“That went okay, don’t you think?”
He pops his shoulders. “Yeah, it was nice. Food was good.”
“But…”
“But did you notice how Leon couldn’t look you in the eye? Or how half the team was having their own conversations? Team dinner is about team bonding. Gives us an excuse to get out of our uniforms and get to know each other as people not players. That didn’t really happen tonight.”
I’m self-aware enough to know my team dinner was lacking in comparison to the ones Ethan used to host. “Yeah, what the fuck was up with Leon anyway?”
Ethan narrows his eyes. “You can’t tell? The kid is scared shitless of you.”
“Of me?”
He laughs, sarcasm dripping in his tone. “Shocking, right? Because you’re just the nicest guy on the court.”
“That’s work. Who I am on the court while I’m working is not who I am in my free time.”
“Ryan, you’re my guy, you know this, but you’re making the exact point I’ve been trying to prove this whole time. No one else knows you outside of basketball, so of course the guys think you’re some domineering dickhead that’s going to chew them out if they do the wrong thing. Leon’s afraid to be on the same team as you during practice. Did you know that?”
I scoff. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no reason he should take what I say or how I act while I’m working personally.”
“Guys are afraid to drop a pass from you. They’re afraid to miss a shot instead of giving you the ball and letting you shoot instead. We’re never going to make the playoffs if they can’t trust themselves and even more so, if you don’t trust them.”
Goddammit, I swear this man is a mind-reader. I know all of this. I see the fear in my teammates’ eyes when they fuck up, and of course, I’m aware of my own trust issues.
Ethan’s blacked-out sedan pulls up. “I’m not trying to be a dick—”
“No, you’re right,” I interrupt. “You’re right. I need to work on it.”
He gives me a quick slap on the back. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow.”
“See you then.”
The drive back to my apartment is silent. Sometimes I’ll chat with Harold, but tonight the quiet is necessary. I know what it takes to bring home a championship—I won two national titles while in college—but I’m a different man than I was then. Trusting my teammates, trusting anyone isn’t nearly as easy.
“Welcome back, Mr. Shay.”
“David?” I ask as I step out of the back of the car. “Why are you working the night shift?”
David, my usual daytime doorman, holds the lobby door open for me. And even though I’ve requested for him to call me Ryan, it’s evident he doesn’t feel comfortable being so casual with me while at work, so I let the formality slide.
“My granddaughter had a piano recital this afternoon. I couldn’t miss it.”
David is a good man with a big family. He’s also discreet and I appreciate him more than he probably realizes. He’s been a constant in my life since I moved to Chicago, so last year when he told me his granddaughter had to stop her piano lessons because their family could no longer afford it, I found a scholarship foundation to support her and pay her way for as long as she wants to keep playing.
He doesn’t know that said scholarship is simply my personal bank account, but the details aren’t important.
“How was it?”
His eyes sparkle. “Magnificent. Remi is getting good.”
I give him a pat on the shoulder. “I know you have a video. Show me tomorrow?”
“You got it. Your flowers were delivered. As well as your bookshelf. Should I have someone come up and assemble it for you?”
“I got it but thank you.” I’m halfway through the lobby when I turn back to the door. “David, did you happen to see Indy tonight?”
A smile slides across his lips. “Sure did. She looked beautiful, didn’t she?”
I swallow. “I’m sure she did. Did she mention where she was going? Did she take her own car?”
“She didn’t say, but she took a rideshare.”
“Got it. Have a good night.”
Before I step into the elevator, David stops me. “She’s a good one, Mr. Shay. Kind heart.”
I soften at his words. “She is a good one.”
The apartment is admittedly depressing. Friday night and the city outside is booming with music and people and life. Here I am with a night off work and self-confined to these four walls. Even if I wanted to go out and enjoy my weekend, maybe call Indy and try to meet up with her, I can’t. That’s not a luxury I have. Privacy is a privilege I gave up when I signed my contract with the Chicago Devils four and a half years ago.
Stevie and Zanders took a quick trip back to Indiana to see Zee’s dad, so I truly am alone for the night. It’s nothing new. In fact, this is what I’ve wanted, needed, but ever since my colorful roommate moved in, being alone hasn’t felt quite as appealing. The silence is screaming without Indy here.
I want the comfort of privacy, but I want her to be with me while I have it.
The flowers I had delivered are shades of light purple and pink, so I know she’s going to love them. It’s impractical, constantly spending money on flowers that will die shortly after bringing them home, but every cent is worth it when I get to watch that beaming smile bloom when she sees them. The girl deserves to be spoiled, and I want to be the one doing the spoiling. I trim the stems down the way she taught me before adding the flower food to the water, trying to situate them like the professional florists do. Mine doesn’t look nearly as nice, but fuck it, I tried.
Changing into a pair of sweats and a tee, I grab a beer from the fridge and get to work on the bookshelf I ordered. I easily could’ve purchased a custom-made one or even a bookshelf that was already put together, but the idea of building this myself sounded nice, normal even.
It seemed like something a normal man would do for a girl he likes. Because at the end of the day, that’s who this bookshelf is for.
I reclaimed my own, my books now in their rightful spot—organized by author’s last name without shirtless dudes crowding them, but Indy’s romance novels have been stacked on the floor in the living room since the week she moved in. As much as I tease her, I’ve found her crying, laughing, or even crossing her legs during certain scenes, and it’s beyond endearing that the love between fictional characters can bring her so much joy.
The instructions call for two people to build this, but it’s only me, so I take a swig of my beer, throw the directions away, and get to work.
Okay, so I may have had to disassemble and reassemble it a few times. I also may have had to watch a YouTube video or two to figure it out, but Indy’s bookshelf is finished and somewhat stable. My beer is still full and warm, essentially untouched by the time I’m done, but I think she’s going to be happy.
I leave her books stacked on the floor where they are because even though I have a particular way I like to organize, Indy doesn’t live by the same code and this area is hers.