“What is it this time?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. “Bikers? MMA fighters? Tattoo artist?”
She wiggles her brows. “You’ll have to read it to find out! Anyway, text me if you change your mind about coming out, ’kay?”
I smile and nod as Becca retreats into the hall, although I know deep down it won’t happen. I really do need to work on this proposal, and I’ve already made up my mind. I just need to stay the course, even if it means spending my night off trapped in the apartment with no one but Baxter, Becca’s Labradoodle, to keep me company.
A few minutes later, the front door closes with a soft bang.
“Three, two, one.” Right on time, Baxter thrusts his head through the door and struts over to the bed like he owns the place. I lower my hand and he nuzzles against it, his golden curls soft and silky. “It’s just you and me tonight.”
He gives a small yip that could be annoyance or approval and flops down on the floor, using my discarded Waverly sweatshirt as a pillow. I manage to lose myself in the project for a couple of hours, nailing down the overall concept for my design, while Baxter snores softly next to me.
My phone rings and I grab it off the nightstand, surprised to discover it’s after eleven.
Mom’s smiling picture flashes on the screen, and I swipe right.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says, not even waiting for me to say hello. “I’m on a break, so I’ve only got a minute, but I wanted to call and congratulate you on the win today. I’m working a double, but I heard most of the game on the radio.”
“Thanks, Mom.” There’s a surge of warmth in my chest at her words. I know she’s proud of me, she always is, but I also know that congratulating me on a football win takes some real effort on her part. “It was kind of crazy. I was a little worried I might actually shank it.”
“Listen to you,” she says, a note of sadness in her voice. “Talking like one of the guys.”
“Ha,” I scoff, telling myself it couldn’t be further from the truth. “Football terminology does not a football player make.” That’s true enough. It’s not the lingo that’s made me a player, it’s the countless hours I’ve spent on the practice fields perfecting my technique. “How’re things at the hospital?”
“Busy.” I know that’s my cue to wrap it up, that they’ve just done shift change and she’s needed on the floor, but I’m not quite ready to let go. “You know how it is, always shorthanded.”
I hate that she tries to make light of it, that her hours are so long, but I hate myself even more for what comes out of my mouth next. “Do you think you’ll be able to make it to a game once your hours get cut back?”
There’s a long pause, but eventually she promises to come see me play. “Of course, sweetie, but I have to get back to work now. Have a good night, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.” I stare at the phone for a while after I hang up, feeling empty. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to come, to watch me play like she’s probably watched my dad do a hundred times before.
My stomach growls.
Or maybe I just need a snack.
I climb off the bed and tuck my phone in my pocket, determined to find something bingeworthy in our barely passable kitchen. The thing is, neither Becca nor I can cook, so we gave up trying, which is probably for the best since she once caught a towel on fire when she tried to use it as an oven mitt. To avoid such disasters (and eviction), we mostly subsist on cafeteria food and frozen meals.
Case in point, the microwave stir-fry I had for dinner that barely put a dent in my appetite. I scavenge through the cabinets and find a box of popcorn. I toss a bag in the microwave, refill Baxter’s water bowl, and lean against the counter to wait.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
I watch the bag make its revolutions around the microwave, the kernels inside exploding rapid fire. I should have accepted Reid’s—the team’s—dinner invitation. It was probably a bitch move to decline. It was just burgers and shakes, after all, not a team orgy.
Mmm. What I wouldn’t give for a chocolate milkshake right now.
But no, burgers and shakes, that’s how it starts. The moment I stop seeing Reid for the good-time guy he is, that’s the moment I’ll lose all conviction. Right?
The microwave dings and I grab the popcorn, careful not to burn my fingers on the steam leaking from the bag. I dump the contents in a bowl, grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and grant myself the rest of the night off. I played a good game today and made decent progress on my design proposal.
Time to veg out and catch up with my favoriteRiverdalecouple.
I’m curled up on the couch, doing my best not to think about football—no small feat since every time Red flashes his washboard abs, I find myself comparing them to Reid, who wins hands down every time—when there’s a knock on the door.
It’s so freaking loud I nearly jump out of my skin. Popcorn spills on the floor, but I stay frozen on the couch. It’s kind of late for company and I’m not expecting anyone. The practical part of my brain says it’s probably just some drunk knocking on the wrong door.
Maybe if I wait it out, they’ll go away.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
