Nope. Went to a bar for a celebration margarita, met a cute biker named Deadshot, and ran away to Vegas. We’re getting married in the morning. Can’t wait to introduce you.
He sends back a straight-faced emoji with one eyebrow raised.
JK. Home, safe and sound. GN.
You’re an idiot. Good thing I love you. GN.
I smile and set my phone on the couch beside me, picking up the remote instead. I’m always too hyped after a game to go straight to bed and will spend a couple of hours watching reruns of whatever stupid show is on so that my brain will finally settle enough to sleep.
Tonight, it’s not the television or my bed calling to me, though. It’s my phone.
I pick it up, telling myself this is a bad idea. Maybe the worst idea I’ve ever had.
Still, my fingers hover over a new text. One to Griffin.
“Don’t make it weird, Penny. Just say the same thing you said to Dom. Totally normal, brotherly congrats.”
Great game! Congrats on the win!
Send.
“See, it’s fine,” I tell myself. Except my fingers are still going.
Are you okay after that fight with Patterson?
Surprisingly, I don’t mean the one from the first period. Griffin and Patterson went after each other a couple more times during the game, and the last one, when the Vortex was getting desperate, resulted in Patterson going into the penalty box.
New phone. Who dis?
I swear to God, I’m going to kill this man the next time I see him. I knew I shouldn’t have texted. Dom’s right, I’m such an idiot. My phone dings again.
I’m fine, Penny. And thanks.
Okay, he was teasing me, just like always. Because everything’s fine between us. Nothing weird, nothing flirty, just normal. So why am I hugging my knees tighter, gripping my phone harder, and grinning at the screen?
Did you send Paul the tickets you promised?
Keeping things all business seems like a good idea.
Yeah. Left tickets for tonight and tomorrow at will call.
Okay, well, that’s that. Conversation over. Ding!
What are you doing?
I stare at the four little words that could mean so many different things. Is he asking if I’m available for something like an ice cream run or a booty call? Or maybe both? Is he asking why in the hell I’m texting him? Is he being literal, like wondering if I’m watching TV or lying in bed?
I have no idea how to answer that, so I tell him the truth.
I have no idea. Like if an idea is a lightbulb, mine’s completely dark. It probably has that weird rattly sound when it’s burned out too. I might be drunk. Or drugged. Or sleepy. Probably all three, so I’m gonna go now. Forget this happened.
Penny . . .
Those three dots are no more helpful in deciphering the male brain. And if I can’t dissect that simple thing, I have no chance at figuring out my own. I blame Layla.
I’m going to bed. GN.
A second later, I send one more text.
