Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Finn
“All right, Brookie, level with me—what’s going on with the yoga instructor?” It’s after practice, a few days after Dallas’s engagement party, and a perennially half-dressed Jericho Stephens is not going to let me go without a full interrogation.
It’s like this guy never wears clothes.
We were on the road for two days, but now we’re back, and for whatever reason—I’m in the hot seat.
I’m standing in front of my locker wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping from my shower. “Kaylee?” I grab a shirt out of my bag and tug it over my head. “We’re just hanging out.”
“But you’ve got a thing for Hottie Hart, right?”
Oh, shoot.
Dallas chucks his towel at Jericho, and it hits him in the face. Jericho stands. “What the—?”
“Watch it. That’s my future sister-in-law you’re talking about,” Dallas says.
“It was a compliment.” Jericho emphasizes the last word to drive home his point. “Plus, my wife was the one who called her that.”
“That woman is terrifying,” Junior says. “I had to sign some papers for her last week, and my hand was shaking the whole time.”
“Hot and terrifying—a lethal combination.” Crosby shakes his head as he walks off toward the showers.
“So?” Jericho adjusts the towel around his waist, and I’m thankful he didn’t drop it completely, per usual. “You gonna tell her?”
I frown. “Tell who what?”
“Tell the yoga instructor you’re in love with Hottie Hart,” Jericho says, then ducks as Dallas throws another towel at him. “Or—” he pops back, “Tell Hottie Hart you’re in love with her!”
What? I think. You mean tell her the truth?
I pull my sweats on and lie. “Not in love with her.”
“But it’s something, right?” Kemp asks. “I mean, we were all at the party—”
“You stare at her, dude,” Krush says.
“I don’t stare—”
“You do,” Gray says without turning around.
“I do?”
A collective laugh ripples through my teammates, each one mumbling something along the lines of “Seriously? You didn’t know this?”
I turn toward my locker. I thought I’d gotten good at hiding my . . . infatuation, but I guess not.
I fell for Raya Hart the moment I slid her drink across the bar seven years ago.
No way I’m going to tell these guys that.
And no way I’m going to tell her. She’s so far out of my league she may as well live on Saturn.
“Plus, her sisters are hooked up with two other guys on the team,” Jericho quips. “Gotta go for the trifecta.”
“Come on, guys.” I toss the towel into a nearby bin. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“That’s not a no,” Kemp points out.
I muster my most convincing look. “It’s a no.”
“Well, maybe don’t show up to her sister’s engagement party with TikTok girl,” Jericho says. “No way she’s going to take you seriously.”
“Good! I don’t want her to take me seriously,” I say. “I’m not a serious guy!”
“You’re fooling yourself, man.” Jericho shakes his head, and thankfully, reaches for his undershirt and starts to pull it on.
He and Monica got married when they were practically kids, and it’s no secret how he feels about her. They’re kind of gross—PDA wherever and whenever—but the truth is, someday, I’d like to be in a relationship like theirs. Like my parents’.
That would be the dream—a real partner. A best friend.
“We all know you’re fooling yourself,” Jericho says. “The only one who doesn’t know it is you.”
“I’m not—” and I stop. I realize they’re all looking at me. And they’ve all read me like a book.
And nothing I say is going to convince them otherwise.
Because yeah. “Fine. Yeah. I like her.”
Cue the chorus of “Ohhhhhh!!” accompanied by clapping and whistling.
I sigh. Because I know nothing will ever come of it.
The day after we met seven years ago, I went back to her apartment, thinking maybe I had a shot.
Sure, she was a couple of years older than me, but I swear we had a connection.
She’d sat down at the bar, and the second our eyes met, I felt the spark.
And yeah, I go on a lot of dates, but I’d never felt that spark before—and I haven’t felt it since.
If those two drinks hadn’t immediately gone to her head, maybe the night would’ve gone differently.
But in the light of day, all I got was rejection and closed doors. And you’d think that would be enough for me to get the hint, but every time I’m in the room with her, I’m drawn to her like a magnet. I stare because I can’t not stare.
I want to watch out for her. To protect her. To make sure she’s okay, because even though on the outside Raya Hart is one of the fiercest, strongest, most independent women I know, I also know there’s a lot more to her than what she shows people.
But it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t see me as anything other than a joke—and that’s not going to change.
“All right!” Jericho claps his hands together and shouts above the hooting and hollering. “Now we’re getting somewhere! What are you gonna do about it?”
“Nothing?” I say, because really—what else can I do?
“Nothing?” Jericho’s brows lift in surprise. “For real?”
“Do you know how many times I’ve asked her out?” I ask. “Probably a hundred.”
“I don’t think she knows you’re being serious.” Dallas pulls a hoodie on and tousles his damp hair.
I drop onto the bench in front of the locker. “Okay, so what else can I do to show her I’m serious?”
“Start by being straight with the yoga chick,” Jericho says, “and stop bringing women like that to every party Raya’s at.” He shakes his head like this is obvious because, well, it’s obvious.
I look around the room. “Guys. Come on. I have exactly two chances with her. Slim, and none.” I pause. “And Slim just left town!”
“Look.” Gray, who’s been completely silent in the back of the locker room, turns around. “You need to be honest with yourself about what you want. That’s step one.” He looks at me. Gray doesn’t talk a lot, but when he does, everyone pays attention.
“What’s step two?” I ask, pulling my hoodie from the hook in my locker, and tugging it over my head.
“Make sure you’re good enough for her,” he says.
“Dude, he’s already scared of this woman,” Jericho says. “You want him to be terrified of you too?”
“I just want to make sure he understands,” Gray says to him, then turns back to me, eyes piercing. “She’s not some fitness influencer looking for a little extra publicity, right? She’s one of the good ones. From a good family. If you can’t be the guy who’s good enough for her, then don’t even try.”
There’s more than just my ego or my feelings on the line here. If I screw this up—it could mess up the dynamics on our team. Maybe that’s too big of a risk.
“I got it.” I grab my duffel and sling it over my shoulder.
As I walk out of the locker room, I hear Jericho say, “Why’d you have to go and do that? You know he’s never going to go for her now.”
I’m through the door before I can hear Gray’s response, but the whole conversation has me conflicted. Because yes, I have big feelings for Raya, but does that make me the right guy for her?
Nope.
As I walk down the hall, I catch my reflection in the glass of a display case.
I stop.
I try to stand a bit taller and suck in my stomach.
Man, I’m not her type.
I don’t wear a suit. I don’t have Dallas’s face or Gray’s abs. Heck, I don’t even speak right half the time.
In all my twenty-nine years, I’ve never had a relationship that felt serious enough to think about engagement or marriage, but I do want those things. And I want them with the right person.
How do I know whether or not that’s her?
I walk out to the parking lot just as Raya’s Altima pulls in. I slow my pace because, even though three minutes ago I was sure the best thing for me to do was nothing—the prospect of seeing her is too tempting to ignore.
I walk over to her car and wait as she parks and turns the engine off.
I catch her eye in the rearview mirror and flash her a smile.
Her brow lifts, and she gets out and looks at me. “You know, Finn, sometimes I think you’re stalking me.”
I love it when she says my name.
“Stalking is such a harsh word,” I say, grinning. “Are you just getting here?”
“Uh, no.” She closes the car door and walks toward me. She’s wearing a long khaki-colored coat and a deep green top, and I wonder if she has any idea how beautiful she is. “I just left for coffee.”
She holds up a to-go cup from a little café I know down the street.
“You look pretty today.” I test the waters.
Her mouth flattens into a straight line. “I bet your girlfriend also looks pretty today.”
The guys were right. She’s never going to take me seriously. My “harmless distractions” definitely need to go.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say.
“Does she know that?” She shifts her bag to her other arm.
“She does.” I look away. “We’ve only been out a couple times anyway. It was never really . . .” My voice trails off.
“Never really . . .?”
“Never really serious.”
She gives me a quick, stern nod. “I’m guessing with you, most things aren’t.” She starts to walk around me, and I feel an impulse to stop her walk from leaving.
“Hey—” I say, sharply, reaching out and touching her arm.
She turns, looking at me expectantly.
I have no idea what to say. I didn’t mean to stop her—I just don’t want her to leave yet.
“You’re wrong,” I say, pulling my hand back. “About me.”
“Am I?” She folds her arms. “How so?”
I take a breath, and it feels like a week before I manage, “I am serious. Sometimes.”
Her shoulders soften and relax slightly, but she doesn’t move.
I don’t move.
But my eyes dip to her lips, and I swear I hear a hitch in her breathing.
I want her to say something. I want me to say something.
Words aren’t working right now.
Raya’s expression turns to disbelief. She smiles. It almost knocks me out.
“Keep telling yourself that, Brookie.” She pats me on the shoulder, like I’m her kid brother, and walks away.
I stand there, caught—feeling vulnerable and stupid and staggered and swept up.
The smart thing to do would be to get over her and move on.
There’s just one problem—I don’t think I can.