Leila leans in conspiratorially, elbows on the bar, voice dropping. "Fine. Luckily for you, I love gossip."
"You're my kind of people."
And she delivers. Oh boy, does she deliver.
She stays for another hour, nursing her terrible drink and giving me the complete rundown on every team member. Who's secretly dating who. Who has weird superstitions. Who can't cook to save their life.
She tells me about Washington's proposal, which involved a flash mob and went horribly wrong, but she said yes anyway. About Wall's secret poetry habit. About Becker's three failed attempts at getting a hamster.
By the time Washington swoops back in to collect his wife, I feel like I've known these guys for years instead of weeks.
Leila gives me a little wave as they leave, Washington's arm around her waist. "See you soon, hon."
"Already miss you!"
Once they're gone, I take a moment to look around the bar, taking stock.
Every table is full. People are standing in groups, laughing, drinking, petting the shelter dogs that Mama Paws brought by earlier. The donation jars are so full then had to be emptied twice already, and there's a third collection happening now.
The flyers Becker made are everywhere—people taking photos of them, posting on social media, asking questions about the charity game. I've given out at least twenty in the past hour.
Two college-aged kids are asking Mama Paws about volunteer opportunities.
This is working.
We're actually pulling this off.
CHAPTER 12
ACE
MY APARTMENT DOOR closes behind me with a click, and I lean back against it, groaning.
I don't remember ever being this tired. December's barely a week old, and I'm already dreaming of January. Or better yet, July. Maybe I will finally be rested by then, although even that is debatable.
Between games, practices, extra training sessions Coach has us doing because apparently we need to be "sharper" (we're third in our division, we're plenty fucking sharp), and bar shifts for the charity thing, I'm running on fumes.
My entire body aches. My legs are screaming. My shoulders feel like someone's been using them as a punching bag. There's this persistent twinge in my lower back that I'm pretending doesn't exist because if I acknowledge it, I'll have to tell the team doctor, and then I'll get benched, and I cannot afford to get benched right now.
I drop my gym bag by the door—it can stay there, I'll deal with it tomorrow—and head straight for the bathroom.
I'm already pulling my shirt over my head, not caring that it's still half-buttoned because buttons are for people with energy.
Pants next. Socks. Boxers. Everything in a pile on the floor that I'll also deal with tomorrow.
The hot water hits my back, and I actually groan out loud. Fuck, that's good. That's so good I could cry.
I brace my hands against the tile and let the water pound over my shoulders, trying to will the tension out of my muscles through sheer force of wanting it gone. And more importantly, trying to think about anything other than Devon.
It doesn't work.
Just don't think about him.
That's the goal. That's been the goal for days now. Just... don't think about him.
Except trying not thinking about someone is apparently the best way to guarantee you'll think about them constantly, because my brain is a piece of shit.
I'm thinking about him.
