“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do?”
Fourteen months on Bumble. Eleven dates. Women who knew exactly who they were sitting across from before they ordered. I paid every check. That was never the problem.
The problem was none of it felt like a hallway and thirty seconds and both of us making the same call and neither of us happy about it. None of it felt like having to stop myself from reaching for someone I already knew I’d do it again with.
“Don’t know yet,” I say.
“That’s new.”
It is. I don’t like it.
I read the play. I make the call. I live with it. That’s the crease. That’s my whole life.
This isn’t the crease.
“Talk to her before Riley does,” Aiden says. “That’s it. Everything else is above my pay grade.”
“Goodbye, Aiden.”
“Fully cooked, bro. Fully—”
I hang up.
Sit in the car with the engine off and the heat building. The arena sits across the lot, same as always. Same building. Same job. Round 1 in four days and I need my head exactly where it’s always been.
I sit there a while.
I get home. Put my gear bag down. Make food I don’t taste and eat it standing at the counter. Me and a kitchen and a hallway I’m going to be running back like bad tape all week.
I sit on the couch. Think about the parking lot. The second kiss.
My phone is on the cushion next to me.
I pick it up. The screen comes on. I stare at it. Look up. Look back at the phone.
Type: Brick sat in your spot on the couch tonight.
I read it once. Then again.
She’s never even been here. I know exactly what that sounds like.
It’s not a smart text. It’s the one I send anyway.
My phone goes off.
Riley Stevens:
Photo circulating. Outside the arena. You and Shaw. My office. Tomorrow.
I set the phone down.
Chapter eleven
Nova
Hewalksinanddoesn’t react.
