Play Along(84)

“Something like that.”

He scoots a little closer to me. Too close, if I’m being honest, but this is what I’m working on, being okay with physical contact. If I were out in the real world getting hit on at a real bar, it’d be crowded. They’d stand close. This is fine.

I’m fine.

“So what do you do for work, Miss Kennedy?”

Mrs, my brain screams, but I shut it off.

“I’m a . . . doctor.”

Vincent’s eyes go wide. “Impressive. What kind?”

“Sports medicine.”

“Athletes, huh? Bet they love you. I’ve been an athlete my whole life, you know. Still play occasionally.”

“Oh yeah? Who do you play for?”

“I play pickup at the gym.”

I burst a laugh, but quickly cover it with my hand. “Sorry.”

“It gets heated out there. It’s intense. Some of those guys played in college and really had a chance at going pro if they didn’t injure themselves. That’s what happened to me. I blew out my knee freshman year.” He shakes his head in disbelief as if his high school highlight reel was playing on repeat in his mind. “So, what kind of athletes do you work with?”

“The professional kind. I work here, for the Warriors.”

“Oh shit. Well, I sound like a fucking idiot, trying to impress you when you’re over here working with professional athletes.”

I’m married to one too. It’s the first thing that crosses my mind, but I don’t say it. Because soon enough, I won’t be.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to try to impress me.”

His sly smile grows as he steps even closer.

My skin instantly feels hot, not in a good way, but in an uncomfortable way. His hip grazes my thigh. He leaves it resting there, full, intentional contact, and I hate it. I try to turn away, but there’s a couple on my other side so there’s no room.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve been practicing. I should be getting better at physical contact and casual touching. This is innocent, but I can’t breathe because of how much I despise this simple graze of my thigh. I don’t want him touching me.

And that scares the hell out of me because will I ever want anyone other than Isaiah to touch me? Will he always be the only man I’m comfortable with? And if so, what the hell are we doing with these lessons then? What’s the point of it all if it’s only him?

Holy fuck. Is it only him? Has it always been him?

“I’ll be at the game on Monday,” he says, dropping his palm to my thigh.

I flinch and don’t even try to hide my body’s visceral reaction to his touch.

He doesn’t seem to notice or care, leaving his hand to rest there when he says, “My dad is a season ticket holder. So, after the game, maybe I can take you out for that drink?”

“I’m sorry, but can you please take your hand off me?”

He huffs an uncomfortable laugh. “What?”

I turn my body away from him, into the couple of inches of space I have. “Your hand. Can you please take it off me?”

“Okay . . .” The word is drawn out as if my question made me an absolute freak. Maybe I am.

He lifts his hands, both of them, holding them up in surrender as if what I said to him was threatening, and not a simple request.

I wish Isaiah were here.

Vincent attempts to save the moment. “So, what do you do for fun?”

“I uh . . . I work a lot. Or study. I’m kind of always trying to keep up on the newest research in my field, and I enjoy my alone time. I’ve gotten pretty good at entertaining myself over the years.”

The face he makes . . . Oh God.

“So you’ve clearly been single a while, huh?”

How am I so bad at this?

“What do you do in your free time?” I ask.

“I spend a lot of my time at the gym. Play golf. I work for my dad, so I kind of make my own schedule.”

He’s literally every boy I ever grew up with.

I miss Isaiah.

His conversation. The way he looks at me. How he knows my cues, when to speed up. When to slow down.

He’s simply across the field and I miss him.

“Do you have a last name, Kennedy?” Vincent asks as he once again steps into my space and places his hand on my shoulder, completely disregarding that I asked him not to.

I flinch, but it’s only there for less than a second before his hand is forcibly removed.

Isaiah shoves him back a step.

“Rhodes,” he says. “Her last name is Rhodes. Now get your fucking hands off my wife.”

“Whoa, man,” Vincent says with an awkward laugh. “It’s cool. I’m a big fan of yours.”

“I don’t give a fuck who you are.” Isaiah puts his body between us. “She asked you not to touch her.”

“She didn’t tell me she was married.”

“She doesn’t have to tell you shit. You clearly don’t listen anyway.” Isaiah grabs my left hand that’s sandwiched between my legs and places it on the bar top. “But there’s your fucking evidence.”

“Everything okay, here?” a security guard steps up and asks.

“No. He needs to go.”