My chest tightens. I keep my voice level. “Oh. She checked you at the door, huh?”
“Nah, she told me not to come over yesterday. You know how she is. Tough as nails, that chick—mychick. My girl.”
Did he just correct himself? Have to remind himself that they’re dating?
“But you’re … going over there today, right? Grabbing her soup? Meds?”
He tightens his hand on his duffel, and his expression hardens. “No. Like I said, she hates being waited on. She already put in a grocery order.”
“But you’re her boyfriend.”
“Yeah, which means you don’t know her like I do.”
I tense my jaw hard enough to pop a muscle. “Nope. You’re right, I don’t.”
“She’s fine, man. She’s just sick.”
Just sick.
He adjusts his duffel higher. “You seem pretty invested.”
I force a half smile. “Yeah, I am. She’s my player coordinator. We’ve got PR Boot Camp this week.”
He snorts, like he finally gets it.
“She’s good at that,” he says. “Listen to everything she says, even when you don’t want to, and you’ll be fine. I wish I’d learned that lesson twenty years ago. Maybe I wouldn’t be in this spot.”
What spot? I want to ask. The spot where he’s practically a walking pariah in the league because he’s only out for himself?
Jake puts his earbuds back in, and he’s about to walk off when he stops. “Listen, Scot would hate thinking she missed a chance to fit work into her schedule. Her door code’s 0484. Just wear a mask if you risk it.”
“I’ll risk it,” I say.
“Suit yourself. Later, man.”
I look at Jake’s retreating form, and anger builds up in my chest until I’m panting harder than I did in the weight room, my hands clenched.
She’shisgirlfriend and he hardly even cares.
Yeah, well, she’s my friend and I do.
I storm over to my truck, toss my bag into the bed, and drive to the nearest pharmacy, where I buy every flu medicine available.
***
I call Scottie when I reach her place.
She doesn’t answer.
I try the door.
Locked.
I punch in the code. 0484.
The lock clicks open with a soft, decisive sound that feels louder than it should, like the house itself is registering that someone new is stepping into a space that doesn’t belong to him.
The air hits me first—dim and stale and metallic in a way that trips something old in my body. Not panic exactly. More like a reflex.
