Chapter 24 TJ
This girl is messing with my head. I don’t think she means to, but what the hell was that picture?
It’s not as if I haven’t seen her legs before. She was wearing shorts the first two times I saw her. And a dress when we went to my parents. I am well aware of what her bare legs look like. So why have I looked at that picture practically continually since she sent it?
Why did she send it to me?
And what does the rest of her look like?
Is she really hitting the Strip? Is Ophelia going to be her wingman—er, -woman? Is she going to cross off number nine?
Me: Be careful. Stay together. Don’t go off with any strangers.
What is she doing? I was stupid to suggest she come out here. She’s totally out of her element. At least she has Ophelia.
"Um, Henry, how would you describe Ophelia’s street smarts?"
Xavier is buttoning up his shirt. He stops, mid-button.
"You’re joking, right? You’re asking about the Ophelia who flew to Baltimore to surprise her wanker ex, only to find out he was cheating on her, but she had to have all of ClikClak tell her that because she didn’t realize it herself, even though it was blatantly obvious to all of us at the party.
The woman who asked the internet to set her up on blind dates, but the way she worded it made them think she was a prostitute for her day job, which she’s not, by the way.
The woman who got drunk and proposed to me over FaceTime so I could keep my citizenship without ever researching to see if that was a valid thing, which, it turns out, it’s not. That Ophelia?"
I stare at him. This is not helping.
Me: Maybe you want to have a quiet little dinner and turn in early.
It sounds lame, even to me, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Rachel: I didn’t come all this way to stay in. Ophelia and I are on a mission.
My gut churns reading this. What kind of trouble are they going to get into?
I can skip dinner and head to where they’re going.
I’ve never broken curfew before, but tonight might be the night I start.
Sure, there’d be a hefty fine. Dad would lose his shit over that.
And maybe I’d be subject to disciplinary action that’d have me sitting out a game or two.
At this point in my career, missing games is the kiss of death. Anyone they bring in to replace me will be younger. If he has a good game or two, that could be it for me.
I can’t break curfew.
I clear my throat. "Um, are you at all worried about the girls going out on the town by themselves?"
He shakes his head. "Ophelia is doing research for a book. She wants to go to a casino and see what the atmosphere is like there. I’m sure she’ll be fine." We lock gazes, both knowing that could not be further from the truth.
"What do we do?"
Breaking curfew is not an option for either of us, and we both know it.
"I’ll text Ophelia and tell her not to be impulsive," Henry says, pulling out his phone. "Alright, it’s done. Now let’s go to dinner. I’m famished."
As we get in the elevator, I ask, "Does telling Ophelia not to do something usually work?"
"Hardly ever, but one can always hope."
We’ve decided to eat at the Mexican place in Mandalay Bay, which adjoins the W. I can’t tell if the gnawing in my stomach is from hunger or worry. It was just a week ago that Rachel fell asleep at my kitchen counter after drinking a bottle of wine. What would happen to her if she did that out here?
Henry and I lounge on a large banquette, waiting for other teammates to join us.
We’re the first here. I don’t think this has ever happened to me before.
Usually, I’m strolling in as people are ordering drinks.
This gives me plenty of time to peruse the menu and think about Rachel.
I’m so lost in thought that I barely notice when someone slides into the seat opposite me.
"Is this seat taken?"
My head whips up so fast I’m likely to give myself whiplash.
"Rachel? What—" That’s all I get out, my mouth going bone dry as I look at her. She’s cut her hair.
It now falls in loose waves around her face to just below her chin.
It shows off her features, especially those hot fudge eyes.
She’s in a short black dress, with the legs she teased me with earlier appearing long and lean. Impressive on her short frame.
Her shoes can only be described as fuck me shoes.
I didn’t know she owned shoes like that.
She cannot go out on the town wearing those shoes.
Rachel sees me staring at them, and she poses, popping one foot up and then the other.
"I … I like your shoes," I finally manage to croak out. In my brain, I picture her leaving them on. And nothing else.
"Thanks. They’re Ophelia’s." She does the little model-y poses again. Jesus, she’s adorable and sexy all at the same time.
"You should keep them. Or get a pair just like them. Or lots of pairs just like them. Your legs look …" I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Or why those words are even leaving my mouth in the first place.
She is sitting sideways on the chair. She leans back, as if on a swing, extending her legs out in front of her, crossing one on top of the other.
"I mean, if you want to see sexy, you should see the rubber boots I wear when I’m filming for work.
" She lowers her legs and leans toward me over the table in one smooth movement. "Now those are hot," she whispers.
I lean in, matching her position. "I bet you can talk real dirty in those."
"Trust me, those boots have seen some shit."
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. The head tipped back, hands on belly kind of laugh. Ophelia sits to Rachel’s right, directly across from Xavier, who’s sitting next to me.
"What’d I miss?" Ophelia says.
Rachel lifts her foot again. "TJ was just admiring my footwear. Naturally, I told him they’re yours."
While I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur of women’s footwear, even I understand certain labels mean a certain price tag.
There’s no telltale red sole from that fancy French brand.
The name of Jimmy Choo isn’t stamped on the bottom.
In theory, there’s nothing special about these heels, other than the feet they’re currently on.
"Ophelia, I’ll give you $500 for those shoes." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"I didn’t know you had a thing for women’s shoes, Doyle," Xavier says dryly. "I’m not sure how to break it to you, but they might be just a smidge too small. Not to mention, I think they look better on Rachel."
I meet Rachel’s gaze. "They’re not for me. They’re for her."
I have no idea where any of this is coming from. It’s as if I’m powerless to stop the words tumbling out of my mouth.
"Are you drunk?" Rachel raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head. "Can’t drink before a game."
"Yeah, well, I think I’m gonna need a drink." She flags down the waitress and orders two Cadillac margaritas.
"Two?" She cannot hold her liquor well enough to handle two margaritas.
"One is for Ophelia. We discussed it on the way down."
"Oh, what else did you discuss?" Curiosity is definitely going to kill me where Rachel is concerned.
"Our game plan for tonight. We’re going to take the tram to the Luxor to go to the casino. I’m crossing two things off in one day! My list is going to be thirty percent done, which is about twenty-nine more percents than I ever thought I’d accomplish."
Her words are like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. She’s not here for me. She’s not interested in me. She’s trying to fulfill her sister’s dying wishes. That’s it. I just happen to be one of those dying wishes.
Of course, there’s no other reason. I know my worth. I just need to keep reminding myself of that. Just like she’s not wearing the shoes and dress for me. She’s wearing them for everyone else.
"Hey," Rachel says, placing her hand on mine. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes are full of hope and light, something I haven’t seen before. The sadness has gone away, at least for now. I’m not going to do anything to bring her down.
"Yeah, just wishing I could have a margarita too.
What looks good to you?" I pick up the menu to hide from her, at least for a moment.
"Henry, what are you going to get?" Many of our other team members have started to arrive.
Ophelia stands up. "Well, we’re going to head to our table and let you boys enjoy your pregame bonding experience. "
Rachel joins her, margarita sloshing over the side of the glass. I wonder what she’d do if I licked it off her hand. Probably run screaming into the void. I look back at the menu, but the words aren’t making much sense.
Finally, I glance up to see Rachel peering down at me, her eyebrows knit in confusion. "Are you sure you’re okay?"
"I’m fine. You have a good time tonight."
"Um, okay. I will." And with that, Rachel and Ophelia leave to go to their table across the restaurant. I can see them throughout dinner, talking and laughing. This is just what Rachel needs. A good time. She needs to be carefree. She needs to live life, not just for her sister, but for herself.
"Doyle. DOYLE!" Antonio Caster-Naples is yelling my name from the other end of the table.
"What?"
"Who’s your friend over there?" He nods toward Rachel. "You haven’t gone ClikClak official with anyone yet. What’s the story?"
I shrug, trying to appear casual. "There’s no story. There’s nothing to announce. We’re just friends."
"Does she know that? Didn’t I see her with your family at the last home game?"
Why is he paying attention to these things?
Antonio needs to drop this. "She’s noneya," I say.
"What’s noneya?"
"None ya damn business," I all but growl. I glance over at her again. She’s watching me. When she sees me looking, she gives a little wave. That’s the margarita talking. I can tell already.
Antonio says, "Well, maybe you can introduce me to your friend then. She’s—"
"Enough, Antonio," Landon Stubbs interjects. "Leave Doyle alone."
"Aw, but it’s fun to watch him get all riled up."
I ignore him and turn to Xavier. "Henry, I know the girls are planning on a night on the town, but do you think they’re okay doing that? Rachel seems a little tipsy already, and she’s never been here before. I’m worr—"
"You’ve got your knickers in a knot over nothing. The girls will be fine. Ophelia’s going to ring me as soon as they’re back in their room. She won’t let anything happen to Rachel. Don’t worry."
I wish it were as easy as that.