“No problem,” I say.
I silently follow Trevor down the staircase, wishing someone would have warned me about these confusing feelings about my roommate.
Chapter 13
Trevor
If you searched my name on the internet, you’d find my player stats, news articles about my various contracts with the Waves, and details about the handful of awards I’ve received. What you wouldn’t see is how much of a coward I’ve been, hiding from Kenzie these last six days.
We’ve had home games, so normally I’d mill around in the common areas, hoping to run into Kenzie before I report to the ballpark in the early afternoon. Before I plastered her against the side of a lighthouse and almost kissed her, Kenzie used to work with her laptop on the couch in the living room or on the kitchen counter, Banks lounging nearby. This week, she’s barely come out of her room. To be fair, I’ve extended my morninggym sessions too. At this rate, I’m going to have an overuse injury before midseason.
I knew better than to push into Kenzie’s space like a Neanderthal, but I’d been so overwhelmed by the idea of losing her. Everything else seemed so futile at that moment—my career, her recent breakup, the errant chatter of the gossip sites.
Onlyshewas important.
Only Kenzie mattered.
All I’d wanted was to finally run my thumbs over her temples and down her cheeks until they stalled at the pulse point in her neck. I wanted to cradle her face and breathe in the captivating scent of her shampoo again. I wanted to taste the remnants of her hot chocolate on her tongue. I wanted to hear her sigh, feel her melt…because of me.
My eyes squeeze shut as I press a fist to my forehead.
“Get it together,” I mutter, turning on the TV in my home gym to block out my own thoughts.
I lie back on the chest press bench, starting reps.
“And what about the lukewarm performance by Chapman yesterday?” Alan McRae asks the other commentators.
“Oh, great. They’re talking about me,” I say, my tone dryer than a sunbaked outfield in July.
At least I don’t need to watch the footage of letting a ball get past me while a runner stole home, winning the game.
“Thirty-six moving like he’s ninety-six,” Jessy Riggins tuts. “Time to put Chapman out to pasture.”
“Kick rocks, Jessy,” I grunt while pushing the staggering weight away.
I decided to go extra heavy this morning for this exact reason. I had possibly the worst game of my career last night, and nothing beats abject failure like reminding yourself that your body is still strong and capable—even if it didn’t perform like it should have yesterday.
“It’s unfortunate, but everyone has those off games,” Rick Humphrey says. “Remember your error in game six of the World Series?”
“Ha!” The weights rattle as I set the bar back on its frame. “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”
The two commentators bicker about the past since Rick Humphrey had been on the winning team that year. It’s a topic that comes up with surprising frequency.
My phone buzzes beneath the bench, and I groan. My PR manager has been bugging me about endorsing a new mop that’s supposed torevolutionize cleaning, even though it looks like a regular old mop.
An exhausted sigh escapes me as I bend to pick up my phone. I should just be grateful anyone is asking. It’s not like athletic apparel, sports drinks, fitness trackers, and designer sunglass companies are jockeying for my endorsement like they used to.
Except, it’s not Skip—yes, my agent’s name is actually Skip. The text is from Kenzie.
Kenzie
Could you please help me? I’m at the neighborhood lake.
I hit call, but it rings to voicemail. Shoving a shirt over my bare chest, I grab my wallet and keys and sprint to the garage. After breaking all the neighborhood traffic laws, I find Kenzie on her knees beside the water. Spring feels like it’s receded back into winter, the mid-morning air stubbornly holding a chill. Kenzie’s walking clothes are half-drenched and covered in mud, her phone discarded on the grass beside her.
“What happened?”
I resist the urge to run my hands over her to ensure she’s okay. We all know how that turned out last time.
