Chapter 3
Three
Blair
Fuck. Why does this man look this good?
He’s always been thick and muscular, needing size to play his position.
But now it’s like he grew into it? I’m not sure how to explain it.
He’s always been attractive, but now he’s making me practically drool with his new facial hair, and some sort of pullover sweater.
It's almost a perfect match of his eyes—that nearly impossible shade of blue—the kind only found in the places you dream of, where the water never ends.
Maybe it’s the wine? Or the borderline food coma?
Get it together.
“This is for you,” Tyson offers as he sets a giftbag on the table.
“For what?”
“I missed your thirtieth birthday last month. You don’t think I was going to let that slide, right?”
No. Tyson is one of the most thoughtful people I’ve ever encountered. No matter what, he’s always found ways to celebrate my birthday, even if we weren’t together.
He side-eyes me, those classic blues almost stopping me in my tracks. Pulling the bag closer, I reach in and pull out the first thing, an envelope with a field pass.
“Hope you can find someone to take your shifts at the gym. Tickets for Sunday’s home game. Pre-game access, all the fun stuff.” His smile is contagious as I pull out an Upstate Cosmos jersey—Bishop #67 on the back.
I hold it up to me and let out a laugh that might be a little loud for public. Fortunately, I look around and see most people have moved to the bar and a lot of the tables are empty.
“This is very fucking cool. I’m so proud of you!” I scoot my chair back, stand, and meet Tyson with my arms looped around his neck. His arms pull me closer, resting on my lower back. He sways back and forth while letting out his own laugh—it shakes us both.
“You didn’t even get to the best part of the gift,” Tyson says in my hair.
I sit, kicking my feet, and put my hands in the bag, pulling out a bag of coffee beans. Bringing the bag to my nose, I take in the deepest breath, trying to smell the notes and uniqueness of the beans. The aromatics hit me—my favorite smell in the world.
Coffee is one of the few things I don’t budget or pay attention to when it comes to a price tag. I’m meticulous about keeping my equipment taken care of and absolutely love trying coffee beans from other roasters.
“You fiend,” Tyson teases, shaking his head at me. “There’s three bags. One for each away game I’ve had this season. Went on a mission to find you the best coffee from each spot.”
“Ty. That’s so sweet.” He grins at the nickname, the one he’s pretended to hate, but doesn’t seem to mind when I use it. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
He sucks in a breath, like he’s going to say something. Instead, he takes a drink of water and follows it with a standard, “You’re welcome.”
Tyson always seems to remember the little details and puts other people first. Exhibit A: the second bottle of wine we’re working on when I know he doesn’t drink much during the season, and if he does, it’s typically an IPA.
But here’s this burly man, drinking pink wine, without a care in the world.
He pours the rest of the bottle into our two glasses and one thought keeps running in my brain.
How is this man single?
"Woah, guess it’s time for us to go,” I say, looking around at the chairs flipped on tables. It looks like most of the restaurant staff has left, leaving only the closers behind.
“Time flies,” Ty adds, standing up and pulling his phone out. “I’ll get us an Uber.”
Smart, considering we each had a bottle of wine. And a glass of bourbon with dessert, as recommended by the server. Apparently, it was the perfect match for the Pecan Pralines, and let me tell you, he was 100% correct.
Ty leaves an extra $100 bill on the table, probably because we stayed for hours and no one made us feel rushed.
Hell, maybe they did and we just didn’t pick up on it?
Wouldn’t be the first time. We have this way of getting wrapped up in each other, no matter if we’re talking sports, the gym, family drama, or some meme on the internet.
We’re waiting for the Uber outside, seeing the closing time on the door and realizing we’re past it by almost an hour.
The air has the chill of winter on its edges and it’s windier than before.
I try to wrap my arms around me, but that’s difficult when I’m holding a gift bag, plus this jacket is much more for novelty than function.
Like Ty can read my mind, he wraps me in a bear hug. He’s big and warm, and I don’t know what kind of fabric this pullover is, but fuck, it’s soft. Rubbing my back, he tries to warm me up—shield me from the cold.
And I don’t resist.
Too quick, it seems, the Uber shows up. Tyson confirms the license plate, opens my door and helps me in before walking to the other side and sliding in next to me.
“What about my car?” I finally realize that tomorrow—well, today, considering it’s after midnight—I will have work to do and places to be.
Tyson’s face is illuminated by his phone. He swipes around a few times and hands it back to me. “Schedule an Uber to your apartment. Address and everything is typed in, just need to know what time.”
Again, thoughtful.
“You think of everything,” I say while trying to decide what time I'll want to be up and ready to go get my car and start my day. Ooof. Tomorrow may suck a little. But I'd do it again, no questions asked, to spend time like this with one of my favorite people.
We’re on our way to my place first; it’s about twenty minutes from here, and I can’t get my hands warm.
I’d rather melt into the Earth than ask the Uber driver to turn the heat up or be a burden in any way, shape, or form.
I rub them on my jeans and try to put them inside the sleeves of my jacket, but nothing helps.
“Here,” Ty says while reaching for my hands, which feel like icicles, and sandwiching them between his own.
His hands are massive and ridiculously warm. “Your hands are like bear paws,” I tease while leaning my head to his shoulder and letting our hands fall between us.
Ty laughs. “Lots of encounters with bears since we’ve last caught up?”
I smile into him at the joke and feel my stomach flip, like when you start the drop of a rollercoaster.
Because him and I, sitting like this, his hands in mine. It feels like something I’d like to do again.
But we’re just friends. The words rattle in my ribcage, thinking about the first time he said them, all those years ago.
I’d been waiting for him outside the weight room, sitting on the concrete bench with my backpack at my feet, swinging my legs just to burn off nervous energy. I had a great practice at the soccer field and couldn’t wait to tell Tyson all about it.
The doors swung open, and I heard his laugh before I saw him. He was talking with a couple of his teammates, helmet tucked under one arm, bag on his shoulder.
“I told you,” he said, “Blair’s waiting. I have to go.”
My chest warmed at the sound of my name—at the fact that he’d told them about our plans. It’s been a minute since anyone could make my stomach flip like this. Actually, it’s been months.
After the athlete mixer, the basketball-playing junior I was dating decided to end things. It wasn’t that serious between us, but seeing him with someone the following weekend stung like lemon in a cut.
And then there was Tyson. Present whenever I needed him. Wearing a smile I’d never get sick of. He invited me to the party where I saw my ex—he was trying to get me to do something fun—and he felt so bad he ended up leaving to get me ice cream.
Tonight was going to be pretty lowkey with nothing elaborate planned, just getting homework done for classes, and maybe watching whatever NBA game was on.
The sound of the guys chatting pulled me back to the present. I could see them if I peeked around the pillar in front of me. One of them pressed, “Oh, so sorry! Forgot that your girl’s waiting for you, Bishop.”
I froze where I sat, my whole body lighting up at that—your girl.
Then came the questions, quick and relentless—were we a thing, had we kissed yet, was he ever going to make a move?
I gripped the strap of my backpack, heart hammering, waiting for him to smile and say yes, waiting for him to claim me in front of everyone.
Instead, he shrugged, casual as ever. “Nah. We’re just friends.”
Just friends. Two little words that knocked every bit of air from my lungs. One of the first times I realized how much I wanted something more but it wasn’t in the cards to have.
They all laughed and moved on, still talking about weekend plans, but I couldn’t make myself move.
My throat burned as I slipped out before he could spot me, and I immediately put my cell phone to my ear, like I was deep in conversation.
I had to put on the mask, convince him, before he could see the way those words—the ones I wasn’t supposed to hear—shattered something I didn’t have the words for yet.
Every once in a while, when I think Tyson is doing something that would put us in a different category—other than friends—that conversation comes roaring back.
It’s just the thing to sober me up in the back of the car, even though Tyson’s hands are still holding mine.