Miller: sorry, that’s my bad. please don’t use it as a play for sole custody, i need him when i’m on the road
It’s the kind of joke she’d like. The type of thing that would have her teeth dragging across her bottom lip as she thinks about it, blinking blue eyes until her head tips back in laughter.
Pretty nice sound, actually.
Especially the snort.
She hates it—but I don’t.
Every time she does it, it feels like those pieces of her she says are around her feet are coming back to life.
I wait, thumb brushing along the ridge of my mouth as the dots disappear and reappear while she types.
Ren:hmm. might take you to court anyway. i hear professional athletes make good money. victor and i have needs, you know.
Glancing sideways at the nightstand where the trophy sits beside my abandoned hat, ready and waiting for me to take it—or him, I guess—down to the stadium when it’s time for warmups, I can’t imagine what kind of needs a piece of plastic would have.
But I can imagine pretty clearly what kind of needs Ren might have.
The kind of needs I think I’d be pretty fucking interested in meeting.
It snuck up on me.
Not the fact that she was beautiful—noticed that right away, pretty hard to ignore sunshine in human form—but how that made me feel.
She moved in first—took up all the empty space in my chest and hung up pictures and portraits. She even carved out a nice little spot where it was safe for Matty’s absence to exist and live forever when she made it feel okay to talk about him for the first time since he died.
But she took up all this real estate and became the most important friend I have, and then when she was sitting there by the beach the other night?
Couldn’t really think of doing anything but getting my hands on her and showing her what I see when I look at her. Who she really is. What she’s worth.
A lot.
At least, to me.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to shake the thought out of my head.
Miller: yeah? what are those?
Ren: victor is a carnivore, miller. do you know how much meat costs?
Ren: and let’s not even get started on nail care. those talons need regular trims.
It’s shit like that—how quick she is. How fucking funny she is, that makes it worse.
I drag a thumb across my mouth and answer before I can stop myself.
Miller: what about your needs? anything i can help with?
The dots don’t even show up this time. I groan, knocking my head against the headboard, muttering under my breath, “Idiot.”
I’m spared from the hours I’d surely spend staring at my phone, willing an answer from a woman who’s way smarter and way too good for me—one who’s probably wondering why some dumb professional athlete five years younger than her who couldn’t do math so he made a living throwing and catchinga ball is trying to flirt with her—when someone knocks on my door.
I debate chucking my phone against the wall and blaming the whole thing on a tech mishap but then I’d never know if she decides to respond, so I shove it in the pocket of my gym shorts instead when I get up to answer the door.
Joel waits for me on the other side, wearing an outfit almost identical to mine. A white, sweat-wicking TMLB shirt stretching across his chest. The same black athletic shorts with the team logo stitched across the hem. But he’s got a brace around his throwing wrist, and I’ve got a phone in my pocket with a stupid text message to a beautiful woman that’s probably going to go unanswered, so I guess we don’t look that similar.
He tips his chin, a smile lighting his face. “Hey, I was just going to run out and grab a coffee before heading over to the stadium. You want?”
