“Good for the team.”
I let that hang there and watch as he swallows hard. Then motion toward the lobby door. “You have a good morning, Anderson.”
He nods stiffly, mutters something under his breath, and heads the opposite way.
Watching him go for a moment, I end up shaking my head and muttering.“Pendejo.”
I shift the bag in my hands and push through the lobby doors, already thinking of Caleb, how he’ll look when he wakes up, messy-haired and sleepy, and the way his voice will rasp when he says my name.
I can already picture the smile he’s going to give me.
Back upstairs the smell of coffee drifts from the lobby all the way into the hallway. The bag’s still warm in my hands, sugar and cinnamon clinging to the air.
I balance the cups of horchata as I fish for the keycard, trying not to spill anything. The door clicks open, and the first thing I see is Caleb, sitting up against the headboard, hair sticking up in every direction, one eye barely open.
He blinks at me, voice rough with sleep. “You left me.”
“Just for a bit,hermoso.” I grin, stepping inside. “You didn’t even notice. You were dead to the world.”
“I did too notice,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face. “You were warm.”
I set the drinks and bag on the table. “Got you pan dulce and horchata. Best I could find this side of Santa Cruz.”
That wakes him up faster than anything. He perks up, eyes lighting with that sleepy, boyish excitement. “No way. You found conchas?”
“Dude, we’re in San Diego. Of course I found them. Two, actually,” I say, holding up the paper bag like a prize. “Pink and chocolate.”
He laughs, soft and low. I sit beside him and hand him the cup. He takes a long drink, licking cinnamon from his lip before looking up at me.
“You spoil me.”
“What can I say? I like seeing you happy.”
The hardness fades from him, replaced by a warmth so subtle it aches. He takes a bite of the pink concha, crumbs scattering down the sheet, and hums in approval. “God, that’s good.”
I stretch back against the headboard, sipping my own drink. “You earned it. You killed it last night.”
He snorts. “Pretty sure I just got lucky with that last shot.”
“Mierda. You’ve been putting in the work, Caleb. That wasn’t luck.”
He chews, eyes on me like he wants to argue, then lets it go. His leg brushes mine under the sheets. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Enough.” I watch him, how the sunlight catches on his skin, and the slight marks along his neck that turn my mouth dry. “Had to get up before I got ideas.”
He smirks. “You always have ideas.”
“You’re not wrong,” I admit, sliding a piece of chocolate pan dulce his way. “But I figured breakfast before round two was the gentlemanly thing to do.”
Caleb leans over, lips brushing the corner of my mouth in a lazy kiss. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love me still.”
He hums, resting his forehead against mine. “Yeah,” he whispers, looking out the window. “I really do.”
The sun’sbarely up and the sky’s overcast when we step outside, the parking lot slick from the sprinklers running. The bus engine rumbles low, a steady hum beneath the chatter of players loading up gear and snacks. Caleb’s duffel hangs from his shoulder, hoodie strings pulled tight, his hair still damp from our uneventful morning shower.
I can tell he doesn’t want to go. The look’s written all over his face—soft, reluctant, and a little pouty around the edges.
