Only, and here’s the kicker, I hadn’t. Oh, she’d been willing, I’d been wanting, and there’d been opportunity. And when it all came to a head? I couldn’t.
Everything in me had just withered like a fallen leaf in the sun. I might have felt humiliated if I hadn’t been so terrified. Nothing was right anymore. Not my sex drive, not my behavior, or my love of the game. I don’t feel like me anymore.
You did when you were with Pen.
The thought doesn’t help.
Sighing, I toss my keys in the little wooden bowl on the counter by the door and head into the main living area. Hot blocks of sunlight fall through the wall of windows and onto the floor. It might be impersonal here but at least it’s light filled—that’s what my mother said when she’d visited.
Evidence of her ensuing attempt to make it “homey” are in the thick cream-colored throw draped over the end of the low-slung sectional, and the various vases dotted around the bookshelves that flank my granite fireplace.
I know how it hurts Pen to worry about losing her grandparents’ house. I understand it better than she realizes. There’s nothing of me here. My mother’s house is still my home. Not this place. I remember doing the dishes back in Massachusetts, and suddenly I miss Mom with a yawning emptiness in my belly.
Hefting my overnight bag onto my shoulder, I head toward my bedroom when I spot someone lying out by the pool. The bag plops on the floor, and I stride to the patio.
Trent Gellis, aka Jelly, my main tight end, doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach. Sprawled out on one of my loungers, he’s oiled up, wearing a damn banana hammock that’s way too small, oversize mirrored aviators, and nothing else. Coupled with his spiked bleached blond hair, I can’t tell if he’s going for an Iceman fromTop Gunlook or just trying to give me nightmares.
I step closer, and he deigns to lift his glasses to squint at me.
“You’re in my sun, Rook.” Jelly reaches for the glass of lemonade sitting on the side table next to him. Ice cubes clink as he sips through a pink flamingo curly straw—I’m going to guess he brought that with him.
“Is there a reason you’re lounging by my pool and not your own?” I ask conversationally. Jelly returned to LA with the rest of the team. After getting my ass chewed out by Coach, I was given two days “grace” to get my act together.
“You asked me to water your plants before you went to visit your ma.” He waves an idle hand in the direction of my house.
“I was being sarcastic. I don’t have any plants.”
“That’s why I’m sunning instead of watering.” Again his glasses come up. I’m treated to a dark-eyed squint worthy of old Clint Eastwood. “And sarcasm is unbecoming in a rookie.”
“Is this another hazing attempt?” I take a seat on the neighboring lounger. “Terrorize the rookie by sunbathing in a bikini bottom?”
“Nah. If I was terrorizing, I’d putyouin the suit.”
“You could try. But you’d be limping back home.”
“That’s the fighting spirit. Even if it is deluded.” He threads his hands behind his head and settles in. “I’m working on my tan.”
His face, arms, and calves are ruddy brown. The rest of him, where his uniform usually covers, is pale ivory. I don’t fault him for trying to even out; I’d just as rather not have to witness the process.
“Would have gone in the buff,” he adds, with a rolling drawl, “but I didn’t want to rub sunscreen on my junk. That’s my girl’s job, and she wouldn’t come over with me. Said I was invading your privacy.”
“Smart girl.”
“Isn’t she just? And it ain’t a bikini. It’s a...” He frowns before his expression clears. “Mankini.”
I grab his drink and take a gulp. “The leopard print is a nice touch, really.”
“Monica says leopard print is in now. She knows these things.”
“I guess we’ll take Monica’s word on that.”
With a grunt, Jelly sits up and swings his legs over the side of the seat. He’s a good six foot six and his long legs fold up toward his chest before he parts his thighs. I avert my eyes. Honestly, nightmares about this for months are in my future.
“Tell you the truth, son—” (he’s only four years older than me) “—I’m here to discuss your poultry party proclivities.”
“Nice alliteration.”
“You want to throw SAT words at each other all day or are you gonna explain why you danced on a table like an inebriated chicken?”
