“I’ll explain when we get toyourroom.” He brushed passed me, going straight for the elevator. “Come on.”
I followed him, pillow in my hands and preparing for whatever bomb he was going to drop. But, I knew him well enough to know he was stirring. When he was ready to say it, only then would he say it. It didn’t help the situation when we were squished into the elevator, both of us in the back corner. Our arms touched, all fifteen of us pressed together. I swore Brock’s arm tightened, pulling back from me, but there was nowhere to go. Whatever. He was too much head drama.
Up we went. We were on the seventh floor when he marched out, dropping his bags in front of the first door to the right. He turned to me, nose pinched, exhaling way too deeply from an elevator ride.
I’d had enough. “Brock, you’re being really weird. What is going on?”
“Coach misread your name as Grant,” he said, only then opening his eyes to look at me. I waited to hear more, because surely that wasn’t enough to get his panties in a knot. I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow. He exhaled, staring at the door before looking back at me. “The hotel is sold out of rooms.”
“Yeah, it looked packed downstairs.” I rolled my eyes, shaking my head in frustration. “What is the damn problem? Spit it out.”
His eyes widened at my tone, but damn him. He was more dramatic than the old biddies who came into the restaurant and argued over the fifty cent ranch cost. “Well?”
“We’re stuck rooming together.” He said as though informing me someone had died.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
I opened my mouth to respond, but I had nothing. Instead, I found some badass attitude deep inside me and chose to ignore how upset he was about it. Hands on my hips, I laughed. “You’re all bent out of shape because of that? This isn’t the 1800s, Brock.”
His jaw tightened, and his cheek twitched.
I mirrored his stance, making a face at him with wide eyes and an exaggerated chin movement. I repeated it, waiting for him to crack. It went on for a solid minute before he broke down, opening the door. He held it, forcing me to go in first.
“You know,Anderson, I never took you for being so pure at heart.” I threw my bag on the bed closer to the window and turned to see him, but he was gone.
“Great. This trip is really great,” I said to no one, falling onto the bed.
Chapter Eleven
Life hadn’t preparedme for many moments. One, being orphaned at 18. Two, an injury to my knee that would never heal. Three, having no room key and no idea what to do. After three hours of hanging out in the room alone, my stomach was past the point of being uncomfortable.
I was downright hangry. And, that was not a pretty look for anybody. The first signs were normal. A grumble here, a grumble there. Then, little things pissed me off. Shit, they didn’t fold the toilet paper into triangles? Rude. No TV guide? Barbaric. No guide to the city with the best food and sights? What kind of third world country was this? We were based in central Illinois, and Ohio shouldn’t be that much different.
After washing my face, changing my shirt to an old football jersey, and putting on comfy jean shorts, I left the room with my backpack to find food. The hotel had a bar and restaurant that sounded perfect because I didn’t have to leave the hotel. I ordered a tall beer because one, I could, and two, fuckBrock Anderson. My blood boiled over how he had treated me. Why did he throw a bitch fit? I had no idea. I wasn’t awful. But, a grown ass man not responding to a text or giving me any information about what to do? Rude. As. Hell.
“You look a little young to be here by yourself.” The smooth faced bartender winked at me, sliding a shot my way after I finished my beer. “This is on the house. You’re wearing a Packers jersey, and I respect that about you.”
I eyed the shot, smelling it and realizing it was straight brandy. “Thanks, I needed this.”
I threw it back and welcomed the burn. I shook my head, cringing at the awful taste that reminded me of regret. Gilly had stories for days about drinking and regret. I had maybe two stories that wereehat best. But regardless, the bitter memories came with the familiar taste.
“You wantin’ something to eat? We have some specials.” He slid a menu toward me. “It's happy hour.”
“Hmm.” I hummed, looking at all the options. I wanted chips, salsa, pretzels, bread, steak. I wanted it all. I also knew the more complicated the meal, the longer it would take. I kept it simple. “Pretzel sticks, boneless wings, and a salad.”
“Sure thing.” He smiled again, jutting his chin out at me. If I wasn't entirely giving up on men, I would've enjoyed a nice flirtation. But I was hungry, annoyed at Brock, and not willing to make the effort.
I must've been giving off the signals, the ones that said leave me the hell alone because he didn't try flirting again. I welcomed the silence, devouring the pretzels and wings within fifteen minutes. It was a public service, really, for me to eat. Everyone was much happier when I was good and fed.
The next problem stemmed from finding a room to crash in because Brock, the gentleman he was, hadn't given me my copy of the room key or responded to my texts. I was roomless, andsonot a Grant. The front desk attendant didn’t think I was being honest. Apparently, fans always tried to get into the players hotel rooms. Who accidentally thought Grace was Grant? The head coach, that’s who.Maybe I should introduce myself.
Bottom line: I was screwed. I took a deep breath, realizing the situation wasn't as bad as it could've been. I could've been outside in the rain and cold. So, I found my big girl panties and put them on nice and tight. I had to go find Brock, get a room key, and teach him a lesson on manners. Where would he go? The bar?
No, he wasn't there. He had to be with some of the coaches or players, and the thought of causing a scene made me want to throw up. I hated confrontation, and Brock was a hunky form of pure confrontation.
