I sit bolt upright and push the heels of my palms into my eyes, hoping to rub out the sleep and temporary insanity. I grab my phone again and realize I have a text alert from Tate. I open it and find a slightly blurry selfie of him with Dylan strapped to his chest. Dylan looks… confused and apprehensive. Tate is grinning proudly. The photo tugs at my heartstrings.
The text that follows does too, even though it’s simple.
Took my son out for a walk so you could rest.
The next text he sent a couple minutes later has me blushing.
I’m picking up dinner too so just relax. You’ll need your energy later. For round two.
Round two? We can’t!Ican’t. But I know, without a shadow of a doubt that not onlycanI fool around with Tate again, I will. Because I am completely crushing on him and he somehow handles my body better than he handles a puck, which is nuts.
I get up off the couch and smooth out my wrinkled sundress and then I decide that since Tate is handling dinner, I will handle dessert. It’s also an excuse to do something other than obsess about what we did. I bought some berries and peaches at the local farmer’s market a couple days ago and they need to get eaten. I dig around the pantry and see what supplies I can add to this to make it a tasty dessert but also not mess too much with Tate’s strict diet.
I make fruit parfaits with protein granola and Greek yogurt. I’m humming to myself in the kitchen, trying hard to concentrate on what I’m doing and not let my mind wander to what I’ve done. Tate. I had his cock in my mouth. Oh my God… And he went down on me and made me come harder than I have in my life. Oh, my double God.
I let out a little scream. Tiny but shrill because how is this my life? I am screwed. And yet, I'm happy? Yeah, that's happiness bouncing around inside me like a balloon in a windstorm. Oh my foolish heart, I hope I'm wrong and I don't regret this one day.
I hear the metal storm door open as I’m putting the homemade parfaits in the fridge and call out. “How was the walk? Did Dyllie Bear behave? He looked a little?—”
I close the fridge, my head turns to the entry hall, and I lose my ability to speak. The man standing there isn’t Tate, and for a split second I don’t know who it is and fear floods me. “Hey! Sorry! I’m not Tate or… Dyllie Bear? Did Tate get a dog?”
As soon as he speaks and shoots me a smile my brain finally kicks in and I realize it’s one of Tate’s teammates. A Westwood brother, if memory serves me correctly. The tattooed one, I note as I take in the intricate ink sleeves on both of his exposed arms. I met both brothers briefly on the trip with Diana. They came out after the Quake home game we attended for wings and beers at a bar on the beach. I wipe my hands on a nearby dishtowel and nod. “Hi. Umm… Tate isn’t home at the moment. How did you get in?”
He pulls a key from the front pocket of his pants. “I have his key in case of emergency and he has mine.”
“Oh. Okay.” It seems everyone and their brother has a key to Tate’s house. Good to know. I walk out of the kitchen and through the living room to the entry. The Westwood brother just stands there, clearly not in the mood to leave, so I repeat myself. “Tate’s out. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Okay I can wait,” he says like that’s an option. “You’re… shit. I forget your name but we’ve met before, right? You’re from his hometown.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Mallory.”
“Right! Mallory Echolls. Your dad is Chance Echolls,” he says. “My dad played at the same time as yours.”
“Yup,” I reply and I know I sound curt and unfriendly so I add a small smile. “I can tell Tate you stopped by. No need to waste your time. Or is there an actual emergency?”
“Oh… no. Not really an emergency.” He gets it. I don’t want him here. I hate that I seem so unfriendly but I don’t want to see the panic on Tate’s face when he walks in with Dylan and his teammate is standing there. And I do not want to hear what new lie comes out of his mouth to cover everything up yet again. “He’s been avoiding time with the guys and I was coming over here to find out why, but I think I know now.”
Our eyes lock and he smiles again, deeply, knowingly. I look away. “Sorry, are you Nate or Crash?”
He laughs. “I’mCrew. My brother isNash.”
“Oops. Sorry. I promise I’m not usually this big of an ass.” I laugh now too because this whole thing is just… well, hysterically uncomfortable. “I’ll tell him you came by, Crew.”
And then, through the screen of the storm door behind Crew, I hear a cry I know like it's my own. Tate appears on the other side with a wailing Dylan still strapped to his chest. Crew spins around and I watch his whole body tense up at the shock of seeing his commitment-phobic teammate with a baby strapped to his chest.
Tate's eyes get wide with panic. Crew lets out a "Holy shit." And I push past him to unclip Dylan and lift him out of the Baby Bjorn.
“I don’t think he had another catastrophic crap,” Tate says to me as I plop Dylan onto my hip. “I forgot to bring water or snacks so maybe he’s hungry or something.”
“Maybe,” I say and rush him toward the kitchen.
“Or maybe he just hates me,” Tate adds as he follows me, and Crew follows him.
"He doesn't hate you," I promise even though Dylan stopped crying as soon as I held him. I place him on his chair at the dining room table and grab a package of rice puffs. "Can you fill a bottle with milk please?"
Tate walks by me and to the fridge, plucking a bottle off the drying rack by the sink. Crew is watching us in confusion. We get Dylan settled with snacks and juice and Tate finally looks at his teammate.
“So ummm… how’s life, Tate?” Crew asks. “I feel like you got news you might want to share.”
