"That's what I'm counting on, blondie," he said against my lips. "The world needs to know that Sin's taken."
Soren
All-Star Break
As it turned out, I was a fucking awesome boyfriend. Growing up in a house full of women had definitely helped prepare me—I was no stranger to late-night milkshakes and tampon runs—but Clarke made the rest of it so fun, so easy.
There wasn't anybody I would rather hold hands with in public—because yes, I was a hand holder—and fuck sideways in private. We were several months into our relationship and still going at it like rabbits.
"Do you really need three bedrooms?" Clarke asked.
"Might be nice if family comes to visit," I told her. "Or if some of the guys want to crash after the game."
"Do y'all have a lot of sleepovers?"
"Jealous?"
She rolled her eyes. I arched a brow in return, the one that said,You're asking for a punishment, blondie.It was hard—veryhard—not to envision her bent over every surface of this house, her luscious ass stained pink from my hand.
We were on our third house tour of the day. I had long since overstayed my welcome at Bed of Roses, and despite the convenience of having Clarke living one trailer over, it was time I found a more permanent situation. While most of the guys chose to live in Portland—for ease, nightlife, and ample late-night takeout options—I had grown fond of Rose City. And a certain blonde who lived there. Living so close to the stadium also made my commute to work practically nonexistent.
A developer had already drawn up plans for a condo building just outside of town—one that would most likely house some of the team as well as visiting opponents—but I was dead set on a house. I'd grown up in a townhouse, I'd lived in apartments, and I'd spent the better part of a decade sharing hotel rooms with one or two other guys. I wanted a standalone house. One where I didn't have to share a wall with anybody I didn't handpick myself so I could fuck the woman I loved into the wee hours of the morning without having to worry about who heard her scream.
And boy, did she scream.
Thankfully, I was finally in a position—financially and emotionally—to put down roots. To create a home.
"I really like the fireplace," she said, running her hands over the rustic stones. "That would be perfect for rainy days."
"So, everyday then?"
"You could put a big, old chair right here in the corner and read by the fire. Oh, it sounds so cozy!"
I wasn't much of a reader, but I trusted Clarke's judgment implicitly. She hardly ever missed. For instance, she hadn't been exaggerating when she said that the internet would go nuts over our gameday kiss.
For the second time this year, I'd gone viral.
The kiss cam clip had been viewed, posted, shared, and whatever else you could do to a video on social media over ten million times. Fans and media alike had eaten it up and fallen inlove withCloren,the stupid fucking nickname something calledThe Roast Raghad given us.Benniferhad nothing onCloren,according to them, whatever that meant.
Coach Ward seemed to be the only person that wasn't completely taken with my public stunt during our Mother's Day game, but that had more to do with the team and me going behind his back than anything else. Something told me there was a love-obsessed softie under that gruff, intimidating exterior.
Thankfully, after a lecture (or four) plus a small fine for altering my uniform without permission, the whole thing had blown over. With coach, that was. The news outlets and social media werestillhaving a field day with it. Clarke and I had even had late night talk show requests, all of which we declined.
Nonetheless, the Roasters' PR department assigned a media consultant. Some couples went to counseling, Clarke and I went to media training.
Together we decided that the world could speculate about our relationship all they wanted. They could judge us or berate us—as keyboard warriors often did—because at the end of the day, we were the only two people in the world who knew what was real. We might not be able to stop the paparazzi from taking pictures of us or digging up some of Clarke's family business, but we didn't have to dignify any of it with a response.
Our relationship was ours. Nobody else's.
I smiled, watching as she rubbed her hands together as if she were conspiring, even though we both knew that wasn't the case. I leaned back against the kitchen island, which was bigger than the entire trailer I'd been living in for nearly half of a year now. The single-story, 1950s ranch had had significant updates—a renovated kitchen, dark-stained bamboo floors, and a new roof as of last year—but the previous owners had done a fantastic job of preserving the integrity of the home.
"Can you see it?" she probed.
I could see it. I could see myself here. On the couch, watching a game or playing Jackbox games with the guys. In the backyard, hosting a barbecue. I could see a Christmas tree in the front window, surrounded by my sisters and their families.
What surprised me most, but didn't scare me in the least, was that I could see Clarke here, too. Cuddled up to my side, prepping the potato salad, ripping into a stocking with her name on it. She was there.
"Yeah," I told her. "I can."
