Chapter 50 #2
It’s a giant rat with my fucking face taken from my headshot on the Wolves website superimposed on it. The caption Wren has added says Super Rodent: available to a good home FOR FREE.
I can’t help but cough out a laugh. Some of the guys look over at me with a quizzical raise of their eyebrows, but I give them the finger and turn back to my phone.
Trying to answer with a deadpan scowl in place, I do my best to stay serious.
I can’t go letting this fool me into some sort of… cute texting situation.
Peaches:
Okay, I’m reconsidering. Maybe the rodent might not be the winning design.
Me:
I think he will steal the spotlight from the dogs.
Peaches:
I know, I know, fair call.
What about this instead?
Her next photoshopped graphic is even more ridiculous. It’s the same image, but she has added a cape, a superhero mask, and a rugby ball.
This time, I can’t help getting in on the joke.
Me:
Careful, you don’t want to give away my secret identity.
Peaches:
Oh, yes. Of course. Dog shelter volunteer by day, superstar rugby player by night.
I won’t reveal your disguise when I take the pitch to my superiors.
Wren plays along, and even though we’ve never interacted like this before, outside of the afternoon we spent together at the dog rescue, it somehow feels like we’ve skipped past all the awkwardness of getting to know someone.
I guess that’s what happens when you watch a person from afar for years, getting to know her through the crumbs of information her brother would drop without knowing I was inhaling them at every possible moment.
Wren hates watermelon-flavored anything.
My sister loves that stupid Alpha Island show.
You know who would vibe with the giant marshmallows this café adds to their hot chocolates? Wren.
It’s small and inconsequential, but I’m smiling on the inside, reading her texts. She’s including me in this, even though she absolutely doesn’t need to. Even though I don’t deserve to be included.
Peaches:
Now. Here’s the important question for you…
Me:
That wasn’t it?
Peaches:
We all agree the dogs deserve to find their forever homes. So I’m proposing the Wolves come on board to do something special. Maybe it could be a regular thing, or at least an annual event?
The team fundraiser is coming up, but I’m thinking there are other ways to make use of some famous faces for a good cause.
A dog calendar with the team? Cute dog interviews?
Maybe even convince your coach to let us bring some of the dogs to training.
That would be social media gold if we do some fun on-camera segments.
Who’s faster, stronger, smarter? That kind of thing.
Me:
I can tell you immediately that the dogs are all smarter, 100% guaranteed.
Peaches:
Don’t you even want to give the boys a chance to prove themselves?
Me:
I mean, they can try…
Peaches:
Good point. They are paid to run around after a ball all day.
“Whoa, what do we have here? Atlas Palamo smiling at his phone?” Murphy’s voice makes me scramble to swipe out of my texts and lock my phone. Fucking fuck fuck.
“Just stupid shit from Renfro. You know how much of a dumbass he is.” I duck my head and make a beeline for my kit bag to find a fresh T-shirt to put on.
Murphy follows after me. “You sticking around? Gonna spot me, or what?”
Do I want to stay here with Wren’s brother training at the gym together while internally freaking out that he’s gonna have X-ray vision to see what’s on my phone?
Nope. No, thank you.
“Sorry, sweet cheeks. I’m out.” I pull the shirt over my head and shove a cap on. “What are you doing here at this time of day?” I wonder out loud, giving him a glance over. It’s kinda out of character for Murphy. He’s normally a creature of routine.
“Needed to clear my head.” He shrugs, giving a noncommittal stretch of his neck from side to side.
“Okay… well, I’m gonna head out, man.” Turning to grab my bag, Murphy’s voice behind me makes me freeze.
“Who’s the bird?”
“What?” Panic seizes my chest in a fucking vise grip.
“Renfro’s chick?”
When I turn around, I tell myself to keep my face neutral.
I focus every muscle into looking at my best friend with the look of a man who is entirely bored with this conversation.
Not the guy who fantasizes about his little sister’s mouth on mine.
Not the dirty pervert who most recently got off while fucking his fist, imagining her pouty lips wrapped around my dick as she sucked me in the shower.
I sniff and give him a shrug that hopefully comes across convincingly and firmly in the territory of I dunno what you’re talking about.
Murphy holds up his phone. It shows the photo that I’ve stared at too many times in secret. The photo that is absolutely his little sister, but Murphy doesn’t know it, and fuck, all the blood drains from my body.
“He’s been cagey as fuck about where he’s been lately.
” Murphy shakes his head, frowning at the tiny image on his phone.
“I just wanna make sure it’s not gonna mess with Scotland’s game.
He was supposed to come hang out earlier, but since you guys moved in with Brennan, the dude’s been acting weird. ”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I really don’t want to have to start covering for where Renfro is. The fact that he’s probably balls deep in Wren is making this even more goddamn awkward.
“You don’t think it’s freaking him out?” Murphy rubs the back of his neck in thought. “This whole bullshit with you guys having to move. And now you’re living with the team’s owner? Like, I know Brennan is a good dude…”
“He’s fine. No different from what it was like sharing a place before,” I jump in quickly. “Probably just being on his best fucking behavior. Sucking up to the owner to get on Coach’s good side.”
That makes Murphy laugh; those frown lines on his forehead ease slightly. “True. I bet he’s being a perfect goddamn angel to make sure he keeps that starting spot.”
Sure.
Yeah.
That’s all it is.
Definitely got nothing to do with being scent-matched to Wren Murphy.
Jesus Christ. We’re so screwed.