8. Brooke
8
brOOKE
T he collaboration post of Caroline wearing Elise’s new collection is a punch in the stomach.
It doesn’t lessen as I flip through the slideshow of images.
This could have been the next step in my career.
Waffles whines up at me, and I tear my gaze away from my phone.
“You look like you could use a treat.” He drops his butt to the carpet in an aggressively quick sit, his stump of a tail wagging.
Waffles is a particular dog.
He loves belly rubs and bananas.
He hates getting up early and when Miles leaves.
Yesterday, he helped me with work. By “help,” I mean lay at my feet while I filtered through the responses to my brand partner follow-ups at Miles’s dining table.
I also reached out to some high-profile brands. Most haven’t responded, but a couple have.
What they’re offering would barely pay for Waffles’s dinner not to mention mine.
“Actually, I think we could both use a treat,” I decide, reaching for my sneakers and grabbing Waffles’s harness and leash.
We stop by a local café where I get a latte and a dog biscuit.
Jay and I never had pets growing up, but I can see the appeal. A dog doesn’t care if you look perfect or have a weak moment. He just loves that you want to spend time with him.
It’s oddly wholesome and heartwarming.
The morning light is soft and filtered. On impulse, I take a few pics of me, Waffles, the café and then post them as a slideshow.
When we get back, I’ll cross off another day off the calendar with a big X.
I’ve been here a week yet I haven’t cracked my career issues yet. Unless you’re a Kardashian, there are only so many examples of women making it big as influencers—especially while keeping their integrity intact.
We’re barely in the door at Miles’s when the ding on my phone makes Waffles look up at the same time I do.
Collaboration inquiry reads the subject line.
I click into the message and my breath catches.
Vivaro . The company name sounds familiar. I cross to my bed, sinking onto it as I flip over to their social media.
Founded three years ago but growing fast. They make athleisure and are expanding to intimates.
I navigate through their latest collections, impressed.
“Cute, right?” I hold out the screen to Waffles, as if he can see what’s on it. He gives a little grunt I take as approval.
They’re looking for partnerships to launch their new collection and thought I would be a good fit. I can see why—my audience lines up with their perfectly.
“This could be exactly what we need,” I say aloud. I type out a response to the message, asking if they’d send me a few pieces to try and providing my address.
Then I hoist the dog up in my arms with a whoop of triumph. He snuffles back joyously.
Now that my face is close to him, there’s a lingering smell that makes my nose wrinkle.
“When was the last time you had a bath?”
I put on Lizzo and roll up my sleeves, waving for Waffles to follow me into my bathroom. I lift him into my shower, but he doesn’t like that, pawing at the sides. So on impulse, I take him into Miles’s soaker tub.
On the way, I pass his bed.
Embarrassment rises up at the vivid memory of me opening my hand and realizing he found my earring between his sheets.
Nothing says “I’m over fucking my roommate” like leaving jewelry in his bed while you were rubbing one out.
God. He probably thinks I’m so into him.
Waffles doesn’t try to escape, and I’m able to clean him with the detachable shower head and Miles’s shower gel.
By the time I’m done, Lizzo’s halfway through her album and Waffles is shiny and smells like Miles.
I go to the hall closet to search for towels. Inside, I find towels—but also a box of photos.
Privacy says I shouldn’t look. Still, Miles said I could keep my shoes in his closet, so he’s obviously not a stickler for personal space.
When I flip through the pictures, my lips curve without permission.
There are pictures of Miles playing basketball as a child and again as a teen after a growth spurt. His blue eyes shine, his grin wide and genuine. Photos of him with various teams. Winning in high school. With a younger version of his grams. With someone who must be his mom.
In each of them, he’s with other people. He’s popular because he’s a good guy, a good friend. Not only with me, with everyone.
Waffles interrupts my thinking with a snuffling sound from the tub.
I quickly tuck the photos back in the closet and return to him, towel in hand.
“There you go, buddy.” I dry him before I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. He’s sparkling clean, but I’m a mess.
My attention lands on the jacuzzi tub and longing rises up.
Ten minutes later, I’ve cranked the speaker on my phone and set it on the corner of the tub, and I’m sinking into a pool of bubbles. I sing loudly, my feet sticking out of the corner of the tub and resting on the edge.
Should have done this sooner .
Waffles comes up, setting both front paws on the side of the tub, and snuffles at me with curiosity.
“Damn, you’re cute. Like your owner.”
I can’t resist lifting my phone with bubble-covered hands and taking a picture of his adorable face. I type out a text along with the image and hit Send.
* * *
MILES
“What do you want for Christmas?” one of our bench guys asks Rookie.
“Get him a clue,” Atlas says, laughing. “You see the way he missed that pass? Hit you clean in the head. It’s the meme that keeps on giving.”
Rookie slaps Atlas’s shoulder with a towel on the way past. “Least I’m on the court.”
“Hey, everyone get your heads in the game,” Jay hollers across the visitors’ changeroom, and the guys settle down.
Miami made it deep into the playoffs last year. Next to Boston, they’re our biggest rival in the East.
On the way over from the hotel with Jay, I glanced up at a screen to see that the oddsmakers have us picked to lose.
“We need this,” he said to me.
“We’ll get it.” I said it with more confidence than I felt.
Road games are a physical and mental grind. We’re also a week out from Christmas, and focusing on basketball is a struggle.
Brooke: Here’s some luck for your road trip.
The text comes through when I’m headed to the arena.
The first thing I see in the photo is Waffles, his familiar face and cute ears.
That’s when I realize he’s perched on the edge of my bathtub, which is full of bubbles.
Brooke’s painted toenails are sticking out. I trace it up her curved calves to her thighs.
She makes it sound as though the text is a peace offering. It doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels like a fucking Trojan horse taking me apart from the inside out.
I’m about to shove the picture away when something new catches my attention and I do a double take.
In the mirror over the vanity in the corner of the photo, I can see Brooke’s reflection.
Her lowered lashes and parted lips.
Her hair pinned up around her head.
Her round breasts halfway out of the bubbles as she poses to take the picture.
Heat shoots straight down my spine toward my dick.
She wanted me to see this. The realization makes me swallow.
I would’ve sworn there was nothing worse than watching her walk out the door with some other guy when I knew he couldn’t be what she needed.
Now, I’m picturing her walking in on my shower to join me, or asking me to be her personal photographer for a private clothing-optional shoot—thoughts that take up at least half my focus when I’m joking with Rookie on the plane, or lifting with Clay, or running drills with Jay.
Since she moved in, we’ve both been dancing around what happened. I’ve tried to be a good guy, but in my mind, being the best roommate she’s ever had should have less to do with keeping dishes out of the sink and more to do with giving her multiple orgasms every night.
Miles: Leave any more clothing in my bed?
I shouldn’t say it but can’t resist.
Not when she’s the one who upped the ante.
Brooke: Earrings aren’t clothing. They’re jewelry.
Miles: My bad. Leave any more jewelry in my bed?
Brooke: Like what, a nipple ring?
Fuck me.
The idea of her with one or both of her perfect tits pierced ruins any hope of focusing on the game.
I have to keep my head on straight. We’re playing a strong Miami team in their arena.
Since I was a kid, I’ve always been competitive. I’m always the first one cracking a joke, or laughing at one, the first person to do a dare, the first to lay down a challenge.
Between the pressure on the court and everything else, my fingers dash out a text and hit send.
Miles: We get the win tonight, I want the rest of the picture.
It’s a mistake.
I know it the moment I type it out, but it’s too late to take back.
Every second that ticks by, I’m holding my breath.
Brooke: Miami’s won five straight.
The knot in my gut releases, apprehension replaced with adrenaline.
Miles: So you don’t have anything to worry about.
Brooke: Fine. Deal.
From the opening tip-off, it’s a battle. The fans are like a sixth player, giving us a grief on every foul shot and out-of-bounds.
I keep grinding.
“Come on, man. You got this.” Jay slaps my back in encouragement.
My shots start going in, and as I rack up points, I create more and more of my own offense.
Jay and I manage to connect for a couple of big plays. His relief is evident from the other side of the court.
When we win, the guys rush over to clap me on the back and whip me with their towels.
I grab my phone and take a screenshot of the scoreline, sending it off to Brooke in a text.
Just in case she didn’t see it herself.
When the interviewer grabs me for a post-game chat on the court, she says, “Gritty win tonight. What do we owe this new, tougher Miles to?”
“Trying to get wins while we’re shorthanded.” I’m still catching my breath.
“Rumor has it you’re one of the most popular players in the league,” the interviewer says with a laugh.
“If you can’t make friends here, you’re doing it wrong.”
Tonight, I backed my team up big time. There’s no arguing with it. When I play like that, I’m worth every one of the millions of dollars I’m set to make this year.
“What’s next for Miles?” she asks.
I’m riding a high of invincibility as I stare straight into the camera.
“I’m going home to collect.”