He gives me a thoughtful, curious look. “You want to stay another year?”
And there it is.Isn’t that what I’ve been afraid of? Isn’t that part of why I haven’t entertained the thought out loud? But I’m halfway there, so I might as well. “No. I’m gonna go for the draft.” My face feels stony as I say it, like I’m bracing for a laugh.
His eyes go wide, he stops walking, and I cringe.
“Fuck. Yes.” Each word is punctuated and intense as he almost leaps up, smacking me on the back, and the air that leaves me morphs into a surprised laugh. “Fuckyes,Grant. Since when?”
He’s excited. And it’s genuine. And I wonder how many other people I’m selling short with the narrative I have going. “Really since the summer.”
He’s shaking his head, shit eating grin on his face. “I can’t believe it.”
Now I scoff. “Why not?”
“I think I remember you saying professional ball players areshort-sighted idiots.” He gives me a pointed glare, one brow shooting up.
I don’t remember saying that. I rememberhearingit from my dad, though. Many times, over and over again. I’m speechless, because what a shitty thing to say, especially to someone who’s planning to do the exact thing you’re minimizing.
“Shit. I’m sorry… I actually don’t.”
Ben’s face resumes its former amusement—no harm, no foul.
“You didn’t offend me. Sounded more like something you heard than something you believed.”
“Because it was.” My smile morphs into a grimace, feeling like a fool.
He just shrugs. “You were so damn good—are so good—but you were just committed to it being over in four years. I’m just glad you finally woke the fuck up.” He whacks my back again, and I have to roll a shoulder back to counteract the sting.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Huh?”
“Why didn’t you like… say all of that. Why’d you let me act like that?”
Now his face contorts, twists like I’ve offended him. “Uh… I knowyouhaven’t talked toyou, but no one ‘lets’ you do anything. You just do what you’re gonna do. There’s no convincing you when you think you’re right.”
Face stinging in tandem with my back, I swallow against the criticism. “Fair enough.”
“I’m ‘too in my head,’ and you’re never wrong. I can recommend you a therapist,” he says, knocking my arm with his elbow, a truce of sorts. His perspective still chafes,but the fact that he even offered it feels like a move in the right direction.
“I’ll let you know.” I glance up toward my apartment, catching what I think is a brown head of hair in my window. I check the lot—sure enough, her car is here. “Catch you later?”
“Scott’s having guys over for 2K tomorrow,” he says in a thinly veiled invitation.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time. But yeah, maybe stop by.”
He smiles, like he’s glad, and heads towards the other way.
When I open the door to my apartment, I’m assaulted by the smell of burnt cake. Gen stands next to my sister, a panicked look on both their faces, as they stare at the charred sheet cake cooling on the rack. Gen’s curls spring back as they pop their heads up, surprised to see me on the other side of the kitchen bar. Without looking away, Sloane takes the rack and slides the cake into the trash can.
“Wait!” Gen begs, but Sloane’s already trashed it.
“There was nothing we could do,” my sister says in earnest, like a doctor announcing terrible news: a skillfully straight face, not even cracking a smile. Gen on the other hand, doubles over, giddy and deliriously entertained. When they finally come down from whatever inside joke high they’re on, they sigh in unison.
“Okay well…” Sloane twirls around the counter, snatching her fringed bag up off the table. “I’ll be back. I have aninterview.” Her eyebrows bob up and down.
“What does that mean?” I ask, slightly worried. “Shouldn’t you change?”
“It’s verycasual.” She shrugs, and I’m so fucking confused.
