Endgame (The Atlanta Boys)

10. Dakota

10

DAKOTA

Cookies.

Coffee.

Diet Coke.

Tampons.

Ice cream.

That’s all my overstimulated brain can recall. You’d think after visiting the grocery store alone, gee, I don't know, hundreds of times, I would have learned by now to bring a freaking list and never to grocery shop hungry.

Dave called this morning to let me know Chevy was ready to be picked up. I couldn’t get there fast enough. I booked the earliest Uber I could find, shuttled myself to the shop, picked up my baby, and drove straight to The Market, my town’s grocery store, without so much as a list in hand.

After living off frozen pizza for two days, my fridge and stomach are long overdue.

It feels nice to get out of the house.

I’ve been pitying myself for too long now, holding myself up in my sparse apartment, staring at blank walls. I’ll eventually get around to hanging things. I’m not sure what I have to hang. These are those moments when I really wish I could cut out the self-neglect and try to meet someone.

It’s too bad I know how much of a burden the weight of my pain can be, and I’m not willing to leave heartbreak to chance. With my luck, I’d fall fast and hard—meanwhile, nothing would be reciprocated.

Upon entering the store, I set out on Aisle 10 to load up on all of my favorites, ones that will most definitely add to the junk in my trunk. Why live if you can’t enjoy what you eat? Food gives curves to the places made to be curvy. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Cheez Itz - extra toasty.

Oreos. Only ever the gluten-free ones. So much better.

Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Milano cookies? Please . Definitely add to cart.

Slap me with a memory; they’ve got frosted animal cookies with sprinkles. Ten-year-old me fought hard for those bad boys.

I’m all but dancing as I rumble into a fit of excitement, “Mama’s eatin’ good tonight!”

I’m only getting started.

Mid shout, I’m startled by a growly throat clearing behind me. So this is where it all ends for me? Gracelessly, frozen in humiliation, with a cart full of cookies. What a way to go.

Turning my body to see the culprit of my embarrassment, I’m confronted with tattoos and ocean eyes. Have mercy.

“Twice in one week, angel?”

I’m rendered speechless. My eyes must be as enormous as saucers because Callaway is looking at me like he caught me with my pants down, and I haven’t realized it yet.

He’s enjoying this. I need to form a response and fast.

“A girls got to grocery shop, Callaway.”

His eyes hold back his noticeable humor. Seconds later, he’s leading his cart in my direction, and my panic starts to set in.

“If I had known all it would take were cookies to get you to smile, I would have pulled out all the stops.” His grin turns brighter.

“I’ll do just about anything for cookies. This is what us dark and twisty people like to call groceries. Food for the wicked.”

He’s making small talk, and I’m not sure why. I’m entertaining his conversation, but my mind is throwing up warning signs telling me to evacuate.

“I’m beginning to think nothing about you is as dark and twisty as you claim to be.” He needs to stop doing that—looking into my soul and stuff. It throws me off guard. I need him to be Navy’s older brother, the overprotective guy who doesn’t give me the time of day, says “hi”, and carries on.

He’s being unpredictable, and it’s making me unable to think logically.

“I’ll have you know; I drink my coffee black—like my soul.”

Callaway chuckles, propping his arm against the metal shelf, steadying himself in place.

“Or maybe it means you’re simple. I wouldn’t call that a bad thing.”

I’m fidgeting with my cart, rolling it back and forth while fighting the urge to look at him. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’d like to think so. But I won’t lie and say I’m not intrigued to know more.”

What is happening right now?

“Trust me, you don’t. Do yourself a favor and run in the opposite direction. Navy might kill you while you’re at it. ”

This guy thinks he’s indestructible. “Ah, Navy doesn’t scare me.”

I’m beginning to think not much of anything does. I can’t decide if that's the hottest or most alarming thing to hear coming from him.

“Either way, thanks, but no thanks.”

He rears back like I surprised him. “Are you always so formal?”

I wouldn’t say I’m being formal. I don’t have time to entertain whatever he thinks is happening between us because it’s not.

I start moving and make a sharp turn down the ice cream aisle.

I look in Callaway’s direction to make sure he isn’t silently judging me with his eyes—he’s not. I’m judging myself, though, knowing good and well there’s enough sugar in my cart to stimulate a bunch of wild children.

I haven’t answered him yet, and that’s probably why he’s still following me. “I’m not formal.”

“Ha! I almost believed you there for a second, angel. Good one.”

There’s that name again. I’m the farthest thing from an angel. He knows that I know that, so why the hell does he keep using it for me?

Reaching for the ice cream cookie sandwiches, predictable I know, I toss them into my cart and turn my head to catch a glance at Callaway. I don’t have to look far because here he is, all up in my space, without a single care to give.

It’s slightly admirable. I wish I had the courage to do what I wanted without caring or thinking through the repercussions.

“Callaway, you’ve got to stop with the angel nickname. It’s creepy. ”

Okay, it’s not creepy; it’s actually kind of sweet, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He laughs again. Does anything bother this man? Holy smokes.

“I’m hurt, Dakota.” He’s fake crying.

What the hell is happening? He’s delusional. Does Navy know this side of him because I’m concerned?

“I’ve officially reached my max limit of patience for today.”

I could probably use something in my cart as a scare tactic and maybe he’ll leave me alone.

I say that, but I’m secretly enjoying his company. If only he would stop sending me concealed smirks—it’s unnerving.

I think I find myself trying to avoid him because it’s evident he can see my insecurities before I come to terms with them myself.

“You’re an angry little angel, just the way I like ‘em.”

Have mercy.

“Does Navy know you’re certifiably insane?”

This is quite entertaining. He seems to think on my question, conjuring some type of answer up in his head.

“Don’t deflect. I know I’m getting under your skin.”

What is he trying to say? He knows he’s hot, and that would typically make me even more uninterested, but why does it make my heart spin instead?

Somehow the energy has shifted. In the grocery store and between us. I stop myself on the milk aisle, having already lost my train of thought on what I need.

Probably milk.

“I highly doubt what you’re doing is getting under my skin .”

That’s exactly what he’s doing. Hell, he was doing it yesterday .

He shocks me as he abandons his cart and walks directly in front of me. And what a vision he is.

Casual Callaway in a grocery store is domestic and the epitome of a forbidden fantasy. His tall frame towers over the metal shelves lined in meticulous order. He looks out of place, yet never more perfectly fit. I’d like to ask him to grab something from the highest shelf slowly and let me sneak a peek at that sculpted dip in his stomach that leads to forbidden glory. His face wears exhaustion like a tired mother returning for the third time today after forgetting baby wipes once again. I know how gruesome his training schedule is, so the exhaustion is justifiable. He still looks brighter than most. Callaway knows the aisles, the placement of his favorite snacks, and conveniently the aisle to find me on.

Strangely, I can picture him here more often—even in the future sense. Callaway leaving practice at the fields after receiving a text from his gorgeous, blonde, and charismatic wife asking him to pick up milk and eggs on the way home.

He would be happy to do it too. I’m sure of it.

But it’s wrong for me to picture him that way. I’ll never have that for myself, and if I miraculously do, it’s a long way off.

I need to get out of here.

Callaway takes a step closer, putting him less than a foot in front of me now. He traces his index finger down the length of my arm, barely ghosting it enough to have contact but enough that I feel it bone deep.

Jesus Christ.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. These chills covering your smooth skin tell me what I already know, Dakota.”

I’m doing my best not to seem fazed by his assertiveness, but the fight against right and wrong is beginning to blur .

“And what is it that you already know about me, Callaway?”

His smirk is mischievous and daunting. His mood has shifted drastically. I can physically feel the desire trickle from his body.

Where’s the closest exit?

But I need to hear him out.

“I know you’re hurting, and that’s why you refuse to make room for anyone in what little space you have to offer. I also know you deserve to be on the receiving end of someone’s care—to be there in every way they possibly can. That is what I know about you.”

How…?

He’s spot on.

I don’t want to get hurt again, and I don’t want to hurt someone else because of my hurt. It’s warped. Yet it makes sense to Callaway.

I didn’t have to explain myself.

He knows he got me there. I don’t want to continue this conversation any further. It’s an on-edge feeling when you can sense someone has spotted your vulnerabilities. Thankfully, he changes the subject.

Moving his body to frame the outer perimeter of the cart, Callaway takes a long look in, and I prepare to justify my addiction.

“So, what’s with all the cookies? Got a party or something happening?” He asks, nodding towards my lack of willpower.

I knew not bringing a list would come back to bite me in the ass. I respond truthfully.

“Nope. Cookies are my favorite food. I keep all my favorites on hand. You know, for emergency purposes.”

Strangely, he seems to understand. “My mom has an addiction to chocolate. I can relate. ”

My lips turn up into a small smile; the image of him with Mrs. Hayes brings warmth to my heart.

“She really does. Does she still have a Reese's stash? Last time I visited, I felt a crinkle on the couch and shoved my hand between the cushions to find out what it was—empty wrappers.” I’m giggling, and it feels good to allow myself the luxury.

Callaway doesn't look surprised at all, laughing and smiling at me as he crosses his arms over his chest. “That sounds about right.”

Realizing we’ve both been standing in the aisle going on ten minutes, I lead him off to the side while I have a quick realization.

“Have you ever tried one?”

I’m holding up a thick papered bag of Vanilla Creme Milanos. Don’t tell me he’s a Milano virgin.

Callaway shakes his head, and a gasp leaves my body quicker than I can think.

“No… absolutely not. We need to remedy this right now.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Right here, right now? Like on aisle 6?”

“This can’t wait, Callaway. Desperate times call for desperate measures.” I’m laughing to myself, deliriously excited that I get to introduce him to the greatest cookie ever created.

He’s nodding his head, being a good sport about it. “Alright, let's do this.”

He situates himself so that his entire frame is leaning against the shelf to my side, clearly waiting on my instructions. There are none. He just needs to try it. I make quick work of opening the bag and folding over the tabs that seal it back tight. My hand reaches in and pulls out a cookie before holding it out, silently encouraging him to try it .

He shakes his head, not moving an inch.

Does he want me to feed him? He’s a grown man.

“Oh, you want me to feed you?” My brows rise in surprise and amusement.

“I wouldn’t want to taint the experience. You’re the professional.”

Oh, he’s smooth. I’ll entertain it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach my hand out in front of me and close the distance between us, bringing the cookie to his lips while nudging him to open wide. “Prepare yourself, big guy. They’re life changing.”

He devours the whole half of it, his slow chewing and moaning illustrating the way he savors it. “Fucking delicious.”

His mouth is stuffed full, crumbles tumbling out, and his murmurs sound muffled, but he couldn’t look more adorable if he tried.

Since it seems to be the only option, I bring the half-eaten cookie to my mouth and indulge.

Callaway doesn’t miss a beat, his eyes homing in on the motion.

“Mhm. So good.” He swallows heavily, taking slow breaths to steady his heart rate.

I don’t want to feel this.

We’re glued to the floor on Aisle 6, indulging in a bag of Milano cookies together. Who would have ever thought? Who also would have thought that Callaway Hayes would be reaching his massive hand out to wipe the corner of my lips?

No warning—just going for it.

His thumb catches the crumbs on my lips before they fall into a mess. He glides his smooth thumb over the edge of my mouth where the crumbs lay. Thinking he’ll pull away, he does the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my twenty-eight years of living: he brings the cookie crumb to his mouth and sucks. He sucks my cookie crumbs off his large thumb and eats them.

Mayday. Clean up on Aisle 6.

His eyes have yet to leave mine. Words suddenly come to me, and I shoot him a sharp look, whispering, “I have a thing for vanilla and cookies.”

I can’t let him know that action caught me off guard.

He doesn’t think twice. “Already made a note of that, beautiful.”

Seconds pass before I can think through our recent interactions, and it makes me curious. “What’s your endgame here, Callaway? It feels a lot like you’re flirting with me.”

He grins. Because of course he grins. Is he ever not grinning?

“Oh, I’m most definitely flirting with you. The sooner you catch up, the easier this will be for us.”

What? Why? Confused is a mild term for how I’m feeling right now.

“You barely know me.”

He stills, lost in thought for a moment.

“You’re right. But you’ve given me enough pieces of yourself for me to know you’re worth learning about. Your words have all but told me to fuck off, but your body, it lights up when I’m around. I feel it and I know you feel it too.”

Mother trucker at a pit stop.

I snap in confusion. “I’m dark and damaged. My heart is probably filled with black coal.”

“You’re healing.” Intuitive, is he?

“I’m terrible at managing my emotions. I lash out and snap at everything.”

“I can handle it.” He winks, making his translation clear.

“You’re Navy’s brother.” That calls for a pause .

“Let me handle my sister.”

No. This can’t happen.

“Never going to happen. You should stop while you’re ahead. But in all seriousness…do you have any faults?” I say boldly. I am a little shocked at how easy being around him feels despite giving him my rejection.

“I’m currently living my biggest fault of all—playing bitch boy for my roommates.”

My eyes scan over his cart after being wholly distracted by other things. I chuckle with him as soon as my eyes land on the most random item.

I’m not sure how I missed that.

“Chamomile tea? Is that what you call a nightcap at your age?”

He pretends to look shocked, quickly reaching across me to grab a gallon of milk and placing it into his cart. His smell is divine—cedar and citrus. It’s grounding and earthy, while the softness in the paired notes feels like his body's natural fragrance.

“Listen, I’ll have you know, this thirty-year-old can run circles around rookies. I’m well equipped and well endowed with stamina like you wouldn’t believe.”

His arms raise in a familiar stance. Oh God, don’t do it. No .

Callaway Hayes is flexing in the milk aisle without a care in the world who’s watching. His big, muscular biceps are raised, looking ridiculous and making me question why I’ve been avoiding this kind of fun for so long. My heart clues me in that he’s pulling out all the stops to make me laugh, and his playfulness might be what I need, but my brain is telling me this guy could destroy me.

Unless I get to him first .

That’s something I don’t think I can handle or want to risk trying. He’s too important to Navy.

Callaway is the starting pitcher of a Major League baseball team. He tirelessly travels across the country nearly a hundred and eighty days out of the year. The man couldn’t look remotely bad if he tried. He makes athletic shorts and a Fruit of the Loom t-shirt look like a delicacy; that’s not even taking into account the women. He’s been seen with hundreds of beautiful women. I know firsthand from Navy they’ve never been anything more than a quick fuck.

Why does the idea of that make me sick to my stomach?

Lately, though, the tabloids have been strangely sparse on Playboy Callaway.

His energy is untouchable, though not in the bad boy way. I’ve never observed him be anything less than respectful to strangers, not flaunting women around like they’re a prize he’s won. I know very little of his upbringing except that he was adopted as a teenager. I’m more interested than I’d like to admit in what makes Callaway Hayes such a standup guy. Why would he be interested in someone as plain as me?

I’ve all but screamed damaged since we met, and somehow, he’s still here.

Reigning in my thoughts, I do my best to act like his words don't affect me. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Checking the time on my watch, I realize I’m cutting it close on time, and I need to make it back to my apartment before Navy shows up. “Shoot. I need to finish up here. Navy is meeting me at my place soon for a movie night. Hence all the sugar.”

I send him an awkward smile.

His smile, in return, seems a little shy, and it surprises me. It reads almost like he feels guilty for intruding on my shopping, a feeling I suspect he rarely gets .

You were definitely not on the agenda for this week.

Chuckling, he replies, “Absolutely. I should probably head out too. King will have a fit if I don’t have his tea for him at a reasonable hour. Bougie misfit.” His care has no end.

“Sounds like it. Well, it was good seeing you, Callaway. I’ll see you around.” His arms are crossed over his chest, muscles on full display in his plain white tee as he tilts his head down slightly. It’s enough so that his eyes can raise, likely noticing my quick dismissal.

A smile plays on his gorgeous face, accompanied by inaudible laughter, and I feel completely swept up in his kindness.

I’m digging my hole deeper.

I shift my cart towards the exit, internally berating myself for being the most socially awkward person known to man and offering Callaway another goodbye, “And that’s my cue. Goodbye. See you around.” I shift at the speed of sound, trying to escape my humiliation until I feel a pull on the sleeve of my hoodie that turns me around to face Callaway.

No wonder my body recognizes his smell so well; his love language is undoubtedly physical touch. The man thrives on being close, tampering with my girlie parts that have shut down for now, unfortunately.

His hands land firmly on my upper arms, gently rooting me in place.

He leans his mouth to my ear, enough so his smooth voice rumbles through my body, and his breath heats down my neck as he whispers, “I’m counting on it.”

I’m breathing so heavily that I miss the moment he pulls away.

Callaway turns to his cart and heads in the opposite direction without another word, taking my thoughts and independence with him .

That was unexpected.

Not only seeing Callaway, but how he has the ability to make me completely forget where I am and focus all my attention on him. There’s an ease to his nearness I’ve been missing from my life since my parents passed. No part of me would ever want to hurt Navy, and I’m still unsure of where her stance on Callaway and I would be. I know her opinion matters to me, and I know it matters to Callaway.

He’s made it clear he’s interested. In what way, I have no idea or why.

I’m not ready for any type of commitment.

I’m too damaged and tired to try. But a fuck buddy wouldn’t be the worst thing? Lord knows I could use the relief. My vagina has been neglected for too long, and the dusty drought needs some hydration.

But am I willing to risk it?