Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
Michelle
I do my best to avoid Tristan all week after our little after-hours indiscretion in the locker room.
Sure, the memory of it has haunted my dreams and left me waking up panting in the middle of the night, but it’s fine.
Every time I think about the fact that he came from giving me the best oral of my life, I feel weak in the knees.
Weak in the everywhere else, too.
It’s easier to pretend it’s just for fun if I don’t have to see him all the time.
It’s easier to pretend I can be casual if he’s not around, because I don’t think I could keep my hands to myself at this point.
Luckily, it’s not especially hard to avoid him, considering the players are in training overdrive, preparing for the season opener.
I’m as busy as ever, too, although Mark has backed down, just slightly, after my little staff lunch power play.
I tune back in to the task at hand, trying to push Tristan from my mind.
Maddie sits across my desk from me, rattling off social media statistics on her PR campaign. I take notes in my planner as I half listen, goose bumps spreading across my skin when a memory of Tristan flits through my head.
“The guys have been great. We have every single slot signed up for throughout the rest of the season. I took the liberty of inviting some of the local sports reporters to some of the events we’re putting on, too.”
“The dinner party?” I ask, still only barely paying attention. As far as I’m concerned, Maddie has taken the lead on this and has knocked it out of the park.
“Yeah, the dinner party. We were able to get a few local chefs to volunteer, and we’re still narrowing down a theme, but we’re on track to be able to get graphics up and tickets on sale within the next two weeks.
I just need you to sign the contracts with the venue and the vendors, and then legal has some things for you to sign so they can donate the proceeds to the local Boys and Girls Club. ”
I zero in on her, finally giving her my full focus. “That’s great,” I say, and I mean it. “You’ve done really good work, and really fast.”
She exhales shakily, sweeping a relieved look my way as she glances up from her iPad. “You really think so?”
“I absolutely do. You’ve been more proactive than—” I almost say the rest of her salaried colleagues but catch myself in time. Apparently not giving a fuck is starting to work, because I almost did some major damage. “Than a lot of people I’ve worked with.”
“I have to admit, I didn’t think I would get to work on a project like this.” She beams at me, all enthusiasm and sunshine, and I’m truly glad for her.
“It’s going to look excellent on your résumé, and I’m happy to give you a recommendation for wherever you apply.”
She bites her lip, looking back down at the screen. “I thought maybe I could…” Maddie clears her throat. “Work here?”
My eyes widen, and I force a smile at her. “That’s great. The Aces would be lucky to have you. I’ll have to see what kind of positions we have open when your internship is over and you graduate.”
I want to tell her that this is not a place where she’ll be happy…but maybe it will be.
I frown. Maybe it’s just not a place where I can be happy anymore.
Maddie positively radiates joy, and she swipes at the screen, continuing with her briefing on the dinner as I settle back in my office chair and stare at nothing in my notes.
Working here hasn’t made me happy or fulfilled in a long time.
How did I let that happen?
Why didn’t I see it before?
I hardly notice as she finishes speaking, giving her a few noncommittal noises of agreement as a loud knock sounds against my office door.
Tristan pokes his head in. His hair’s damp, like he just got done with a shower, and he’s even more handsome than I remember.
My heart speeds up, heat rushing to my cheeks. Thinking about Tristan in the shower—us in the shower—is dangerous territory.
Maddie’s speech falters, and he clears his throat.
“I have to steal some of her time from you,” he tells her.
Maddie glances at me for confirmation, and I jerk my head in affirmation. She practically launches out of her chair, grabbing her water bottle and tote and skedaddling away with one last curious look between us.
Tristan closes the door, and my throat tightens when he flips the lock.
“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” he says, all dimples and white teeth.
“What can I do for you?” I ask him, staunchly ignoring the way my lower body clenches around nothing.
“I was actually wondering what I could do for you,” he says, a knowing look in his eyes. “I thought maybe I could take you for lunch.”
“As part of our bet?” I ask. I tear my gaze away from him, clicking at nothing on my computer screen, opening and closing emails I read yesterday.
He doesn’t answer for a long moment, but I don’t dare look at him, because I’m a coward, and I’m afraid I’ll tell him I want to jump his bones right here and now in my office.
“Well, it depends on what I’m eating for lunch, I guess.” His voice is neutral enough that I summon up the courage to look at him.
A mistake.
His gaze is scalding hot, slipping from my eyes to my mouth and down my body.
I swallow, my mouth gone dry.
My phone buzzes on my desk, diverting both of our attention.
I can’t decide if I’m relieved by it or annoyed.
It’s Lauren, and I brandish my phone at him like it’s a shield. I want to spend time with him. But not like this—not for a bet, not just for hooking up.
I already know he’s going to hurt my heart when he gets sick of this casual thing.
“I already have plans. I’m so sorry. Another time?”
“We need to talk,” he says, and his mouth forms a grim line.
“Okay, talk,” I tell him, spreading my hands wide, my phone pressing firmly into my palm.
He swipes a hand over his brow, and then he exhales noisily. “I’m taking you shopping when I get back this weekend.”
Oh. I want to argue with him about it, but I need him out of my office, out of my line of sight. Not because I don’t like looking at him, but because I like looking at him too much. It hurts to see him, an ache deep in my breast so sharp it threatens to take my breath away.
“Fine, sure,” I say, as nonchalant as possible.
“You’re angry with me.” It’s delivered softly, regretfully. “Is it because of the shower—”
“Not at all.” A bright smile punctuates my claim. Too bright. “I…like what happened.” That’s true, at least, and his eyes narrow. “I said I wanted to, and I meant it. We can still be friends with—” I clear my throat, struggling to get the words out. “Benefits.”
It takes all of my willpower not to cringe at the word.
I give myself the ick.
Tristan doesn’t move, his eyes still focused on me, like he can see right through me and knows that I don’t want casual, never will and never have, and especially not with him.
But I know his reputation—everyone knows his reputation—and I’m not about to ask for more, not when I know I’m a stage-five clinger.
“It’s good practice,” I say, surprising myself. “Or it will be.”
“Sex, you mean?”
At last, I get a reaction from him, although I’m not sure why I was holding my breath waiting for one.
He stalks toward me, ignoring the invisible boundary of my desk and pressing his hands to the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. My chin tilts up so I can look at him.
“Are you trying to tell me you want more?” he asks. “Casually?”
The question sounds anything but casual, and I’m growing to hate that word. A lot.
“That’s right.”
He kisses me, then, not holding back at all, savage and rough, teeth and tongue, and I respond immediately, throwing my arms around him, wanting more, wanting him.
Tristan pulls away, though, staring at me through hooded eyes. “Good. That’s good.”
I love his praise. I’m not sure what that says about me, and I’m not sure I want to unpack that, not even a little bit.
“I’ll pick you up on Sunday at noon,” he says.
“You’ll be exhausted after the opener,” I object. “We can do it another time—”
“I will see you on Sunday at noon. And don’t forget to take notes for the doughnut debrief next Friday.”
I’m not meeting them this Friday, because of the game on Saturday. Coach Garrett wants them focused, and apparently, he objects to doughnut bingeing the day before the opener.
“Fine,” I tell him, trying to smooth out my breathing.
I don’t want him to know how much he affects me. I don’t want him to have any more power over me than I’ve already handed away.
This is just for fun, I remind myself.
“You look upset,” he says, tilting his head.
“I’m hungry.” It’s true, at least.
His hand brushes against mine, resting on my lap, and then he lifts it, bending to press a kiss against my knuckles.
My hand trembles when he lets it go, and he says nothing as he unlocks my door and walks through it without another word.
“Shit,” I say to my empty office, rubbing my temples.
“You did what?!” Lauren screeches, and my anus puckers instinctively.
Great, because that’s the Pavlovian response I wanted.
Wincing, I pick up the green juice in front of me and chug it.
“You had sex with him?” she whispers loud enough to make the couple at the table next to us turn and stare.
“No.”
“No?”
I set the cup down, narrowly avoiding a pulverized spinach and banana tsunami. “Not yet,” I clarify.
“Honestly, I want to say good for you, but you look like you just swallowed nails.”
“Construction nails or acrylic?” I ask, stabbing the also-green salad in front of me.
“Diabolical question,” Lauren says, her lip curling in disgust.
I perk up, because maybe going full Abigail on her will distract her from asking me anything—
“So you’re going to sleep with him, and yet you look pissed about it. Was he bad in bed?”
The couple next to us are clearly eavesdropping now, and honestly, I don’t even blame them. I would, too.
When the woman makes eye contact with me, though, I give her a savage little wave that makes her blush.
“No,” I answer quietly, because Lauren is still staring at me expectantly. More salad. That’s what my mouth needs in order to stop volunteering information. “Not in bed, or in the shower.”
“In the shower!” she yells, slamming her palms down on the table.
“Shush!”
“If it was good, then why are you upset?” This, in a stage whisper.
“I’m not upset,” I practically yell through a mouthful of arugula.
Her brows furrow, and I make myself chew and swallow. “Something’s bothering you, so let’s talk about it. If it’s not whatever hanky-panky you two did, then fine, but tell me what it is.”
“Work,” I say glumly, stabbing at a cherry tomato, which has the audacity to roll away from my biodegradable fork in my time of need.
“Finally crashing out, huh?”
“Crashing out?” I repeat.
“Yeah.” She gives a little shrug, sipping at her green juice. “Realized you’re tired of pushing all the time and about to throw in the towel.”
I start to say no, but I stop myself. Maybe she’s right. Maybe that is what’s wrong.
Part of it, at least.
“How’s your friend resolution?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Oh, I made a new friend on Saturday, at karaoke,” she says easily. “West.”
“West?” I ask, wrinkling my nose as tomato squirts across my arugula.
“Yeah, you know, the coach? Weston Garrett? West?”
“Oh, Coach Garrett,” I say, realizing I’ve never heard anyone really use his first name. Now Lauren not only knows him by his first name but also his nickname? “That’s nice.”
I stuff the cherry tomato in my mouth.
“I mean, it’s more of a sexual thing, though.”
I choke on the tomato, and the woman who’s been eavesdropping meets my eyes again. Coughing, I knock my fist against my chest, finally dislodging the damned fruit.
“Yeah, I don’t have any regrets about it, though, you know? I think we might meet up again.” Another shrug. “Maybe not. So what are you going to do about work?”
I’m going to get whiplash from this conversation. If Abigail was here, she would one hundred percent have my back right now and deflect to her and Luke or something. Or do a Gollum impression and just straight up derail everyone’s train of thought.
“Is there anything to do about it?”
Lauren’s eyebrows skyrocket, and she wrinkles her nose at me. “Duh.”
I raise my eyebrows right back, like an Old West–style eyebrow duel, finally unearthing the hard-boiled egg in my salad I’d been searching for and waiting for her to clarify.
“Are you joking right now? You’re a badass.
Go find another job, where you aren’t worked to the bone, where you like what you do, or at least don’t hate it.
Where you won’t have to give up your entire life for it.
That’s weird, man.” She shakes her cup, eyeing her straw before resuming slurping.
“I run my own business, and even I have better boundaries than you.”
“I honestly don’t know how I’d have the energy to look for anything else right now.” It’s not a lie, but it does feel like a cop-out, even though I’m the one saying it.
“Network, then.” She dips part of her pita into the hummus we split.
“You know a lot of people. You have a ton of experience. What about your soccer girls? Maybe they can find you something. Or you could do, like, a calisthenics class at my studio? Try it out? Don’t waste any minute of this life doing something you don’t love. ”
“Like Coach Garrett?” It’s a low blow, and I regret my snarky question as she stiffens. “Sorry, that was rude.”
“I mean, I don’t love him.” Her lips quirk to the side. “You’re not wrong. But I like how he made me feel, and that’s good enough for right now. I don’t think you like how your job is making you feel, though.”
It’s astute enough that it makes me feel even worse, and I push away my mostly eaten salad, my appetite gone. “Sorry, Lauren, that was stupid of me to say. This Tristan thing…it’s got me messed up. And work. Maybe I’m just a mess.”
It’s not like me, this complete lack of control, and of course, that makes me think of Tristan again.
Like he’s peeled back all my carefully constructed layers, and now I can cocoon myself back up when I need to most.
“I’m being too intense, huh? Sorry. I’m all up in your business.” She sips from her straw, eyeing me nervously.
“No, you’re not too intense. I mean, yes, you are intense, but it’s not bad.
” I blow out a breath. “You’re right. I think…
” I trail off, once again making eye contact with our eavesdropper, who must have a pretty boring conversation partner if she’d rather listen to us.
“I think I needed to hear it. I’m just not sure what to do about it right now. ”
“You sure?” Lauren looks anything but sure, chewing the end of her straw.
“I’m sure.” And for once, about this, I am. “Friends should tell each other shit they might not want to hear, right?”
“I hope so, because it looks like I just did.”
Impulsively, I reach out and squeeze her hand, and she grins at me. “Tell me about…Coach Garrett.”
I can’t bring myself to call him Weston. Or West. Nope.
“Leave out the X-rated details, though.” I grimace, wanting very much not to imagine him in any way other than the coach.
She snorts. “Deal.”