by Lexi Ryan
“I don’t want to see you get hurt, Grace. This might be a small town, but that doesn’t mean the guys are all good.” He shakes his head and his shoulders drop. Then he turns on his heel and disappears down the hall, and I hear the bathroom door slam and the shower turn on.
I rub my palms against my eyes. I’m not the girl I just made myself out to be. I’m not the girl I just rubbed in his face. I don’t need a shrink or another five years of therapy to know that I just said all that as a defense mechanism, a knee-jerk reaction to the burn of Jewel’s text message. I want him to think I’m the kind of girl he avoids. Because then him not wanting me is under my control. My mind is a clusterfuck of emotions, and I drive my hands into my hair and tug.
I shouldn’t care what Chris thinks of me. It shouldn’t matter whether or not I’m the kind of girl he’d want to be with.
But it does. Fuck, but it does.
First crushes die hard, I guess.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chris
My shower is filled with more visions of Grace on her knees and opening her mouth than I’d like to admit. It’s a tormented kind of fantasy. Images soured by the horrifying possibility of her bringing Sebastian or Keegan back to my apartment and asking me to sleep on the couch so they can have the room to themselves.
She’s an adult and capable of making her own decisions. I know that—despite what her father may think—I can’t keep her from doing whatever or whomever she wants this summer. And I know that my reasons for not wanting her to fuck my teammates or anyone else have more to do with the number of hours I’ve spent thinking about that mouth and that body and the way she felt in my arms than they do the promises I made Edward.
Fifteen tormented minutes later, I climb out of the shower, dry off, get dressed, and go to find her in the kitchen. I tell myself I need to make sure she’s not chugging wine and that she drinks some water before bed, but I know I also want to reassure myself she’s still here, that she’s not with Keegan or some other asshole who’s entirely unworthy of her attention.
I pull on a pair of cotton shorts and head to the living room.
Grace is on the couch with her legs curled under her, and she’s scribbling in a notebook in her lap. I don’t realize I’m staring until Mason clears his throat.
I turn around. I didn’t even realize he’d gotten home, but he’s standing in the kitchen. He arches a brow and then turns around and scrapes chicken off the cutting board and into a skillet on the stove. It sizzles when it hits the hot oil.
“Are you gonna have chicken stir-fry with us, Grace?” he asks.
She lifts her head and blinks at Mason and then me. I get the impression she was so lost in whatever she was writing, she had no idea she wasn’t alone in the room. “No thanks. I don’t eat meat.”
Mason looks to me, and I nod in confirmation. He turns his head back to Grace. “What do you eat, then?”
“The hearts of lovesick men, mostly.”
Mason grunts. “No wonder you and Bailey get along so well.”
Grace climbs off the couch and stretches, lifting her arms above her head and exposing a strip of skin between her shorts and that polka-dot tank top. “I’m going to work in the room for a while,” she says to me. “Do you need the desk for anything?”
“It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” She clutches her notebook to her chest and heads to the bedroom, closing the door behind her, and when she’s gone I realize how much I wanted her to sit and have dinner with us.
“How’s the room-sharing thing going?” Mason asks, stirring the chicken.
I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and stare into it like a psychic reading tea leaves. “You ever meet a girl who gets under your skin so much you can’t see straight?”
“Once,” he says. He puts down the spatula and turns to study me. His scrutiny gives me the sensation of being a bug under a microscope. “Then she slipped away, and ever since my skin feels like it doesn’t fit right. My advice to you? Hold on tight.”
* * *
Grace
My stomach is a tangle of nerves when I get to Mr. Gregory’s office. The door is closed, and when I knock, he doesn’t answer.
He said he couldn’t tolerate tardiness, so I arrived five minutes early.
I knock again, in case he didn’t hear me the first time, but no one comes to the door.
After a few minutes, I check with the secretary, who says she hasn’t seen him yet this morning.
I take a seat by the door, my legs extended in front of me, my feet crossed at the ankle, the big stupid folder of blank pages in my lap. And I wait.
It is 9:07 a.m. when Drew Gregory approaches his office door. His eyes are bleary, his button-up shirt wrinkled and untucked. He stares at me hard as he unlocks his door, and I scramble to my feet.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He grunts and mumbles something unintelligible, but I find this situation far too awkward for me to ask him to repeat himself. I put my head down and follow him into the office.
“About this file you gave me last night—”
He scowls at me over one shoulder. “Let me stop you there.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I put the file down on the chair that sits just inside the office. “Do you want me to wait out there until you’re settled?”
“Coffee, girl. Don’t I look like a man who needs a cup of coffee?”
My stomach sinks, but I’m not too proud to fetch a cup of coffee. “I’ll be right back.”
I find some disposable cups in the department kitchen and a half-full pot on the coffee maker. I pour a cup and bite my lip as I stare at the sugar and cream. He would have told me if he wanted something in it, right?
I grab a couple of packets of sugar and powdered cream and return to his office. He’s sitting at his desk and has rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows.
I set the coffee on the desk before him. “Here you go, sir.”
He stares at the cup as if I’ve just presented him with a dead rodent. “You first.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Take a drink.”
Does he think I’m trying to poison him or something? I can’t decide if I’m the worst intern ever or if this man has a few screws loose. Seeing no reason to argue, I lift the cup to my lips and take a quick sip. Then I grimace. This is why I grind my own beans and brew my own joe. How can coffee taste so weak and so burned all at the same time?
“I asked for coffee,” he says. He pulls out his wallet and throws a hundred-dollar bill on the desk. “There’s a Starbucks in the commons.”
I nod to the hundred. “Exactly how much coffee were you wanting me to buy?”
“Venti bold coffee. Black. I’ll need coffee every morning, but don’t get it until I arrive. I hate cold coffee.”
“Okay.”
He gives a curt nod. “And hurry back. We need to talk.”
“Yeah, about those papers—”
“Not before coffee.”
Right.
By the time I make the coffee run and return to his office, I’ve relaxed a little about the file folder of blank pages and my inability to properly fulfill his request for coffee on the first try. I still don’t know what exactly he expects from me this summer, but whatever it is, I can handle it. I’m not going to let him scare me off. Even if he plans to treat me like an errand girl.
I hand him the coffee and think twice before I open my mouth again. I take a seat and stare at the folder, giving him a chance to caffeinate before I admit that I’m not prepared.
Finally, he says, “What’d you come up with?”
I swallow hard. “Sir, I think maybe you gave me the wrong file? I tried to call and email but wasn’t able to get a hold of you.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s . . .” I clear my throat. “It’s just a bunch of blank pages?”
“And what? You thought the fairies were going to come fill them for you
?” He narrows his eyes. “What’s the problem?”
“I thought these were your notes. That I was supposed to get some ideas for the production? Putting your special twist on someone else’s play?”
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
Normally, answering that question in the affirmative wouldn’t be a problem, but this is Drew Gregory. I lift my chin. “I try.”
“Try?” He grunts. “You’re a writer. So write something.”
I’m beyond confused. “You want me to gather notes for you? Ideas for a new play, maybe?”
He drags a hand through his light brown hair. “Lotta good that would do you. No, I want you to write a play. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“But I thought—”
“You get my coffee and look shit up whenever this old brain of mine comes up with anything it gives enough fucks to care about, but with all your other time, you write a play, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t suck before we put it on the stage. Does that sound like an okay way to spend your summer?”
Well, fuck me standing. “Yes sir. That’s . . . amazing, really. Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chris
I’ve discovered something Grace will eat that doesn’t come out of a cereal or Pop-Tart box. This feels like a not-so-minor victory, and when she avoids contracting scurvy before the age of twenty-five, she’ll have me to thank. She grabs a box of vegetarian fried rice off the coffee table and stirs it with her chopsticks.
Over the last week and a half, we’ve fallen into a routine. Mason and I get up early for practice, and sometime after we leave, she goes in to BHU, where she fetches Drew Gregory’s coffee and does the occasional Google search on a topic if inspiration strikes him. Mostly, though, as far as I can tell, she spends her day with her laptop working on a play. At the end of the day, we eat dinner here together, and some nights we go over to Arrow’s to hang out, and sometimes she retreats to the bedroom to type at the desk.
After finding her at the bar with Bailey her first night in town, I was worried about what kind of trouble I’d have to keep Grace out of—and whether or not I could—but since Drew Gregory told her to write him a play, she’s been content keeping her nose to the grindstone instead of making my life hell by getting drunk or talking about fucking my friends.
She puts her rice down and goes to the kitchen. “I feel like we’re getting this brother–sister routine down.”
When she pushes onto her toes to reach into the cabinet and my gaze settles on her ass, I bite my knuckles. Yeah, we’re really getting the hang of this brother–sister thing, except I can’t keep my eyes off her.
“You’re totally into football, right?” She grabs a glass and fills it with water before turning to face me.
I arch a brow. “That’s kind of like asking the Hulk if he’s green.”
“Right. It’s what you hope to do for a career and what you’ve loved most since you were a kid.”
“Yeah.” I put my plate on the coffee table and lean forward, my elbows on my knees, to study her face. I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but the wrinkle in her brow tells me it’s important.
“Why did you leave Texas? Your mom told me you could have gone anywhere for college, that all sorts of schools were trying to recruit you. Isn’t Texas the place to be for college football?”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about football.”
She returns to the living room with a full glass of water and sits by my side on the couch, one knee drawn in to her chest so she’s turned to face me. “I said I didn’t like it, not that I didn’t know anything. Dad is a football freak. It would be hard to grow up in his house and know nothing about the sport that consumes so much of his attention. I know some, and I know that Texas is where it’s at, and I know that BHU has a great program, but the Blackhawks are no Longhorns.”
I grab my water and take a long drink from it before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I didn’t want to end up playing for my dad. I do love the sport. I love being part of a team and pushing my body through training. I love both the physical and mental aspects of the game.” I take a breath, pondering the question that no one else since my high school football coach has bothered to ask. “Dad’s been pulled around different Texas football programs since I was a kid, and staying in Texas meant there was a chance he’d be my coach someday. He’s the one thing that could kill my love of football.”
Grace swallows a bite of her dinner then settles her box next to mine on the coffee table. “But now he’s going to be your coach in Indiana.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“You two don’t get along?”
“We haven’t had the chance to get along or not get along. He’s never been part of my life—not in any way that counted. After I started playing ball in high school and getting some media attention, he’d call every so often and give me tips based on the footage he saw.” My stomach turns with the memory of those phone calls—how excited I’d get for them at first, how thrilled at even the scraps of attention he threw my way. “Once the season ended, he’d get too busy to call—ironic, since his busiest time of the year is the football season.”
“That’s so shitty.”
I shrug. When it comes to my dad, I don’t let the facts hurt me anymore. “It is what it is. Fathers who don’t bother to be dads are more common than people realize. Sometimes it feels like half the guys on any given football team were raised by single moms. Maybe that’s not accurate, but it starts to feel that way when you hear the stories year after year. My dad didn’t beat my mom—didn’t even break her heart, as far as I can tell. I know it could have been worse.”
She pulls her bottom lip through her teeth. “Just because he wasn’t worse doesn’t mean you forfeit your right to be angry. He failed you. And now he might be taking a job at BHU for the prestige of coaching a team you made great.”
“It wasn’t me. We have so many amazing players right now. Arrow’s probably going to be the first running back picked in the draft next year, and I bet Mason will go in the first round too. I have a badass O-line, and—”
She puts two fingers against my lips, silencing me. “And they’re all led by the most skilled and charismatic quarterback in the game. He’s got a great arm and can chuck it down the field when the time is right. He can run, too, and can break through a hole like an old-school NFL running back.”
She drops her hand as if suddenly realizing she was touching me, and scoots back on the couch. But it’s not even her soft fingers against my lips that fucks with my head. It’s everything else she said. Everything else I needed to hear. It’s the fact that she—a self-professed football hater—cares enough to pay attention to the way I play.
I want to kiss her so badly that I don’t even trust myself to speak.
“Sorry.” Grace clears her throat. “I need to go get dressed. Bailey’s going to be here to pick me up any minute.”
I watch her clear her dishes and don’t stop her until she reaches the hallway. “Grace?”
She turns and her eyes meet mine.
“Thank you for saying all that.” I swallow hard. “It means a lot.”
She smiles. “It’s true.”
“What are you doing this weekend?”
She shrugs. “Bailey and I talked about hanging out with Mia at Arrow’s tonight, but I don’t have any other plans.”
“Don’t make any for tomorrow, okay?”
She frowns. “I guess. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah.” Standing, I grab my plate and pile it with my empty carryout boxes. “I just want to spend the day with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Grace
“So Keegan’s uncle is a bit of an asshole,” Bailey says, recapping our conversation. “But he’s an asshole you admire, meaning you’re willing to be his punching bag for the summer. What about Chris?”
I take a sip of my wine before setting it back on the coffee tab
le. We’re gathered in Arrow’s living room while Arrow’s in the basement, training. Mia has some pop music playing in the background, and we’re just relaxing like girls who have been friends forever. It feels good, but I’m determined to be good tonight and not drink too much. I don’t want to be hungover for whatever Chris has planned for us tomorrow. “What about Chris?”
“You’re sleeping in the same room now,” Bailey says from the other side of the coffee table. “I can practically smell lust in the air when you’re anywhere within one hundred yards of each other.”
“What does lust smell like?” I ask, dodging.
Mia shrugs. “She’s not lying. There’s definitely chemistry.”
“I asked Mason,” Bailey says, “and he insisted there aren’t any sexy times happening.”
“I can confirm. Absolutely no sexy times.” And after my drunken conversation with him about wanting to be able to fuck guys in his room, I’ve been on my best behavior. As much as I didn’t want to be affected by Jewel’s text, I was, and I made an ass of myself in front of Chris because of it.
“It just seems like a waste to me. Ever read Stepbrother Dearest?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
She groans and smacks her forehead. “Oh my God. I’m gonna get you a copy. It’s so hot. And maybe it’ll help you get over any reservations you have.”
I roll my eyes. “I promise that our parents being married has nothing to do with us not hooking up.”
She narrows her eyes and leans back in the booth. “If it’s not that, then what’s the holdup?”
“Do you think people have to have a reason not to hook up when they’re alone in a room together?”
Bailey lifts her palms. “Um, yeah.”
