’ll help you out. Like a mentor thing.”
Oh, shit. He did not just offer that. Please tell me he did not offer that. I feel like a liar, and I haven’t even touched his sister since before I knew who she was. “Appreciate it,” I say, since that’s not really an RSVP, even though the captain definitely offered to take me under his wing.
On the way back to the locker room, we pass Coach. He gives a crisp hello without cracking a smile. “Good game, guys. See you at morning skate?”
Christian nods. “I’ll be there.”
I’ll be there too, and it feels even more important now than it ever has, and I’m not sure why. But I tell him I’ll see him there.
After I’m showered and changed, I head home, my muscles tired as I drive. Once I’m in the garage, I walk quietly, then stop mid-step before I open the interior door to the house.
This is still new—this moment. So far, I’ve only come home once post-game with Josie in the house. She did say she goes to bed at nine-thirty, so I’m quieter than usual, slipping out of my shoes, then carrying them up the steps. Don’t want to wake her. She gets up way earlier than I do.
The home is silent in that slightly eerie, slightly creaky nighttime kind of way. After I set my shoes down by the door, I head to the kitchen in the dark, my stomach growling.
I’m dead quiet here, too, and I grab an acai bowl from the fridge and—
Berries. There’s a carton of raspberries sitting next to it, with Property of Wesley written on top, like it’s in an office kitchen or similar. Seems she’s still paying me in fruit. I can’t say no.
I grab the bowl and the fruit while listening to my new tunes playlist, my earbuds in as I eat, getting lost in the beats of Frank Ocean and GIVĒON.
A soft light flickers on nearby around midnight. I hit stop on the playlist and peer down the hall. The bathroom light’s on—the one by her bedroom under the staircase.
She’s awake and my heart stupidly speeds up.
Get a grip. The woman is up to fucking pee. Not to see you.
I admonish myself for wanting a hello, or a good game, or a how’s it going. I try to focus on the lyrics, listening for every word when the light shifts again, and I hit stop on the music once more as she wanders into the kitchen.
She’s wearing a cami with her pajama shorts, and I can’t stand how ridiculously hot that whole look is. Her glasses are on, but her hair is down, and my mind unhelpfully shifts to its own playlist, playing the refrain to My Morning Jacket’s “Librarian,” and the bit about the title character taking off her glasses and letting down her hair.
“Nice assist,” she says.
I flinch in surprise as I take out my earbuds. She can’t have just said that. Really, she can’t. She’s not into sports. She’s definitely not into her brother’s sport. “You watched it?” I ask, incredulous and grateful all at once that she gave me a reason not to think about her new anthem.
“Maybe.” It’s stretched out, a little coy. Her smile lifts. “Did I watch it or did I watch the highlights? What do you think?”
She’s flirting. She’s fucking flirting, and I’m not sure I can resist it.
I consider her question, then roll the dice. “I think you watched it.”