Page 82 of The Devil of Downtown

“Okay, relax, Steph Curry,” he teases.

“You’re just mad I’m winning.”

“You’re not winning.”

“I’m absolutely winning.”

“You travel every time you touch the ball!”

I gasp. “I would never disrespect the sport like that.”

He doubles over laughing. And for a second—one small, suspended second—it feels like the version of us that used to work.

Then he digs into his pocket and pulls out half a joint, lighting it with cupped hands.

My stomach sinks. “Brody?” I say.

He takes a drag, tries a smile. “Relax. It’s just a joint.”

“You’ve been clean.”

“Iamclean. Mostly.” He exhales, gaze drifting. “Just... been a lot on my mind.” Then—so smoothly it almost doesn’t register—he pivots. “How’d your date go with Finance Bro?”

Oh, and there it is. A quiet re-routing of responsibility. The familiar sting of guilt crawling up my spine, the one he always knew how to press. The same guilt I felt during my parents’ divorce as if it were my fault.

“It wasn’t a date,” I mutter. “And what you do isn’t on me.”

His jaw ticks for a fraction of a second before he masks it. “Didn’t say it was.”

He did.

Without saying it.

Before the words can settle between us, he suddenly snatches the ball from my hands, spinning it once on his finger.

“Alright,” he says, voice brightening just a shade too quickly. “Next point wins.”

It’s typical Brody. Tip the floor under your feet enough to make you stumble—then grin like everything’s perfectly fine again. A reset disguised as a joke. A distraction wrapped in fun.

I force a laugh, even though my chest is still tight. “You’re on.”

We keep shooting until the last of the daylight fades, and by the time he walks me out of the park, the tension has settled into something gentler.

“So I guess I’ll see you Saturday then. Come ready to party,” Brody says, leaning in for an awkward hug.

“I’m always ready to party,” I say, stiffening when the hug lingers a bit too long. Eventually, he lets me go, swinging a leg over his bike before revving the engine.

I watch him roar away and head back to the apartment when he turns the corner. When I swing through the front door, I’m just in time for my favorite part of the day: Elsie is in pajamas, sitting cross-legged on her bed with a picture book in her lap.

“You’re late,” she huffs, handing it to me.

“I’m fashionably late.” I settle beside her. “Which is different.”

I open the book, and she snuggles in next to me, clutching her pink blanket. We read about a prince on a quest to find his missing smile, and she listens intently as her head grows heavier against my shoulder, her eyelids starting to droop.

“Is Brody your boyfriend?” she mumbles halfway through the book.

“Not anymore,” I whisper.