by Teagan Kade
If I distance myself from all I know of Rachel, squint really hard, and look at it from juuuust the right angle, I can almost convince myself that’s the case.
But then I’m back to where I started, which is that there is the possibility I misread her. That’s always a possibility. If I were infallible when it comes to interpreting people and their intentions, I wouldn’t be in the pickle that I am in with Joey. That’s a fact.
“Babe, would you grab me a sports drink?” Baylor asks.
Sometimes I think at least twenty-percent of the reason he’s so keen to settle down is because he craves a traditional nuclear home. He’s had to play both partner and parent in his own home with his mom and Joey I think now that he’s an adult and their needs have changed, he’s finally allowing himself to crave some of what he sees as normal. Something he never had.
I half-expect Rachel to scowl at him or to be put off by the request, but surprisingly, she’s eager to get him what he wants.
It’s like watching some nature channel. A segment on the mating rituals of some exotic species. She plants a chaste kiss on his cheek, smiles sweetly at him, and bats her eyelashes.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” she says.
“Am I lucky or what?” Baylor says to no one in particular.
“Fuck yes you are,” Leroy replies.
Leroy has a thing for Jessica Alba. Once again, if you put Rachel at a distance, squint, and look at her at juuuust the right angle, there’s some resemblance. So, of course he thinks that Baylor is the fucking man.
Rachel rolls her eyes playfully but doesn’t give an inch.
I’m starting to lend more credence to the idea I might have gotten it all wrong.
She sashays away. There’s an unspoken rule between us guys on the team that we don’t gawk at or ogle any significant others no matter how hot they are, but this doesn’t seem to apply right now. Half of the occupied seats turn to stare as Rachel swings her hips from side to side.
I don’t turn to look. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that’s what she’s doing, given that she treats the world as her runway. Besides, while everyone else is watching Rachel, I’m too busy pretending not to stare at Joey.
“You guys have no idea how much work goes into planning a wedding. Even if you’re eloping.” There Baylor goes again, talking about his upcoming nuptials. I don’t want to be a shit stirrer, so I don’t ask why Rachel hasn’t pitched in or why there’s no one but him involved in this.
Keep the peace. That’s all you have to do. Keep the goddamn, motherfucking peace.
Joey rolls her eyes at Baylor and catches me looking at her in the process.
She rolls her eyes at me, too.
I don’t know how to keep from staring at her, to resist going over to her, or to keep my mouth shut while Baylor goes on and on about the Elvis impersonator he booked to do whatever it is that Elvis impersonators do at Vegas chapels. So I invent a reason to get up and wander to the back of the bus. Maybe there’ll be something in the snack bar—we have one of those, stocked by Joey with healthy food.
And then I see Rachel with Desmond.
Despite my best efforts to try to be as charitable as possible in my interpretation of what’s happening, there’s no two ways about it: she’s flirting her ass off with the running back of our team.
I watch the entire thing unfold: she tosses her hair from side to side. When she stops, she starts twirling a few strands. Her other hand is on his bicep, and she’s squeezing it and throwing her head back and laughing. It’s not that he’s told a joke because that seems to be her default reaction to every single thing he says.
Should I go get Baylor? Should I tell Joey?
She leans in to get something that’s concealed by the seats in front of Desmond’s row. He, like a brainless fucking moron, seems to be under the impression that Rachel is an all-you-can-see buffet because he’s practically drooling all over her cleavage.
The bus jerks to a stop, and Rachel crashes chest-first into Desmond.
So he’s actually getting the motorboat special.
That seems to wake Desmond up that maybe this isn’t appropriate, because he awkwardly tries to help her get up. She waves away his help and takes her sweet time steadying herself back up. Then she leans back down and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is, it has a baller like Desmond—who is no prude, believe you me—blushing like a goddamn schoolgirl… Catholic… wearing knee-high socks… with a prayer book under her arm.
I wrack my brain trying to imagine a world in which all that could be construed as innocent.
If I saw Joey acting like that toward any of the guys, would I be okay with it?
Fuck no.
And more to the point, if Baylor saw any of the guys acting like Desmond or seeing Joey all over any of us, he would hit the roof. He would defy gravity itself and pound the roof three times then come after the unlucky culprit.
I back away and return to my seat deep in thought. No matter how many ways I try to approach it, there’s only one out I can see, and that’s that I need to tell Baylor about the incident with Rachel—my incident with Rachel—before they get married.
Maybe even tell him about the Desmond one as a bonus. In case he falls prey to the same trap I considered before I saw the latter one play out.
I get my yarn and knitting needles out and furiously start to stitch together something. I’m not sure what it is yet. Frankly, I’m not even thinking about it, nor do I care.
Of course, it would be awesome if Joey and I were on speaking terms.
I’m not sure I can hold down the fort without her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JOEY
Coach Allen decided the shenanigans that happened during the team’s last away game were a result of giving everyone too much space and privacy by booking individual rooms. For the Vegas trip, he took a different approach. Our accommodations this time are shared: luxury suites for groups of fours, arranged in such a way that would dissuade anyone from stepping too far out of line.
In my case, that means I’m bunking with Kieran, Baylor, and Rachel.
Because of course I am.
Mind, I only discovered this brilliant new scheme the coach hatched when we had already arrived. Otherwise, I’m certain I would have—
Well, no. I would not have done a single thing differently. I am not about to let my personal life interfere with my professional one. That would be giving Kieran and Baylor and even Rachel way too much power over me and my decisions.
“I’m gonna run a few drills with them,” Coach Allen tells me as I step off the bus. “Would you see to it some light meals are prepared for the team?”
“I’m not sure we should go with light meals post-training,” I counter. “The boys need a lot of protein and electrolytes so they can be in tip-top shape for tomorrow’s game.”
“Well, let’s do that then.” Coach Allen rubs his bald head before placing the cap he always wears over it. “You’re the chef, Joey. You call the shots… when I allow it.”
I smile. Coach Allen took a major chance when he hired me straight out of school to manage the team’s diets. Yes, Baylor probably tipped the scales to get me the gig, but it wouldn’t have happened if Coach Allen hadn’t signed off. He’s a no-nonsense type, a real old-school sort of coach. His time in the military—which he never talks about, not even when he drinks—still influences his decision-making. He doesn’t abide nepotism or anything untoward.
Which is probably why he’s so disappointed in how last week played out.
“And Joey?” he says, sliding on his Wayfarer-style sunglasses, hiding those perceptive hazel-grey eyes of his. “I appreciate all you do for the team. I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but it doesn’t take a shrink to see that you’ve got something weighing you down.”
A lump forms in my throat. Like I said, Coach Allen is not the sentimental sort. He doesn’t go around giving everyone participation trophies just for showing up
to work. That he’s taking the time to let me know that he sees me and that he values the work I do… Well, it’s huge.
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
He nods, seemingly flustered by my display of emotion. “You’re a good egg, Jo.” He takes a deep breath and watches the guys unload the bus. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to whip these troublemakers into shape. Can’t have what happened last week becoming a common occurrence or I’ll lose my job, and rightly so, I’d say.”
I laugh. A few measly tears well up in my eyes. I wipe them away as discreetly as I can manage.
“I’ll go figure out what to do about their food,” I say. “Go badger some hotel kitchen types. You know how much they love an extra cook in the kitchen.”
That earns me a grandfatherly smile from the coach. “Go give ’em hell.” He starts walking away. When he’s a few feet from me, he hollers, “You all have exactly twenty minutes to get your stuff in your rooms and get your asses out on the bus so we can go to the field. I will not hesitate to leave anyone behind, and if you stay back, you’ll have to run your way to practice. Good fucking luck.”
Murmurs of discontentment rise from within the ranks.
“Oh, you think that’s bad? The first one I catch bitching about doing his damn job is going to be warming the bench for the next three games.” He lowers his shades just enough to eyeball each one of the guys individually. “Who knows, I might even be doing you and your career a favor. If you lot are going to play as well as you did last time, sparing you the public embarrassment might be in your best interests.”
That immediately halts the chatter. I have to hide my amusement because I don’t want to be teased later, so I quickly grab everything that’s mine, pick up a keycard at the hotel desk, and head up to the room.
*
By the time all of the day’s activities have come to an end, I’m wiped. Anyone who thinks being an official football team nutritionist is a cushy job should spend a day in my shoes. One hour of dealing with cranky kitchen staff and coordinating with the other athletic crew to get everything ready in time for the guys when their practice ended would paint a very different picture.
I take my sweet time in a long, hot shower I’ve most definitely earned.
When I go back into the common area of the suite, Kieran is there. His hair is wet, so he must have showered somewhere else. Beads of water trickle down on his face. and his shirt has a few splotches that stick to his skin. He’s wearing a basic white tee that does a very poor job of hiding the rock-hard physique underneath.
I hate myself for noticing.
I hate myself even for how the image triggers flashbacks of that amazing night we spent together. His hands on my breasts. Our bodies writhing together. Skin on skin.
Hot.
The burning desire when he—
Stop it, Joey.
“Hey.” He freezes in the middle of what he’s doing, which is putting some clothes away in the knapsack he uses as a hamper when there’s an away game. I remember how endearing I found it when I discovered he doesn’t have his clothes laundered by the team staff like the rest of the guys do. He prefers to do it himself. ‘It keeps me grounded. One bad injury and all of this goes away,’ he explained to me when I asked.
“Hey,” I say. I fidget uncomfortably, grabbing some loose strands of my hair and trying to think of anywhere else I could be right now. Any excuse to avoid one-on-one time with him.
“How’s the water pressure here?” he asks. I don’t know if it’s a good sign or not he’s making small talk.
“Better than last week’s hotel, worse than that time we went to New York,” I tell him.
He chuckles and finishes burying the clothes inside the bag. He tosses it on his bed. An uncomfortable silence follows. I debate whether to just walk past him and go down to the lobby to wait a bit until I’m certain the others have joined us.
“So…” The word is elastic in his mouth. Sooooo. The universal sign of ominous lack of subject.
“So…” I echo.
The corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” He’s teasing me.
“Maybe.” My lips take on a life of their own and curl into a shy smile. “Or maybe not.”
“You know, I think that’s the first non-single-word sentence you’ve said to me since…” He trails off. We both know what he’s alluding to. Since last week. Since I told him to get lost on the way back from the game.
“There hasn’t been much room for conversation,” I point out.
“Well, that’s typically what happens when one person is avoiding the other,” he retorts.
Touché.
I don’t answer him.
“And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what I did to deserve the silent treatment or the cold shoulder you’ve been giving me,” Kieran continues. He runs his fingers through his wet hair. A few droplets of water rain down on his face. “Damn, I need to get a haircut.”
“I like your hair like that,” I blurt before I can stop myself. Damn you, Joey. Keep it together, girl.
“Well.” He grins. “I guess I don’t need a haircut after all.”
“You really don’t.”
Another awkward pause.
He breaks the silence. “So?”
“So?”
“Do you have anything to say about what I just asked?” Kieran shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Because I’m curious. Really.”
I look away from him, suddenly very interested in a speck of dust I see on the floor.
“Joey, come on. Would you please talk to me?”
I summon the courage to look up. Our eyes lock. He really does have the most beautiful emerald eyes. Damn you, Kieran, for being so gorgeous. It has such a disarming effect on my defenses.
That and the fact I’ve missed him. That I’m longing for some contact with him, too, despite my better judgment.
“I just… You walked out without even leaving me a note or anything.” It’s like a dam breaks inside me. Once I start explaining, I can’t stop the word vomit. “I thought we had a breakthrough moment when you came to my room and we… And then you left the next morning and next thing I know, you’re all chummy with Baylor, and I assumed that’s how you wanted to play this. He probably gave you some sermon about disappearing and then reminded you he doesn’t want you with his sister and, I don’t know, this seems stupid when I say it out loud but I just assumed that you were going to do the guy thing and tell me that it was all a mistake and maybe we should just pretend it hadn’t happened or something like that.”
He’s stunned, I can tell. His mouth opens several times, but nothing comes out. Like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Or where to start.
I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t know how to start responding to all that blubber if it had been directed at me, either.
“Well, for one thing, I never planned on telling you any of that. To forget it? Are you kidding me? That night was four years in the making. I would rather give Baylor all of the gory details than try to rewind what happened.” He grimaces. “Well, no, I would rather never give Baylor any details—”
I laugh. “I know what you mean.”
But he doesn’t return my mirth. His mouth is in a straight line. Stern. “Do you? Do you really know what I mean? Because I don’t want to leave any room for doubt here. I left that morning feeling like scum, like a criminal—”
“There you go, using that expression to describe how you feel about being with me again.”
“Let me finish.” Kieran takes a deep breath. “I felt like a criminal because it’s shitty I let Baylor’s weird obsession with keeping us apart dictate how I lived my life for the last four years. That I allowed it to keep me away from you. And then when it finally happened, it happened in absolute secrecy and under circumstances that just make us—well, me at least, I won’t speak for you—feel guilty. Guilty! About something that is so good. So right.
>
“I hate that I didn’t put a stop to your brother’s bullshit sooner. Of all the ways I want to be with you, ‘in hiding’ is not one of them. Don’t you see? We have to tiptoe around our own feelings. I let things get to a point where I think I have to feel bad about being with you, and that’s fucking crazy.”
He’s speaking rapidly. Getting so worked up. I put my hand up to try to get him to slow down, but he just shakes his head.
“No, I need to finish.” He crosses the room and takes my hand. “You thought there was a possibility I had some kind of conversation with your brother and because of that conversation I was about to undo everything that happened. That’s what kills me. I don’t want for you to ever think that. I refuse to stay away from you, to pretend that night didn’t happen.”
My insides turn to jelly. I’ve never been the kind to be so easily won over by words, but Kieran is…
He’s Kieran. That’s the long and short of it. I know him and I trust him, and I want him. God, I want him.
I squeeze his hand and look away. How does a girl respond to a declaration like that?
Kieran says, “I’ll understand if you feel like it’s too messy or too much drama or you don’t—”
I tear a page out of his playbook and shut him up with a kiss. Immediately, his hands travel up to my face. He twists them in my hair and pulls me in. Deeper. Harder.
It’s a hungry kiss.
Passionate.
Rough in the best possible way.
I start to tug at his shirt, meaning to take it off when I hear a commotion outside. Glass clanging together. Voices.
It’s the guys.
“Hey, is anyone in there? We need some help out here,” Leroy yells.
“God, they have the worst timing,” Kieran mutters.
I sigh and give him a peck. “I know.”
“They’re probably going to want to basically turn our room into a kegger.”
“I can guess whose idea that was.” I meet his gaze.
“Baylor,” we say in unison and then laugh.
“HELLO?” Leroy hollers. “Joey, I know you’re in there. The lady in the lobby said so.”
