Beckett exhales a sigh of relief. “Internet trolls. I’m sorry, Finley. Though I’m happy it’s not like you’re dying or they fired you or something.”
I let out a snotty chuckle. “Why would they be firing me in this fake scenario of yours?”
“I take it back.” He dodges as I try to punch his arm. “You had a hair in your eye. It was nothing!”
“Rude, Beckett. Really fucking rude.” But he has me smiling again, which, judging by the pleased look on his face, is what he was going for.
“Come on.” He pulls out a seat at the table before dropping into it. “Let’s eat before this chicken and asparagus gets cold. There is literally nothing worse than cold asparagus.”
We eat in silence for a few moments before Beckett asks around a mouthful of chicken breast, “What comment got to you?”
I shrug. I don’t need to get into this. I shouldn’t have been looking. I learned long ago that reading comments, hell, going on social media, is a recipe for disaster. I just… wanted to see the videos of us.
“I almost got in a fistfight with an eighty-five-year-old grandmother once—not that I knew that about her at the time,” Beckett offers.
“What?” I ask, my attention still on my food.
“It was my first year in the league, and she called me a limp dick on every video of me the team posted. Supposedly, I was hitting too soft for her liking.”
A laugh escapes me. “How did you find out who it was?”
“She showed up at a game. Had a sign telling the coach to ‘bench the limp dick.’”
I sputter; the drink I was taking shooting up my nose instead of following its normal path. “No.”
“Yes,” he admits solemnly.
“What happened?”
“Honestly, nothing. I noticed it, and it threw me off my game a bit, but then I realized I’d been all bent out of sorts about what a stranger thought.”
Our pinkies touch on the table, and a jolt of electricity passes through them. A reaction I’m beginning to realize happens anytime we come in contact.
I smile. “I need you to know I will, without a doubt, bench you if she shows up with one of those signs to one of our games.”
He looks at me, his eyes wide. “Don’t let Mildred know she has that kind of power over you. She’ll fly to every one of our games.”
I snicker, the earlier hurt and anxiety from the comments melting away after a few minutes with Beckett. “Oh my God, you know her name,” I say on a gasp.
I didn’t realize how much I needed a friend in my life.
Beckett watches me laugh while finishing up the food on his plate. Finally, when I’m back under control, he grabs my plate and takes it to the sink. He quickly rinses both and puts them in the dishwasher. We’re normally at his place, but he stops by mine every now and then.
“Are we watching the Thunderbirds for tomorrow, or rehashing the Riveters game last night?” Beckett asks as he sits on my couch.
“Prepping for tomorrow. I think we spent enough time with the team rehashing how we managed to drop the game to Detroit.” I pull up the Thunderbirds’ highlight reel, courtesy of Dr. Pearce.
Beckett scoffs, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “Sure. Like you’re not going to watch it again once I leave.”
I lean back, shifting until the cushions are in the right place. He’s not wrong—and I both hate and love how well he knows me. How willing he is to simply accept me.
I also hate that, after the day I had, all I want is to cuddle into him and let him hold me. I can almost feel the heat of his body seeping into mine. The slow caress of his fingertips as he absentmindedly strokes up and down my arm. A gentle foreheadkiss that magically absorbs all my stress and puts an immediate stop to my overthinking.
And if he happened to miss my forehead and kissed my lips instead… I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Those thoughts are not allowed.
“Ready to tell me what comment got under your skin today?” Beckett asks, his gaze still locked on the television. I know it’s how he gives people space, and I appreciate that it takes off the pressure of having to look him in the eye as I admit what I was doing.
“I wanted to see some of the videos the team has been posting from the Challenge, so I was on socials.”
