The back room consists of black walls, low lighting, and a table so long that it sits fourteen comfortably—if you’re not trying to speak to half of your guests.
To be honest, I knew it was a bullshit excuse for team dinner when I booked the restaurant two weeks ago. Ethan’s home is always warm and inviting. His wife and mother have taught some of the guys their famous Korean dishes over the years, and his daughters are usually running around or sitting on one of the players’ laps, teaching professional athletes how to color within the lines.
But I’m not Ethan. My apartment is bare and admittedly somewhat cold. I don’t have a wholesome family waiting at home to welcome the team, and even if I did, I can’t stomach the idea of letting this many people into my space, regardless that they’re my teammates.
Only a few have penetrated my circle of confidence—Ethan, Zanders, and now Indy, but I don’t blindly trust most people, including my teammates. Sure, I’ve known most of them for four-plus years, but they’re strictly my coworkers.
Trust is earned, not given, and if I said any of that out loud, Ethan would chew my ass out and remind me that my lack of trust in my team is probably why we’re on a four-game losing streak.
Halfway through dinner, the guys seem like they’re having a good enough time. The other end of the table is much louder than my end, shooting the shit, and drinking on my dime.
One of the rookies sits to my left. “Leon, do you want another glass of wine?” I hold the bottle up to offer him a pour.
He keeps his stare down on his plate. “No, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
Hesitantly, his eyes find mine, trying to read me.
Ethan laughs. “It’s not a test, Leon. You’re not going to get reamed for having a second glass of wine. We have a travel day tomorrow.”
Leon’s lips tilt slightly, though he looks at Ethan while he smiles, but his eyes are back on his plate when he says, “Sure. Okay, I’ll have one. Thank you.”
I pour Leon another glass. That was fucking weird.
By the time dessert is being served, I can’t help it any longer. I pull out my phone to text Indy.
She flew home from a road trip this afternoon, so I haven’t seen her in five days. And before that, I was gone for six. Which means for the last eleven days the only thing I’ve been able to think about is that kiss.
It was perfect, consuming, soft. Fuck, it was intoxicating, and I want to do it again. I think I might need to do it again before I combust. Is there a study out there that tests the limit on how many times you can jerk off before creating a long-lasting problem? Because every languid stroke of my cock has come with the image of her long legs around my hips, her soft hands touching every crevice of my body, and those lips. Those goddamn lips exploring every inch of my skin.
Was it as fake as I claimed? Not in the slightest.
As I told her, I don’t feel comfortable faking intimacy, so I didn’t. My body was boiling when I saw her standing with him outside the arena. I knew who he was the second my eyes landed on him, and my suspicion was confirmed when I noticed the frozen yet fumbling mess that was my roommate. Her kind brown eyes were shining with unshed tears, and yeah, that pissed me off because he deserves no part of her.
I’d never let him see her cry over him, so you could blame the kiss on that, but the truth is when I walked out of the players’ entrance all I saw was Blue. My perfect fucking Blue with those strappy heels, leather pants, and an attitude consisting of the strangest mix of welcoming and sharp.
But when I noticed him, all I saw was red.
Call it possessive, protective, or straight-up caveman tendencies, I don’t care. There was no part of me that would allow for that sorry excuse of a man to think he “won.” So, yeah, I kissed her to prove a point.
But I also kissed her because I’d been wanting to do it for weeks now.
Ryan
How’s bridal shower planning going?
My sorry attempts to find any excuse to text Indy are getting more obvious. Sending her pictures of my lonely breakfasts without her, asking her the name of certain flowers I stumble upon, or just texting her to complain about how she’s not very good at cleaning up after herself, though I’ve grown used to my apartment being a bit more frenzied these days. Seems like I find a reason to message her at least once a day, and we’ve already talked about this bridal shower all week, but fuck it, I want to talk to her.
Don’t get me started on how I feel about her childhood friends taking advantage of Indy’s ingrained necessity to do anything for those she cares about. They went dress shopping without her, but conveniently need her to plan a bridal shower. She would never say no, and she’ll knock it out of the park, but that’s not the point. I wonder when the last time one of those friends planned something for her.
Blue
It’s coming along! I ordered the flower arrangements today. How’s team dinner?
It’s fine.
I wait just thirty seconds before I text again and tell the truth.
No, it’s not actually. It kind of sucks. When we used to do it at Ethan’s house, everyone was happy to be there.
Well, what do you think the difference is?
I don’t know. I picked one of the most expensive restaurants in Chicago. The food was good.
You can’t see me, but I’m rolling my eyes. The difference is that Ethan let the team into his life. Maybe you should too.
Jesus, did he tell you to say that?
No, I’m simply that brilliant on my own.
The bill is discreetly handed to me, and I slip the server my Black Amex.
I’ll see you when I get home?
Glad that was just a text, because if I said that out loud, I’m pretty sure my voice would’ve cracked like an excited middle schooler getting to see his crush.
Yes, but I’ll be home late or maybe tomorrow. I have plans tonight.
What the hell? What plans? And with whom? And excuse me, but “maybe tomorrow”？
It takes all my restraint to keep my thumbs from typing out each of those questions, not that I’m in any position to deserve the answers. I’m just her roommate. She doesn’t have to tell me anything.
But goddammit, I’ve been looking forward to her coming home all week. I even had the guy who owns her favorite flower stand down the street drop off a bouquet for her today, simply because I knew she’d be excited for a fresh one. That and because I killed the last arrangement she left me with.
And now I’m feeling petty and annoyed and for no real reason other than I wanted her to want to stay home with me. Isn’t she tired from working all week? Yes, it’s a Friday night, but why’d she make plans?
I’m asking myself these questions as if I haven’t gotten to know the girl across the hall. Indy is a social butterfly who loves people. Of course, she made plans on a Friday night. She’s a single woman, stunning and too smart for her own good. Just because I have a hard time leaving the apartment doesn’t mean she does. Hiding away with me would never be enough for her.
Okay. Let me know if you need anything.
God, I’m pathetic.
Thanks! Have a good night.
Highly unlikely that’ll happen at this point.
One of the rules of team dinner is that if there’s going to be alcohol, no one gets behind the wheel. So as the last of the guys pile into a rideshare, Ethan and I wait for our respective drivers to pull up.