Page 25 of Break Out

“We’ll figure it out,” I repeat, standing up. “Let’s go eat, there’s a restaurant downstairs. Unless you want to shower first.”

“Food first, please,” she says, and at that moment, her stomach lets out a rumble. I bite my lip to stifle a laugh and walk toward the door. Aubrey continues, “It’s not like I have any clean clothes to change into.” I come to a halt and turn back to her.

“Say that again?” I ask, my eyebrows raised.

“It’s not like I have any clean clothes to change into. I mean, I have a change of . . .” She pauses, her face turning pink, before she continues. “Undergarments and a shirt and shorts for tomorrow. But otherwise, I’m out of clothes.”

Her statement has me picturing her underwear and bra and wondering what she wears. If she wears thongs or simple cotton ones. If her bras are lacey or not. Why am I picturing Aubrey in her underwear? It’s not like I’ll ever get to see them. We might be dating, but it’s fake. So, it doesn’t matter what she wears because I won’t get to see them. And I have no business thinking about them.

I clear my throat, running a hand through my hair. “Oh-kay, well, let’s go eat.” I turn back to the door, willing the conversation to change so I don’t have to be tortured by thoughts I definitely should not be thinking.

“I might need to borrow a shirt to sleep in,” Aubrey continues, coming up behind me.

My eyes widen as I picture her in one of my shirts and nothing else. My dick stirs at that image, and I hold back a groan. I shift from one foot to the other, subtly adjusting myself, willing my dick to calm down. “I’m sure I have something you can borrow.”

I open the door and walk out, forcing myself to think about plays from last season instead of the conversation we just had. Maybe it is a good idea for me to sleep on the couch. Or the floor. Anywhere but in the same bed as Aubrey. Because this is starting to feel like a slippery slope. The last thing I want to do is ruin our friendship by doing something she doesn’t want. Like accidentally grabbing a boob in my sleep. And now I’m thinking about Aubrey’s boobs and what they feel like.

Shit.

Fuck.

Must stop.

I take a few deep breaths, pushing all the thoughts I shouldn’t be having out of my head.

We make our way to the elevator and back to the lobby where we follow the signs to the restaurant. The hostess seats us at one of the high-top tables in the corner of the bar. I’m surprised at how empty it is for being six thirty. I suppose most people choose to eat out downtown, or have already eaten.

The waitress approaches our table a few minutes after we’ve been seated. “Hello. I’ll be your waitress tonight. What can I get you two to drink?” she asks. Her eyes widen when I meet her gaze. “Holy shit.” She clamps a hand over her mouth, glancing around. I bite back a laugh. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, removing her hand. “You look like my favorite hockey player—Brody Thompson. He plays for the Orlando Storm. I’m sure you get that a lot.”

I debate telling her I am who she thinks I am but decide against it. I don’t really feel like hearing about our loss again or how we’ll do much better next year.

“Thank you. I’ll have a glass of water, and a rocks pour of your best bourbon, please.” I’m going to need it to get through tonight’s discussion of who’s sleeping where and Aubrey walking around our hotel room in one of my shirts. The waitress nods and turns to Aubrey.

“I’ll have a glass of water and a riesling.”

“I’ll put that right in for you and let you look over the menu,” the waitress says.

“Why’d you do that? Not tell her you are who she thought you were,” Aubrey asks once we’re alone.

I glance up at her and shrug before going back to the menu. “Because for once I’d like to have a nice quiet dinner with my girlfriend without someone asking me for my autograph or a photo. I want to be just another customer . . .” Instead of Brody Thompson, the guy who cost the Storm their chance in the playoffs.

“There’s no one around. You don’t have to call me that.”

I nod toward the other patrons in the bar area. “I don’t know all the people in your sister’s wedding. Maybe one of them is here. Don’t want the wrong person to hear something and it gets back to Clara, or worse, your mom. We wouldn’t want that, would we, girlfriend?“ I stare at her until she rolls her eyes at me and, with a shake of her head, goes back to her menu.

If I’m being honest with myself, I like calling her my girlfriend. I haven’t had the desire to call anyone that in years, but suddenly, saying the word, even if it started out in jest, makes me feel something. Something I probably shouldn’t be feeling for my best friend.

The waitress comes back with our drinks and takes our dinner order before disappearing into the back again. We chat about life, and Aubrey tells me about some research she’s doing since she isn’t teaching this semester. I only understand about half of what she’s talking about but from what I do understand, it sounds impressive.

When the check comes, I insist on paying even though Aubrey tells me to charge it to the room. I grab an extra cocktail napkin and scribble my name and my number—ninety—on it and leave it for the waitress along with a generous tip. As I stare at the napkin, I realize this could be one of the last times I sign my number. I rub a hand over my chest, trying to ease the ache that’s taken up residence there.

“You okay?” Aubrey asks, putting her hand on my shoulder.

“Fine. Fine.” I push out of my chair and follow her out of the restaurant. We barely make it to the lobby before we’re greeted by her sister pushing a baby carriage.

“Aubs,” Brielle says. “Hey, Brody.” She smiles at me.

“Hi, Brielle.”