An hour after leaving the arena, I unlock my front door. Grace isn’t waiting on the other side. She’s probably withholding affection as punishment for being abandoned all day.
I find her stretched out on one side of the L-shaped couch, belly exposed. I give her a quick scratch. “Rough life.”
I drop onto the opposite end, scrolling through the group chat. Logan and Fox are posting photos of Helm trying to pick up the waitress. I swipe out without responding and stare at the home screen.
Summer hasn’t texted me since this morning. Just a simpleGood lucktodaywith a four-leaf clover emoji, the same one she’s sent me the last nine games.
Nine games. Nine wins.
As much as I tell myself not to be a superstitious cliché… I can’t help thinking it contributes to our wins.
Not the texts.Her.
I open one of the social media apps I rarely use. My page is mostly photos that the team’s content manager tagged me in. I type Summer’s name into the search bar.
Call it curiosity. Call it a bad idea. Call it whatever you want—I’m doing it anyway.
Her profile loads. It’s a public account, and she’s got almost three hundred thousand followers. I add one more, tapping the little blue button.
In the first video, she’s sitting with her guitar in her lap, singing a cover. It’s intimate, like she’s playing just for me… and the nearly seventy thousand people who’velikedit.
Seventy thousand people see what I see. Boone should see it too, instead of making her doubt herself. For the past three weeks, Summer’s been coming home from the studio quieter, flatter, a little more down every time. Christ, I’d love five minutes alone with this jackass.
I scrub a hand over my jaw and focus back on her voice.
One video turns into five, then ten.
The recent ones look like they were filmed in her room here, the sloped ceiling behind her, and the lamp throwing warm light across the wall. My favorite is her sitting on my guest bed, singing a rendition ofJolene.
Fuck, she’s talented.
And beautiful. And funny. And caring. The way she looks at me sometimes, like I’mmore?—
The wanting hits me so suddenly I have to put the phone down.
Grace curls up at my side and purrs, finally granting me some attention. But it’s short lived. Her ears prick when the front dooropens, and apparently, Summer isn’t on her shit list because she trots toward the sound without hesitation.
“Hey, Gracie girl,” Summer says, somewhere behind me. “At least you’re happy to see me.”
Something in her voice makes me turn. “Summer?” But she doesn’t hear me over the clatter of her guitar and bag hitting the floor.
“You know what Boone said today?” Her voice is watery, talking to the cat like she’s her best friend.
“He said I’m thinking instead of feeling. Like that helps. ‘Just stop overthinkin’, Summer.’ Oh, wow, thanks, I’m magically cured.”
A cabinet opens. Closes. Something clanks against the counter.
“And then Kendra called, asking for an update, and I lied.” Her voice climbs higher, tighter. “It’s not great, Gracie. It’s a disaster.I’ma disaster.”
I’ve never heard her sound so small. Summer’s all grit and sunshine, the kind of woman who lights up a room without trying. She sees the best in everyone, even those who don’t deserve it.
She’ll hate that I’m hearing this, but I’m halfway across the room before I can second-guess myself.
Summer’s at the island with her back to me, and her shoulders are shaking. Grace sits on the counter in front of her, tail swishing.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” She’s crying, trying to muffle the sound and failing. “I thought I could do this. I really did. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m?—”
Fuck. I hate seeing her cry.
