9. Miles
All afternoon, Brooke and I have been playing dress-up.
I’m six-four, so finding clothes is no slam dunk, yet she scans the racks with her critical eye, pulling garments that magically fit me.
As for her, she looks way too distracting, her outfit skimming her curves, her hair pulled back and plum lipstick on.
I’m pretty sure bossing me around turns her on.
She was the one who wanted to get clear on the boundaries, but every time she inspects me with those dark eyes, I wonder how wide they’d get if I backed her into the wall and slipped a hand up her skirt.
I’m supposed to be looking out for her, not imagining the things we could do in this dressing room before the sales associate busted us.
“I have to be back for shootaround,” I say through the door after she approves the last outfit I emerged in.
“Just one more?”
I pull on another shirt and button it.
I”ve got a game in a few hours, which is what I should be focused on with the team pressure of Atlas being out—that or my grandma’s well-being.
Not Brooke’s laugh, her eyes.
Not why she doesn’t have an actual date to take to this event.
She always displays this utter confidence, so hearing her express nerves over her competition is surprising.
It doesn’t turn me off to see this side of her. If anything, her letting me in has the opposite effect.
She’s beautiful, with walls she keeps high on purpose. I’m allowed to wonder what it would be like to peel away everything and see what’s left.
”Did you get stuck in there?” she calls, sounding impatient.
I’m the most relaxed guy in every locker room, but the last half an hour she’s locked her feelings down and gone back to tough Brooke.
Her annoyance has me reaching for the door.
Fuck the buttons.
I step out of the changing room. ”You think you can do it faster?”
She’s right outside, turning to face me when I emerge.
Her eyes widen as she takes me in, the shirt hanging open. There’s a flash of awareness.
I like getting under her skin. I could live there a minute.
We’re inches apart when her fingers go to my shirt, brushing mine out of the way.
“You have big hands,” she murmurs. Her lips are parted, her lashes half lowered as she focuses on her work.
“Thanks. I do some of my best work with them.” I grin.
Her manicure is bright blue, the color of the ocean in the Caribbean.
”How is the season going?” she asks as she works her way down from the top button.
She grazes my abs. I want to grab her hand and slide it lower.
I don’t often share my personal struggles, but her point-blank question makes me want to answer, and the back of this boutique feels private.
“I worked this summer on my shooting, and I got better. Except I don’t know if better is good enough with us being short-handed.”
She finishes with the buttons and adjusts the cuffs. Her wrists are small. I could circle them with my thumb and pinkie.
“There must be something you can do. Maybe you”re holding yourself back.” She tilts her face up, showing me those gorgeous dark eyes.
The comment catches me off guard.
“It’s not high school, Princess. We can’t play scrappy and cover each other’s spots. This is a professional league, and every guy has to slot in.”
“Even if I agreed with you on that, there’s more you could try. Dig in. Get tough. Take things personally.”
Brooke stands on her toes, reaching up to adjust my collar.
“Oh, like you do?” I ask.
She wobbles, and I catch her waist with one hand to steady her. She’s warm through her shirt, her stomach soft under my thumb.
I don’t wear a lot of collared shirts, but I might need to start.
“Last year,” she gives me side-eye, “you had a goal to fight for. You were underdogs. But now, you have nothing to prove. The entire team can sit around in a massive circle jerk and reminisce about your glory days.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” Her chin lifts. “You play the same game, date the same girls. Maybe you need more to motivate you.”
My smile slips.
I take three steps forward, and she nearly trips trying to keep up. Her back flattens against the wall, and I put a hand on either side of her head.
“You want to dish it out, you better be able to take it,” I say.
Her big, dark eyes blink up at me. “What does that mean?”
She’s not telling me the whole truth. It started earlier with her phone, the cracked screen she ignored when I know for a fact she likes everything perfect.
“There’s a reason you want this contract so much that you’re willing to go to these lengths to get it.”
She dismisses the question. “I’m competitive.”
“Yeah, that’s not it.”
She looks away, and I capture her chin in my thumb and forefinger.
Every second she doesn’t answer and I don’t release her, the tension between us escalates.
Her lashes lower, her lips pressing together. “My mom cut me off.” Her grimace is disgusted, but under that, there’s shame. Hurt.
“Cut you off,” I echo, releasing her chin. “How much of your life was she paying for?”
Brooke inspects her nails. “A lot, apparently. That’s why I need to land this gig with Elise. And it’s down to me and Caroline, and I don’t only want it…”
“You need it,” I finish as the pieces click together. “So why don’t you ask Jay?”
“Because he could snap his fingers and put me on an allowance, which would make him think he has more of a say in how I live my life than he already does. I’m not going from one person paying my rent to someone else doing it.”
I know how much pressure there is in this world to meet expectations. Even in basketball, guys constantly have new houses, new cars, new businesses. I’m lucky as hell to be in the position where I can afford things I couldn’t dream of as a kid, but I’m not immune to it.
Between her mom’s political career and Jay’s basketball career, Brooke grew up with an audience. As much as she resents having to appear flawless, she wants to feel put together, and she wants to do it on her own.
I get it.
Her big, dark eyes find mine. “Don’t tell Jay.”
The firmness of her request has me blinking. “About getting cut off or that I’m going as your date?”
“Either.”
Fuck. I don’t like where this is going.
“He’s going to find out.” The resistance rising up has me shaking my head. “There’ll be pics from the event.”
“You said yourself the team is in flux. Just wait it out. Tell him in a few weeks.” Her expression turns pleading. “I don’t want him thinking less of me.”
I don’t like keeping secrets from my friend and teammate. Honesty is a big deal to me, especially with guys I line up shoulder to shoulder with to face the world.
But…
I want to be here for Brooke. For all the tough acts she puts on, she’s vulnerable.
I wrestle with it until the alarm on my phone goes off, reminding me I have a few minutes to get my ass in gear.
“On one condition,” I say. “If you need anything, you come to me.”
“No.” The word is out of her lips before I finish.
“I mean it. Promise me.” I stare down at her with my most serious expression.
Her full mouth purses. “Fine.”
“I lied. There are two conditions.”
She throws up her hands to protest but I grab her wrists. Her pulse kicks under my thumbs, warm and vital.
“You want to dress me up, I get to play dress up with you too, Princess.”