* * *
G: I SWEAR TO GOD, if you don’t answer your GODDAMN phone, I’m getting on a train, and YOU can deal with Mama complaining about missing out on her “precious” baby boy time.
Heaving out a sigh, I stop pacing the living room and sit my ass down on the couch. Reaching for the remote, I pull up the video chat app. It takes all of point six seconds before the scowling face of the last person I would have thought would become my closest friend fills the flat-screen TV.
“You look like shit,” Grant observes after carefully cataloging my appearance.
Thanks to the little box in the corner of the screen, I know exactly what he sees and squeeze my eyes shut against the visual.
My hair sticks out in every direction possible. My clothes—the same ones from last night—are rumpled and wrinkled beyond salvation, and the glasses I eventually put back on after ripping my contacts out of my eyes sit crooked on the bridge of my nose.
“Anyone ever tell you you say the sweetest things?” I sigh, pressing into the plushy cushions behind me.
“Maybe if you hadn’t been avoiding my calls for the last seven-plus hours, I’d feel a little more sympathetic.”
I start to speak, only to be cut off by yet another yawn. The exhaustion is like a heavy blanket settling over me, making my bones feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“Shit.” Grant’s curse has me lifting my gaze back to the screen to see his body folded over, searching the ground for something. “I’ll be there in two hours,” he says, coming up with one of his Jordans and tugging it onto one of his massive feet.
“What? Why?”
He freezes, his entire giant frame unmoving except for the slow blink of his eyes. “Are you for real?”
“Me?” Removing my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re the one getting all mama bear over a few missed phone calls.”
“First off—” Grant’s voice gets extra deep as he shifts forward, his feet slapping the ground. He leans close to the camera, his elbows resting on his spread knees, pinning me in place with a look I’ve rarely seen him use off the basketball court. “Em is the mama bear of our crew.” He extends a finger, directing it to himself before pointing it at me. “I’m papa bear, and don’t you forget it.”
I roll my eyes at his absurdity.
Grant clears his throat. “Now tell me how you’re holding up before I really do end up canceling my dinner date with Mama.”
“G.” I sigh, not wanting to talk about any of it.
Not how I ruined a perfectly nice date because I’m an asshole.
Not how I yelled at Quinn and accused her of things she would never do.
Not about how I went temporarily insane and kissed Quinn. How she stared at me heavy-lidded, touching tentative fingers to her puffy lips. How her dark red hair was a messy knot in the back or about the two strands that were coiled around my knuckles.
I especially don’t want to think about how she left Jonah’s with Grady after all…that went down.
“Don’t you fucking G me.” Grant’s glare has returned when I blink back to the present, his long arms falling to hang between his spread legs.
Foreboding prickles at the base of my skull. Grant might be the most physically intimidating, but he’s usually the most levelheaded. So when he gets all intense like this, it’s wise to heed the warning.
“This is the first time those fucknuggets turned their attention on you, and I wanna make sure it’s not dredging up old memories.”
My lips twitch, and I mouth the word fucknuggets.
“You can thank Dante for that gem,” he says, referring to his younger brother. “Now, seriously…you doing okay?”
Oh, that’s right. That’s the other thing I’ve been doing my best to put out of my mind—the UofJ411.
“I’m fine,” I start to say just as the elevator dings, announcing someone’s arrival.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour,” G singsongs.
It takes everything in me not to leap over the back of the couch and rush Quinn, demanding answers I have no right to as she makes her appearance.
#CHAPTER26
* * *
I’m drained.
Emotionally.
Physically.
Hell, even spiritually, I’m spent.
I don’t know where I thought CK would be when I got home from a double practice then clinics at The Barracks, but I certainly wouldn’t have guessed he would be video-chatting with Grant in the living room.
I don’t know what good deed I’ve done as of late—maybe it was the random act of kindness of paying for the coffee and smoothies for that mom and her three kids the other day at Espresso Patronum—but I’m more than grateful that I had already made plans to sleep at Kay’s last night. Not only did my cherry-cola-red hair get a refresh, it allowed me to escape sleeping under the same roof as the guy who kissed the daylights out of me, then rejected me immediately after.
However, right now, I wish I had more than just my pajamas and work clothes in the bag I packed. How many questions do you think they would ask me if I showed up with a suitcase full of my crap? Too many. Could I handle the inquisition doing so would bring on? Probably not.
It takes considerable effort to pull my gaze away from a rough-looking CK and to Grant’s smirking face. “Hey, G.” I wave, moving into a better view of the camera but still managing to keep as much distance as possible from CK. Even with his That shouldn’t have happened ringing in my ears all these hours later, I still don’t trust myself.
“Sup, Insta-Famous.”
I slick my tongue across my teeth, trying not to laugh and totally failing. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he singsongs, shimmying his broad shoulders.
“Mmm.” The unimpressed air I attempt to project only has Grant laughing harder. “Anyway…it was two pictures—Insta-famous that does not make.”
The UofJ411 Instagram account is seen as more of an annoyance than an accomplishment, at least by us anyway. None of us want to be featured in their content, but the guys know it comes with the territory of being amongst the ranks of top athletes in the country. Why they decided people care about what CK and I were up to, though, I’ll never know.
When Grant turns his attention back to CK, I use the opportunity to make my escape, spinning on my heel and heading for my room.
Kicking the door closed, I drop my bag and trudge to my bed, falling face-first onto the mattress, not giving a damn about the dried sweat coating my skin. My shower can wait.
The snick of my door opening has me rolling onto my side, the pillow lowering just enough for me to peer over the edge and make eye contact with CK.
Oof, rough looking might have been too nice of a descriptor.
His eyes are puffy as hell. The bags under them are big enough to hold all the makeup I need to be game day ready, and the dark circles could rival any eye black the football team uses. His dark hair is so twisted out of control it’s almost impossible to tell Bette, Kay’s sister-in-law, recently trimmed it.
Oh…and…he’s still in last night’s clothes.