12. Brooke
12
brOOKE
“D id you see HoopsNews eat their words?”
My brother hollers loud enough the entire table can hear him over the music and laughter that fill the bar.
“It’s the media’s job to make news,” I remind him, nudging him with an elbow.
He snorts. “They’re sure as hell doing it.”
The team and friends are at Mile High following the third win of the midseason tournament. I’m seated on the outside next to my brother and Atlas. Clay, Nova, and Rookie are on the far side.
In mid-December, there are more purple Kodiak hoodies and hats on fans in the streets than holiday clothing. The entire city is swept up in Kodiaks fever after a lull that feels like it’s lasted far too long.
“You’re going to Mom’s for Christmas Eve,” Jay says. It’s a question.
“That’s the plan. Why?”
“I saw her the other day and she said she wasn’t sure.”
I roll my eyes. “She asked me to help with an appearance last week and I said I was busy. She’s not used to hearing no.”
Jay cocks his head. “Busy with what?”
“You kidding? Campaign is my new wallpaper,” Rookie says, nodding to me.
I laugh.
“What campaign?” my brother asks.
“It’s not a campaign. Just a post I did with this activewear brand.”
Rookie’s already holding out his phone to my brother.
Jay’s brows lift. “Mom seen this?”
I smack his shoulder. “I’m grown and they’re called leggings and a sports bra.”
“Amen,” agrees Rookie.
The post I made for Vivaro including pics from my mini photo shoot with Nova was a hit.
This morning I got an email from their head of partnerships saying how much they loved it and want to do more together.
It’s almost enough that I can tune out the haters that jump in with their judgments about my body, their criticisms about what I’m wearing.
I try to skim over them, to imagine they’re talking about someone else. Or remind myself they don’t know me and that I’m the one getting paid.
“So, Christmas means a late night with the senator?” Atlas says from the other side of the booth.
“My mom will have one glass of her favorite wine and pass out by ten,” I state, grateful to stay on the topic of holidays at my family’s home.
“If you’re smart, you’ll all be asleep too with a game Christmas Day broadcast on every network,” I point out.
It’s a tradition that the top teams play on Christmas, and the Kodiaks being defending champs ensures it.
“It’s against LA.” Clay’s across the booth, an arm draped around Nova.
“Which is Clayton Wade for ‘don’t lose,’” Sierra offers as she drops off fresh pints.
“You speak Kodiak very well,” Nova jokes, and we all laugh.
LA was the team’s prime competition from last year, and Clay has an eternal chip on his shoulder when it comes to them.
“Good thing Garrett’s playing like he’s got a cheat code,” Rookie says, looking up.
“Someone trying to jerk me off?” Miles slides in next to me. Four smaller people could fit without a problem. With three of the four being professional basketball players, it’s a squeeze.
I feel every inch of him through our clothes.
“You assume every time you hear your name that it’s a compliment?” I toss.
“Obviously.” He grins in my direction.
He’s dressed in jeans and a zip-up sweater. I’d know it without looking, because I had a hand fisted the fabric of each an hour ago when he parked the Range Rover in an underground lot nearby.
Every inch of me heats, and it takes a concerted effort not to bite my lip.
Does it look like we’ve been hooking up for the past week?
Because we totally have.
Since the night of Clay and Nova’s party, every spare second that he hasn’t been on the Kodiak clock and I haven’t been working, we’re fucking each other’s brains out.
In his bed.
In my shower.
On the chaise longue.
If sex were a religion, we’ve been devout.
The man is a beast in bed. He’s fun and creative and has zero judgment.
Each time we’re together leaves me more convinced I want to keep riding the ride.
“It’s because of Waffles. He’s lucky for all of us,” Damon decides.
“How do you figure?” I ask. “He’s had Waffles for a few years.”
Damon shrugs. “Got any other ideas?”
My gaze meets Miles’s, his eyes dancing.
A slideshow of places we’ve hooked up flashes across my brain and I wonder if the same thing is happening for him.
“Guess not,” I say into my drink, gulping like I’ve been walking in a desert all week.
“We’re all having Christmas dinner with Kodiaks and fam after the game, right?” Rookie asks.
Harlan, the GM, is hosting an event for the team and family.
“Not me,” Miles says, shaking his head. Groans go up from around the table.
“You too cool for us?” Damon challenges.
Miles shifts back, grinning. “I don’t want to take Grams out with her arm still healing. so I’m taking over food and I’m going to spend it with her.”
“That’s really sweet,” Nova sighs. There’s murmured agreement and my heart kicks in my chest.
An hour later, Miles and I bump into each other as I’m coming out of the bathrooms and he’s heading there.
“Garrett.” My voice is rough, either from the alcohol or something else.
“Roomie.” His brows lift, the corners of his mouth too. “You don’t like me calling you ‘Roomie,’” he teases.
His tone makes me frown. “I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t have to.” He looks both ways before stepping closer, capturing my hands in his. His lips brush my cheek, trace my jaw. “I could call you Princess.”
A shiver runs through me and I make a non-committal sound.
“I could call you mine.” His teeth graze my throat and I melt .
The hooking up is addictive, but more than that, the crush I swore I’d get over isn’t retreating—if anything, it’s deepening.
Sneaking around is hot, but I can’t pretend that all I’m feeling is the thrill.
“There a reason Rookie keeps looking at you with dreamy eyes?” Miles murmurs.
“He saved my posts as his phone wallpaper.”
“For real? Shit. Dude’s got a hard screen coming in practice tomorrow.”
His mouth brushes mine.
Surprise has my brows lifting.
Is Miles Garrett jealous?
He might’ve acted like it before, but this is the first time he’s admitted as much.
I’ve never known my brother’s friend to get jealous over a woman, or possessive.
The sound of laughter from around the corner jolts us both out of our haze.
“I’m glad someone likes the posts,” I murmur.
I regret saying anything when Miles frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Just a lot of haters. It’s fine. It happens with most posts, and it happens more to women who look like me.”
He releases me with one hand to pull up the post on his phone. He reads, his mouth tightening the further he goes.
“This is bullshit.”
His reaction triggers the cascade of thoughts I’ve been repeating to myself like mantras.
“Having dissenting views isn’t strictly a bad thing. It helps the algorithm.”
“Fuck the algorithm.”
My lips curve at the way he defends me. “Fuck the algorithm,” I agree.
“That’s right. You’re beautiful in and out of everything. If you forget, I’m going to remind you later. Repeatedly.” Miles tugs on my hair before releasing me.
I watch him head into the bathroom, glancing back at me with a wink.
“See you later, Roomie.”
* * *
“Something’s wrong with my Instagram,” Nova says as we walk down 16 th Street.
“What is it?” I flip my collar, tugging it up around my face to keep the wind out.
It’s a week before Christmas, and Nova and I are taking a girls’ afternoon to shop. I have budget-conscious ideas for my brother and my parents, and she needs to find something for Clay.
She holds up her phone and I pull up next to her. My attention zeroes in on the numbers on the screen. My friend points a pink-mitten-covered hand at the corner.
“It says I got a thousand new followers overnight.”
“Hell, yeah.” I tug off my own gloves, cold be damned, and click around her profile.
“It’s the video I posted of my work in progress. It’s going crazy,” she says with wonder.
“People love it.” I grin and pass her back the phone. We high-five.
“You’re a genius,” Nova says as we continue down the block.
I glance up to see the facade of a store that has something I want for my brother. Another patron emerges, and I hold the door for my friend to go first.
“Have you had any new inquiries?” I ask.
“Ten this morning. I can’t keep up.”
My jaw drops. “Nova. That’s insane,” I say once we’re out of the cold. “If you want, I’d be happy to vet them for you.”
“Really? That would be amazing.” She does a little skip and a jump that makes me laugh. She types away on her phone. “I’m sending you money now.”
The transfer pops up on my cracked screen.
“That’s too much,” I protest.
“Are you kidding? You got me five times that much new business and saved me a ton of headaches. Plus, without your help, I never would have started selling my art. Or taken the commission for the Kodiaks. Or…”
She’s counting items off on her fingers like a shopping list, and I grab her hand out of the air.
“Okay, I get it!”
I love that I was able to help my friend, and the money is a bonus.
“Are you buying something for Miles?” Nova’s question interrupts my thinking.
I scrutinize each shelf as I drift down an aisle. “I want to. But I don’t want to weird him out.”
“How much time have you spent in his bed since the party?”
“Remarkably little,” I declare. “On the counter, the dresser, against the wall on the other hand…”
“But this is different because you’re exposing yourself,” she finishes. “When you get him a present, you’re saying, ‘This is how I see our relationship and how I value it and what you mean to me.’ Which is complicated by the fact that you’re living together.”
I groan. “Can I just get him a new toaster?”
My thoughts turn to my roommate with benefits. He’s done a lot for me, even fully clothed, and I want to show him how much I appreciate him.
We continue browsing until we find what I want for Jay. I search for the wine I want for my mom without luck.
“How hard is it to find a bottle of wine?” I grumble when we get to the register. “I’ve looked in person, and it was backordered online from the vineyard.”
The coffee table at Miles’s is strewn with wine flyers, and I’ve been calling around all week.
“Can you get her something else?” Nova asks.
“This one’s her favorite. But I guess it’s not happening.”
We hit up some thrift stores and are laden down with bags by the time we grab lunch. On our way out, I pause to admire a wall of framed photos of the restaurant over the years. I always thought these displays were kind of kitschy, but something about the black-and-white smiling faces grabs my attention.
A crowd comes in and I finally turn for the door, running smack into another woman.
“Brooke,” she says, eyes widening with shock.
“Caroline.”
My former sorority sister looks composed as ever, a soft pink wool coat buttoned up to her throat, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her blond hair smoothed into a low ponytail.
Nova’s waiting expectantly, so I introduce them.
“Kevin’s not here?” I ask, silently willing the answer to be no.
“I’m alone. He’s at work,” Caroline adds, as if the reason matters. “I’ve been doing almost all the wedding planning myself.”
The reminder that they’re engaged elicits a twinge from my stomach, but nothing like when they announced it.
“That must be taxing,” I say evenly.
“You have no idea.” She cuts a look toward the door, the whites of her eyes shine in the overhead lights.
Under closer inspection, the flush that I attributed to the cold extends across her entire complexion. She’s stressed, or maybe sick.
“Are you okay?” I ask Caroline.
Caroline blinks twice. “Perfect. Nice to meet you,” she says to Nova.
Trouble in paradise? I wonder.
I should feel vindicated, but most, I feel sad.
“Were you ever friends?” Nova asks as slip out the front doors.
“In the early days at college, I thought we were,” I admit. “I don’t trust her anymore.”
“When you’re in a bad moment, it’s so easy to forget the good ones.”