I should go home and crash. I know this. But fucking Grentley commented on half the team being frat guys with no self-control, and the rebel in me cannot let him be right.
So, how do I demonstrate my professionalism and commitment to winning?
I drive straight to Gianna’s, order a bucket of meatballs, and pound a bucket of beers alongside the protein.
I’m not the only one. Spinner and Rookie have a similar supper. They also have jersey chasers draped over them. Gianna usually keeps the riffraff out so we can eat in peace, but I think those guys found some bunnies waiting for autographs after the game and brought them along.
With my remaining sliver of consciousness, I look around the room lit softly by Edison bulbs. The farmhouse-wood tables and benches are mostly empty at this hour. I’m alone in a corner with the dregs of my Michelob and teriyaki balls, and Rookie looks like he’s about to round third base with each hand at another table.
My thoughts drift to Ella, whether she found anything for dinner, whether Rookie will force her to pay penance if she raids the fridge, or give her grace because she’s his sister.
I laugh out loud at that, causing Gianna to pop her head out from the swinging door to the kitchen. “You alive over there, Howie?”
I nod, my head sloshing a bit. “Yeah. But I think I should head out.”
She extends her palm. “Give me your keys. I’ll get the dishwashers to take your wagon home again.”
I hand her my fob and a few hundreds for the pair of high school kids who, I realize, have made a decent side hustle from transporting my car for me each time I get wasted.
Gianna pats my hand, and I head outside, the frigid wind biting through my dress shirt. I probably spilled sauce on myself. I manage to hail a silver taxi and mumble my address before falling asleep in the back seat.
Between the lack of sleep, the loss, the heat of shame at my bad habits, and my concern for a woman I shouldn’t think about at all, I am a mess. When I get to the building, without my keys, I don’t even have to explain myself to the doorman. I shuffle behind him to the elevator and down the hall, sliding him more money when he unlocks the condo and bids me goodnight.
Shedding the pieces of my suit as I walk, I stumble into my bedroom, onto my bed, and pass the fuck out.
Chapter 4
Ella
There’s a hand on my boob.
I come slowly to wakefulness, feeling warm and squeezed all over. I realize there is a human hand on my boob.
There’s also the weight of an arm across my waist and a wall of heat pressed against my back, solid. Firm.
I notice the faint rhythm of someone breathing against the top of my spine.
I hold my breath, assessing.
The arm around me tightens, pulling me closer, and a low sound rumbles from behind me—half groan, half exhale—directly into the curve of my neck. My entire nervous system lights up like a trauma bay.
Bernard is in bed with me. I can smell beer and garlic, and underneath it, that same body wash from his bathroom, the one that hung in the damp air when I first walked in here yesterday. Bernard Houser is wrapped around me like I'm a body pillow, and his peen is unmistakably, aggressively hard against my backside.
I should elbow him in the ribs and launch myself out of this bed. I should do literally anything other than what I'm doing, which is lying perfectly still with my heart hammering while Bernard shifts in his sleep and presses closer, his fingers splaying across my stomach through my thin sleep shirt.
His hand is enormous. It covers the entirety of my breast and, oh my lord, he’s stroking my nipple. He makes that sound again—God, a low moan that vibrates through my bones. I feel something pull tight and hot between my hips.
Nobody has ever held me like this. Not because I'm unwantable. I've been told I'm pretty. I've been asked out. But every one of those would-be boyfriends was either trying to get close to my famous brother or scared off by him. Jason literally beat up the guy who asked me to prom, and then I went to the same university where he was even more famous.
So no. Nobody has held me like this. Like I'm something to pull closer.
I press my lips together and stare at the wall, trying to steady my breathing. My pulse is doing something medically inadvisable. Bernard mumbles, releases my boob, his thumb tracing a slow, tantalizing arc across my stomach, and I make a noise I will deny to my grave.
I need to get out of this bed. I need to wake him up. But my body is a traitor, and every time I try to shift away, his arm tightens, or he hums against my neck, or his hips press forward, and the cycle of absolute insanity repeats itself.
Fine. Enough.
I grab his wrist and lift his arm, scooting forward on the mattress. The movement does what my internal screaming could not—Bernard goes rigid behind me. There's a beat of silence so absolute I can hear the barges on the river outside.
