StatMan12
When I get back to town, I want to hear every detail of what you did tonight. Every touch. Every sound you made. Don't leave anything out.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Yoga4Lyfe
Promise. When do you get back?
StatMan12
Soon. A few days.
Yoga4Lyfe
I'll be waiting.
I set the phone down for real this time and stare at the ceiling. The textured white surface blurs in and out of focus. Our loss replays in my head on a loop. The reporters' cuttingquestions. My teammates' expressions when I snapped about Scout at dinner.
Being so very fucked is an understatement. But every single chance to pull back gets met with me rushing toward her instead. Fucking stupid. This will end in nothing but misery.
Down the hall, deep male voices echo. Thorne and Jett, probably. Heading to their rooms, or maybe going out despite the loss. Living their lives without this crushing weight of deception pressing down on them.
Instead of continuing my self-flagellation, I reach for my phone and pull up her actual text thread. The one where we're just roommates. Here, I'm just Silas and she's just Scout. Nothing's complicated by anonymous confessions and filthy promises.
The photo she sent before the game is still there. Her on my couch in my condo, looking comfortable and beautiful and completely at home in my space.
I save it to my phone before I can stop myself, making it my wallpaper. Something nice to look at whenever I need a boost. Of course, I hate myself for doing it.
Did I mention that I'm fucked?
Soon I'm falling asleep thinking about going home to her.
I wake up at five a.m. feeling worse than when I went to bed. My phone shows three new texts from Scout. Good morning messages and questions about when my flight lands and whether I want her to pick up groceries.
She’s taking care of me even when I don't deserve it. My whole body's slow-moving as I get out of bed, knowing all the while I'm actively deceiving her.
I text back that I'll be home by late afternoon and add that she doesn't need to get groceries but thank you for offering.Then I make my situation worse by texting that I'll see her soon.
What I don't tell her is that I can't wait. Coming home to her is the only good thing about this trip. If I start spouting off about my so-called feelings to Scout, it might reveal how deep this goes.
And no way can that ever happen. She'd shut me down immediately, that's for sure.
I just pack my bag and head down to the lobby to meet the team bus. Hunter gives me a look when I climb on. Jett smirks. Thorne says something I don't catch.
I ignore all of them and take a window seat in the back, pulling up my hood and closing my eyes.
A few hours from now, I'll walk through my door and Scout will be there. Probably cooking something. Maybe wearing those sleep shorts and a tank top. She'll probably smile at me like I'm not the worst kind of person.
And I'll smile back. I'll eat what she made. Groan while I let her touch my shoulder and work out the knots.
Being touched with care hasn't happened in so long. Every time Scout puts her hands on me for PT, every professional press of her fingers into tight muscle, I have to fight not to grab her wrist and hold her there. It’s hard not to pull her closer and beg for more.
Her touch is clinical, therapeutic, but my body doesn't know the difference. It just knows it's been starving for years and she's offering crumbs. I want to devour every second of contact, hoard it like a dragon sitting on a pile of gold. The worst part is knowing she's just doing her job while I'm cataloging every brush of her fingers, every accidental touch, storing them away to replay later when I'm alone.
I want to fuck her. Buy her things. Take her places.
What is this weird feeling in my chest? It's a malformed monster, lurching forward with the possessive need to claim.
