Chapter 20
Miller
Ren: glad victor brought you good luck in boston, hope it holds tonight in new york
Frowning, I drop the back of my head against the padded headboard of the hotel room bed.
Miller: who’s victor???
Ren: victor!! victor the velociraptor!! don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our child’s name??
The frown tilts upwards into a grin, and I scratch absentmindedly at my neck before tugging at the hair on the crown of my head while the smile burns my cheeks.
Miller: sorry, that’s my bad. please don’t use it as a play for sole custody, i need him when i’m on the road
It’s the kind of joke she’d like. The type of thing that would have her teeth dragging across her bottom lip as she thinks about it, blinking blue eyes until her head tips back in laughter.
Pretty nice sound, actually.
Especially the snort.
She hates it—but I don’t.
Every time she does it, it feels like those pieces of her she says are around her feet are coming back to life.
I wait, thumb brushing along the ridge of my mouth as the dots disappear and reappear while she types.
Ren: hmm. might take you to court anyway. i hear professional athletes make good money. victor and i have needs, you know.
Glancing sideways at the nightstand where the trophy sits beside my abandoned hat, ready and waiting for me to take it—or him, I guess—down to the stadium when it’s time for warmups, I can’t imagine what kind of needs a piece of plastic would have.
But I can imagine pretty clearly what kind of needs Ren might have.
The kind of needs I think I’d be pretty fucking interested in meeting.
It snuck up on me.
Not the fact that she was beautiful—noticed that right away, pretty hard to ignore sunshine in human form—but how that made me feel.
She moved in first—took up all the empty space in my chest and hung up pictures and portraits. She even carved out a nice little spot where it was safe for Matty’s absence to exist and live forever when she made it feel okay to talk about him for the first time since he died.
But she took up all this real estate and became the most important friend I have, and then when she was sitting there by the beach the other night?
Couldn’t really think of doing anything but getting my hands on her and showing her what I see when I look at her. Who she really is. What she’s worth.
A lot.
At least, to me.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to shake the thought out of my head.
Miller: yeah? what are those?
Ren: victor is a carnivore, miller. do you know how much meat costs?
Ren: and let’s not even get started on nail care. those talons need regular trims.
It’s shit like that—how quick she is. How fucking funny she is, that makes it worse.
I drag a thumb across my mouth and answer before I can stop myself.
Miller: what about your needs? anything i can help with?
The dots don’t even show up this time. I groan, knocking my head against the headboard, muttering under my breath, “Idiot.”
I’m spared from the hours I’d surely spend staring at my phone, willing an answer from a woman who’s way smarter and way too good for me—one who’s probably wondering why some dumb professional athlete five years younger than her who couldn’t do math so he made a living throwing and catching a ball is trying to flirt with her—when someone knocks on my door.
I debate chucking my phone against the wall and blaming the whole thing on a tech mishap but then I’d never know if she decides to respond, so I shove it in the pocket of my gym shorts instead when I get up to answer the door.
Joel waits for me on the other side, wearing an outfit almost identical to mine.
A white, sweat-wicking TMLB shirt stretching across his chest. The same black athletic shorts with the team logo stitched across the hem.
But he’s got a brace around his throwing wrist, and I’ve got a phone in my pocket with a stupid text message to a beautiful woman that’s probably going to go unanswered, so I guess we don’t look that similar.
He tips his chin, a smile lighting his face. “Hey, I was just going to run out and grab a coffee before heading over to the stadium. You want?”
“Oh—sure. Sounds, uh, great.” I sound dumb and unsure when I say it, closing the door behind me. But I mean it. Anything sounds better than sitting around with my own idiocy.
“Cool.” He nods, and I fall into step beside him. “You feeling okay for tonight?”
I pull my phone out again—maybe I can unsend the message. “Yeah, yeah for sure.”
“Should be an interesting game, I mean Yasuko is back from injury—” Joel cuts himself off when he gets to the elevator at the end of the hall, cocking his head. “Miller? You alright? You’re . . . staring really . . . uh, intently, at your phone.”
“Uh, yeah. All good, sorry.” I shrug, locking the screen so I don’t keep looking down. “I just . . . sent a stupid message, that’s all.”
He lifts his brows. “You unsend it?”
“It’s, uh—” I scrape a hand through my hair. “Probably too late for that.”
“The girl from the game?”
“Ren,” I correct, cutting him a look when the elevator door opens.
“Sorry. Ren. She’s got a name, you’re right.” He flashes me his palms. “She your girlfriend?”
Dropping against the wall of the elevator, I knock my head against the mirrored surface. “Girlfriend doesn’t seem like it would ever be the right term for someone like her. But, uh, no. We’re just . . . friends. Helping each other out.”
He shoots me a doubtful look as the doors close, and I roll my neck to face him, cracking a tired grin. “What? You don’t believe I could be just friends with a pretty girl? Miller Colson-Burke likes pretty girls, and all that?”
Joel frowns, a crease sketching between his brows. “I didn’t say that.”
“Oh, uh—sorry.” I give a jerky shake of my head. “Just something dumb her ex said after the gala.”
“He was there?” Joel leans against the wall beside me, one foot kicked up.
I toss my phone in the air, catching it, but I don’t turn on the screen. “Uh, yeah. He’s a . . . dinosaur guy too.” I don’t really feel like giving Scott his proper title, doesn’t seem like it’s something he deserves, seeing as he stole the job from Ren.
“Which one? Olson introduced me to almost everyone.” Joel considers, angling his head.
“Uh.” I blink, trying to remember what he was wearing. “His name’s Scott. He had on, uh . . . a tux.”
Joel snaps his fingers, eyes flashing with recognition, and he turns to me. “He had really bad shoes.”
I splay my arms wide. “That’s what I said!”
“Kinda shitty, working with your ex. Been there. Dated a teammate once. Terrible idea. But at least he didn’t have bad shoes,” Joel muses.
“If you’re not together, what’s your deal?
She was at the last home game. I see pictures of you guys doing random shit.
At pub trivia. In the grocery store. You brought that trophy .
. . seemed sort of like you were flirting with her on social. ”
“Oh, uh, friends do that sort of thing.”
He cuts me a knowing glance when the doors open into the lobby. “You flirt with your friends?”
“Yeah, you haven’t noticed?” I deflect, tugging on the ends of my hair.
“We’re friends now?” he snorts, tipping his chin as he starts towards a café at the edge of the lobby.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I shrug a shoulder, following.
“Okay then as your friend”—he widens his eyes—“I should probably tell you, you’re a really shitty liar. You blush every time someone mentions her.”
My hand stills, tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck—which definitely feels hot. “No, I don’t.”
“You’re blushing right now.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m getting coffee with Joel Borges, highest strike percentage in the league.”
He barks a laugh, head thrown back before he rolls his eyes.
“If that’s your story.” Weaving through lobby couches and throngs of people checking out, he gives me another sideways glance.
Nervous, almost, he shrugs. “If you’re .
. . into her . . . you should ask her out.
You deserve some . . . good in your life. Especially after what happened.”
“She’s already something good in my life,” I mutter, rubbing my chest absentmindedly, probably right above the nails in the wall where she hung a picture of her smile.
Something knowing flashes behind his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else when he pulls open the door to the café for me.
He asks about the text message, though, when we’re standing in line.
Rolling out his throwing wrist and stretching out each finger in some sort of precise ritual, he turns to me.
“So, what was the text message you regret sending her, then? Gotta tell you, if you were flirting with her, like you were apparently flirting with me earlier, you might need to work on your technique.”
“Probably right about that.” I snort, tossing my phone again, finally about to pocket it, but before I can, she responds, and her text message lights up the screen.
Ren: you can make sure you come back after you win in new york, i need victor for luck too!
I squint at the photo she sent. It’s of her computer, and I can clearly see the logo for the Maritime Museum in the upper left corner, and it’s not written anywhere on the screen, but I’m pretty sure underneath the Your job application has now been received message, there’s another one, just for me.
That one says: Miller Colson-Burke, he really is stupid! Can you believe he actually thought for a second someone like her might see something in someone like him?
My stupidity really does know no bounds, I guess.
Pascale tells me to report to Olson’s office the second I’m back home.
I do, trailing in behind him, hating past me with every step, tugging nervously at the hair curling underneath my hat at the back of my neck.
“Nice work this week,” Olson offers, sitting behind his desk, almost a mirror image of the last time I came in here to see him.