Chapter 25 Rachel
Vegas is … exhausting.
I’m going to need at least a week to recover from all this stimulation. It’s bright and loud everywhere. I can practically feel my blood pressure rising with all those fluorescent lights. Except for meeting Ophelia and getting to see TJ at the restaurant for those few minutes, I wish I hadn’t come.
Ophelia and I lasted all of fifteen minutes in the Luxor Casino before we decided to blow that off for dessert at the Milk Bar.
It was much more our speed.
It also made Ophelia decide to write a romance about dueling ice cream companies with an enemies-to-lovers trope rather than a mob romance. I tell her about the Doyle family post-game ice cream tradition, thinking it would be a great subplot in her story.
"What do you think he meant about the shoes?" I finally ask her, kicking the torture devices off my feet. These were not meant for walking or standing.
"Exactly what you think it means."
"But he just wants to be my friend."
Ophelia pauses, taking a long sip from her milkshake. "Says who?"
"Says him. He said it like ten times. It was the friend zone to end all friend zones. Unequivocally. Trust me, he doesn’t think of me as anything other than a friend."
"Trust me, he does. He looked at you the way you’re looking at that ice cream sundae in front of you. I know romance. I know lust and longing, and boy does he have it bad for you."
That … that doesn’t seem right. "Are you sure we were looking at the same thing? Tyler? TJ Doyle. Are you sure he wasn’t just looking at the chips and salsa? Those were pretty damn good. I myself have experienced significant lust and longing over chips and salsa before."
Ophelia insists over and over that she’s right. She offers to text Xavier and ask him, but I don’t want to be the fodder for gossip. And as much as I’d like to believe what Ophelia says, I don’t think I can trust her judgment. I’ve seen her ClikClaks.
The next day we’ve got time to kill before the game. I want to text TJ and tell him about our wild night that wasn’t. He’s got to be focused on the team. I can’t be distracting him.
Since the casino life isn’t for us, I suggest we find a bookstore.
It’s much more on brand for both of us. We take an Uber to one called The Writer’s Block.
It looks so cute. This time, the bright neon lights don’t bother me one bit.
There is stuff crammed into every single corner, with vines and plants and birds hanging from every conceivable surface.
The owners must have a serious obsession with birds.
There are plush birds and taxidermized birds and animatronic birds and sculptures of birds. It’s so cool.
I could spend all day in here.
That is, until I realize Ophelia isn’t behind me. I look all over but can’t find her. Where is she? What if someone grabbed her? My heart begins to pound as my neck begins to sweat. With shaking hands, I pull out my phone to call her.
Ophelia: I’m outside whenever you’re ready.
I rush to the door. It’s about a million degrees, and Ophelia’s standing out here, sweating. She looks pale, though, instead of flushed from the heat like I’d expect her to be.
"Are you okay?"
She shakes her head. I know that headshake. I know that expression. I’ve felt it a million times.
"Sit down," I order, taking charge like Gram would for me. We both sit on the step. Jesus, it’s hot out here. "You know, the first time TJ ever drove me anywhere, I started to have a panic attack in his car. I didn’t even have to tell him what was going on. He just knew. I’ve been having panic attacks since I was a kid. Everyone tells me to calm down."
"As if it were that easy." Ophelia laughs.
"Yeah, well, I have a new secret hack, thanks to Tyler."
"Tyler?"
"TJ," I correct. "He told me that friends call him Tyler."
She bumps her shoulder into mine. "Right. Friends. So what is this hack your friend told you?"
I tell her the secret of "I Gotta Feeling," and by the end, we’re laughing. She looks more relaxed. "You better? Wanna go inside? It’s hotter than Satan’s balls out here."
The color drains from her face again as she shakes her head. "I can’t go in there. Too many birds."
"Birds?"
Ophelia nods. "I hate birds. I’m irrationally afraid of them." This is the worst place in the world for her, short of an aviary.
I stand up. "Alrighty then. Who am I to judge anyone’s irrational fear? I have random fears for no reason. At least you know what your trigger is. Let’s get outta here and into someplace with A/C."
A few minutes later, we’re in the Uber on the way back to the hotel when I spot a sign through the window. "Pull over!" I yell. "I need to get out here." I have no idea how far we are from the hotel, but I need to stop.
Ophelia looks at me. "Are you okay?"
I nod. "Yes. I … I have to do this. I’ll understand if you don’t want to come with me, but I have to."
Ophelia considers for a split second. "Okay, I’m in. I like not being the crazy, impulsive friend for once."
I have to laugh. I’m not crazy. I’m not impulsive. That was Richie, not me. All this is for her and her list.
We step out of the Uber and shade our eyes, looking up at the sign. Las Vegas Shooting Center.
"I, uh, didn’t pick you for a gun person."
"Oh, I’m totally not. I didn’t know my sister was either, but she left it on her list for me to do." I pull the list out of my pocket and hand it over to Ophelia to read. Somehow, sharing this part is getting easier. "Are you a gun person?"
She shakes her head. "A massage gun is about it. But," Ophelia says, "it could be useful for a book, I guess."
"Wanna do this with me?" Somehow, the thought of doing the things on the list with someone rather than by myself makes them seem not nearly as daunting.
Maybe, just maybe, that was Richie’s point to begin with.
"You really need to get a jersey with TJ’s name on it. That way, the other WAGs know who you’re with." Ophelia’s wearing a shirt that says "Henry" across the back. Considering it’s her name too, it’s not that much of a stretch for her.
"We’re just friends. And if he wants me to wear his jersey, he’s going to have to give me one." I probably should have some Boston Buzzards gear at this point. It’s the third game in a row I’m attending. Instead, I’m wearing a plain black tank top.
"Here, wear this. I have tons of them." Ophelia tosses me a Buzzards T-shirt. "Until you get your own."
"I can’t wait to tell him about the gun range. He’s going to be proud of me. No one even had to force me to do it."
I even looked into parasailing, but it doesn’t seem feasible on this trip. Places in the Northeast are closed for the season, so I’ll either have to travel again or wait until next summer. I can probably wait. I’ve made enough progress on the list for now. Richie should be happy with it.
Not to mention that I still won’t be able to accomplish everything, so I really shouldn’t stress, even though stressing is what I do best.
Tonight, the game is much more enjoyable sitting with Ophelia than I’m sure it would be by myself.
I’m not even tempted to pull out my book.
It goes by quickly, with a win for the good guys, and before I know it, Ophelia’s rushing out of the stadium to go back to the hotel to get ready to go out with her husband.
I’ll just settle in and read. But wait, what if they want to come back to our room? Where would that leave me? I get that Vegas doesn’t sleep, but I don’t want to be wandering around a strange city all by myself all night.
I wonder what TJ plans to do? What’s his normal post-game routine?
Ice cream is out. Or is it? I pull out my phone and find several options, the best rated being the Ghirardelli at The LINQ.
According to Google, its full name is The LINQ Hotel + Experience.
Everything here in Vegas seems to be an experience.
"Are you going to wait for Xavier here or back at the hotel?" I ask Ophelia.
"They ride the team bus, so I’ll meet him back at the hotel," she informs me.
Makes sense since they took the bus there to begin with. Ophelia and I walked over, and we’ll do the same on the return journey as well. Even with the fifteen-minute walk, we still beat the team back to the W.
"Let’s go wait by their room rather than in the lobby. We don’t want to draw any more attention than we have to," Ophelia suggests.
TJ and Xavier are staying a few floors above us.
We don’t have to wait outside their room long before the elevator dings and the guys step off.
Normally, by the time TJ meets up with his family for post-game ice cream, he’s in shorts and a T-shirt, his slides, and a backwards baseball cap. Tonight, he’s in suit mode.
I have to fan myself, he’s so damn hot.
"Friends. Sure. Friends," Ophelia mutters before running down the hall and launching herself at her husband. He scoops her up, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist, and they don’t even bother coming up for air as he pushes open his door.
It slams shut behind them, leaving TJ—Tyler—and me standing there, looking at each other.
He said friends call him Tyler.
"Guess I’m not going in," Tyler says, running a hand through his damp hair. "This is what sucks about away games."
"You’re not going in, because we’re going out." I pull out my phone and order an Uber.
"Where are we going?" he asks as he follows me toward the elevator.
"First, we’re going to drop your stuff in my room, and then you’re going to trust me."
He gives me a salute. "Aye aye, Cap’n."
He takes off his suitcoat—damn—and rolls up the sleeves of his black dress shirt.
I finally understand the obsession that my book heroines have with forearms. Yowzas.
I do a quick change out of Ophelia’s Boston Buzzards T-shirt into my plain black tank top.
I still look way underdressed compared to him, but I don’t have many other options with me. I packed for comfort, not couture.