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When I push open the door to my apartment, Pickles comes barreling around the corner like a deranged, fluffy missile.

The little corgi launches himself at my legs, stubby tail going a million miles an hour, making those weird excited grumbling noises he does when I’ve been gone too long.

I drop my keys on the counter and slide down to the floor. Pickles immediately climbs into my lap like he owns it, licking my chin aggressively.

“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too, buddy.”

He headbutts my chest and flops over for belly rubs, completely content now that his human has returned to his rightful place.

I scratch his chest and lean my head back against the wall, letting the quiet of the apartment settle over me.

Then I strip off my jacket and toss it over the back of a dining chair that's never been sat in.

Pickles is doing his victory lap around the living room, nails clicking against the hardwood, clearly thrilled that I'm home.

I kick off my shoes and head for the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

I don't drink. Not after games, not after nights like this. It's a rule I made for myself a long time ago, back when I realized that the thing I was trying to drown wasn't going to stay down.

Instead, I grab my guitar from where it's leaning against the wall by the window—an old Gibson acoustic, beat-up and worn, the only thing I brought with me from Minnesota that wasn't expensive or practical.

I settle onto the couch, Pickles jumping up to curl beside me, and start picking at the strings. Nothing specific. Just chords, aimless and quiet, the way I do when my head's too loud to sleep.

Alright. Time to be rational.

This thing with Quinn is complicated as hell.

She’s Coach’s daughter — walking red flag number one.

She's a virgin. At least, she has to be. Nothing else makes sense after what she told me.

She’s sharp as fuck and clearly has zero tolerance for bullshit.

Getting involved with her is the fastest way to get my ass traded or buried on the fourth line.

I keep scratching Pickles’ belly.

All solid reasons. Excellent reasons, matter of fact. And yet…

I can’t stop thinking about the way she kissed me back on that Ferris wheel. The little sound she made. The way she looked at me right before she shut me down tonight…

I mutter to myself, “You’re fucked, Larkin.”

Pickles lets out a happy little sigh in my lap, already half asleep.

At least one of us is relaxed.

***

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over my eyes, willing my brain to shut the fuck up. The sheets are cool against my skin, but my body is wired. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.

Quinn on that Ferris wheel.

The way her breath hitched when I kissed her. The desperate little sound she made when my tongue slipped into her mouth. The way her fingers twisted into my shirt like she was terrified I’d pull away.

My hand slides down my stomach before I can stop it.

Fuck it.