17. Avery
SEVENTEEN
AVERY
Reid
Ready to lose in flag football today?
Me
This feels normal. Why did we ever think we liked each other?
Reid
We did like each other. We just don’t like internet each other.
Me
You’re right.
Reid
That was fun to hear. Say it again.
Me
Never.
Reid
How was dinner last night? Did you get food poisoning?
Me
Nope. No food poisoning.
Reid
Bummer.
Me
How was your reading?
Reid
I was asleep by ten. Can’t ask for a night much better than that.
I sent my plan for ticket sales to my boss, by the way, and he said it looks great.
You don’t stand a chance at winning our bet.
Me
Sometimes, the work does what it’s supposed to do all by itself.
See you on the field!
Sunscreen. Eye black high on my cheekbones. Mascara and nude lipstick.
I pull my hair into a high ponytail and smile at my reflection.
I love playing sports as much as I love watching them. It’s the duality of being a woman; of dressing pretty with our hair and nails done to go somewhere nice then, after, throwing on a T-shirt and tennis shoes, ready to sweat for a couple hours.
We can do both, and it’s going to be so much fun to kick Reid’s ass while I’m wearing makeup.
Gosh.
Reid .
I’ve tried to avoid thinking about him, but it’s nearly impossible.
The way he jumped in to help with Peter.
How he didn’t ask questions and just did .
His blush when I jokingly asked if he had been bad—I could see the pink on his cheeks from across the bar.
When I got back from dinner last night, I had to hide my vibrator in my suitcase under a pair of socks so I wouldn’t use it to get off to the thought of his hooded eyes and his rough voice saying my name.
I felt safe with him, like I could tell him everything about my past and he would listen without judgment. Like I could explain why I throw myself into work until I’m run ragged and on the brink of exhaustion and he’d understand.
I’ve never felt that way with anyone before.
Our relationship is complicated now, though. Any future of an us—casually, romantically—has gone out the window, and sharing deeply personal parts of myself doesn’t fall into the category of rival I want to crush like a fucking bug .
Even if I do still think he’s hot as hell.
I grab my phone off the bathroom sink and upload the video I’ve had in my drafts folder for a week. It’s a rapid-fire interview shot in our stadium tunnel, a montage of different players giggling when they see the tiny mic I’m holding and answering the questions I lob their way.
There are four hundred likes within seconds.
Comments start to pop up, and as someone who learned very early in her career to never read the comments, I ignore the criticism coming from @urmomlovesme69 .
A new DM lands in my inbox, and I already know who it’s going to be before opening it. It’s like clockwork with us; one of us posts, the other messages.
I head to the Titans’ Instagram to see if he’s lying.
It’s flooded with content Reid probably spent hours perfectly curating. Photos from their Super Bowl victory a couple years back. Their new jersey reveal and the schedule drop from earlier this summer. A “day in the life” at training camp and a tour of FedEx Field, the stadium where they play, through the eyes of a GoPro attached to the back of a golden retriever.
I know it all like the back of my hand except for the latest post in the top left corner of the page.
The asshole did upload a video seven minutes ago, a creative digital time-lapse of all the Titans’ logos to celebrate the start of their fortieth season.
Dammit .
Reid rarely posts in the morning.
I’ll never tell him this, but he’s not the only one who’s memorized schedules. When you’re in an industry of mass consumption and immediate gratification, everything you share has to be strategic and intentional.
It’s obvious he’s deviating from his routine—the routine I bet he loves—just to get under my skin, and I’m not going to let him.
I slip my room key in my crossbody bag and head down the hall. I take the elevator to the ground floor and say hello to a handful of women I’ve met at other leadership conferences, gradually making my way to the lobby.
The rosters for the flag football teams are random, and I grin when I see my friend Erin, a marketing director from LA, is one of my teammates.
“Good morning.” She hands me a large iced coffee in a to-go cup. “I thought you overslept.”
Nope. Just lounging in bed, not imagining Reid running his hand up my thighs with that cute smile of his.
It’s difficult to actually hate the guy when I can still remember the orgasms he gave me and how goddamn nice he is.
“Just a few minutes behind schedule.” I stifle a yawn to sell the act and sip the drink, grateful for the caffeine. “How are you? When is your flight tomorrow?”
“Early.” She groans and fixes her baby-blue tennis skort. “Whoever thought it was a good idea to hold this conference five days before the season is an idiot.”
“Agreed. Hey, I need your opinion on ticket sales. What have you found to be the most successful way to get new season ticket holders and fans in the stadium doors?”
“I can’t really answer that question,” Erin says. “The waitlist for our season tickets is eighteen years. These people are die-hard fans, and it blows my mind they’re willing to wait that long to watch the games in the stadium rather than on TV.”
“Eighteen years? Holy shit.”
“Boston is twenty. No one gives up tickets to dynasty franchises. Even if they die, they just pass them on to a son or daughter in their will and the cycle continues. Why are you asking about tickets? Have I finally convinced you to go into client services and start interacting with people in real life?”
“No.” I laugh. “I agreed to a stupid bet with someone. It’s kind of a long story. Anyway, our single game numbers are strong, but I need to hone in on the long-term commitments.”
“You should think about offering promotions. Our season ticket holders get priority for playoff games. We also offer full-year and half-year plans. The half-year folks don’t have access to every game, but they do get to keep the same seats whenever they come to the stadium. It makes them feel like they really belong, you know? And, that way, you can alternate their games with another fans’ half-year plan and you’ve sold both seats for the season.”
“Shit.” I pull out my phone and type out some notes. “That’s brilliant. Thanks, Er.”
“We also try to spoil them. VIP tours. Meeting the players and the cheerleaders. Early access to the arena. Dedicated parking. Those are the things that make coming to the game a hassle, and by mitigating those stressors, they’re more likely to renew.”
“I love all of these ideas. I have a meeting set up with our head of ticket sales when I get home, and I can’t wait to run these suggestions by him. This is so helpful.”
“Who is your bet with?” she asks. “And what do you get if you win?”
“The guy who runs the Titans’ accounts.”
“The cute one with the glasses?” she asks, and I nod. “Wait a minute. I thought you two didn’t like each other.”
“I met him in real life.” I blush and tuck a piece of loose hair behind my ear. I can’t stop fidgeting, and thinking about Reid is making me nervous. “I also might have slept with him twice before realizing who he was?”
It comes out like a question, like I’m unsure if I straddled his lap and fucked him as the sun started to come up. As if I’m close to forgetting the feel of the smooth plane of his palm against my throat and the low timbre of his voice when he told me he wanted to bend me over the bed so he could watch my ass bounce.
I need to be hypnotized so I can get these thoughts out of my brain. They’re not good for my well-being.
“Oh my god , Ave. How was it?” she whispers.
Incredible .
Best I’ve ever had .
“Nice,” I settle on, and she bursts out laughing. “It was nice.”
“You are such a bad liar. He rocked your world, didn’t he?”
“Okay, fine, yes, it was amazing. None of the men I’ve hooked up with before have known how to use their fingers like that . And he talked to me during it, which I love.”
“The quiet ones are always the most fun.” Erin’s eyes gleam, and a smile dances on my lips as she voices what I’ve caught myself thinking on multiple occasions. “It’s like they study up on you and know exactly what drives you wild.”
“Yeah.” My throat is dry, and I try to swallow. “Exactly.”
“Amazing is certainly better than nice,” says a deep voice at my back. “Glad to know you enjoyed our time together so much you can’t stop talking about me. You’re the one who is obsessed, aren’t you, Sinclair?”
I spin around. The cup in my hand goes flying. Coffee splatters on everything in a four-foot radius, and Reid is standing there, his hands in his pockets and his glasses covered in brown liquid.
I really shouldn’t be affected by hearing my last name this much.
“Shit. Shit . What are you—how—” I grab a stack of napkins and start to dab his chest before I realize what I’m doing and step away. “Hello.”
“If you wanted to touch me that badly, you could’ve just asked.” He pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses clean with one of the only dry spots on his shirt. “I might have said yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Meeting in the designated spot for flag football.” Reid stares at me. “And listening to conversations about me.”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” I say.
“Clearly.”
“I’m sorry about your shirt. You scared me.”
“I’ll announce my presence more loudly next time.” Reid takes the napkins I’m holding and uses a clean one to wipe the drops of coffee from his neck. “But for now, I’m leaving.”
“It’s not an airport,” I say, and his eyebrow lifts. “You don’t have to announce your departure.”
A ghost of a smile grazes his lips. His eyes drop to my throat, to the spot he’s kissed and sucked and licked, before bouncing back to my face. “See you out there.”
When he leaves, I finally let out a breath and look at Erin.
“This just got interesting,” she says.
I tuck a flyaway behind my ear with a shaking hand. “What did?”
“The flag football tournament. We’re playing their team first”—she nods at Reid’s retreating form—“and I have a feeling it’s going to be a lot of fun.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and stand at the line of scrimmage. When the whistle blows, I take off down the field, catching the toss our quarterback lobs my way. The flag on my left hip gets pulled, and I smile at the guy on the opposing team when the play is ruled dead.
“Nice catch,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say. “The faster the game goes, the faster I can take a cold shower. I thought my Florida blood was made for this heat, but Vegas in July is a different level of hell. Even with air conditioning in an indoor stadium.”
“It’s unbearable here.” He crouches down and waits for the hike. “I’m up in Minnesota, and I can’t wait for winter.”
When the ball is snapped, I sneak past him, looking over my shoulder and anticipating the pass. Our quarterback launches the ball—an impressive throw from a guy in stadium operations without any playing experience—and just as I catch it, I run headfirst into something.
“Shit,” I exclaim.
Arms wrap around me, enveloping me in a tight embrace I recognize as warm and familiar. I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating the tumble to the ground. I brace myself, but what should be a hard fall is soft, safe, and I blink, confused.
“Fuck,” someone groans.
“Oh my god.” I glance down and find Reid underneath me with dirt on his cheeks. Crooked glasses, a lock of hair curling on his forehead. Twisted lips, wrinkles between his eyebrows, and my heart pounds in my chest. “Are you okay? Are you conscious? Did you hit your head?”
“Barely.” He opens his eyes and looks at me, his gaze a little rattled. “You’re lethal, Sinclair. What is it with you and tackling me? The hallway at the hotel, now this? It’s becoming a trend, and I’m not sure I like it.”
“It was an accident, I swear. Your lip is busted.” I touch his mouth, the split part of skin that’s turning red with blood, and he hisses in pain. “How did that happen?”
“You have very pointy elbows.”
“And here I thought you were planning on leveling me to the ground today,” I whisper absentmindedly, my eyes still on his swollen mouth.
“It played out very differently in my head.” Reid taps my waist, and the contact is searing. “I know it was an accident. If you were going to take me out, I know you’d be more creative.”
“How would you want to go?” I ask. “If you had the choice.”
“You’re going to use my answer to plot my death, aren’t you?”
“I might. Maybe it’ll happen in two weeks. Maybe it’ll happen in two years. I’m going to keep you on your toes, Duncan.”
“It’s kind of you to ask my preferred method of demise so I’ll be comfortable. Something quick and painless, please. I’d like it if we could stay away from quicksand,” he says.
“Quicksand?”
“I’m still fairly traumatized from Robin Williams getting sucked into the floor in Jumanji .”
“How were we allowed to watch that movie as children?”
“What are you talking about? I watched it last week.”
I hold back a laugh and shift on top of him, wiggling my hips and trying to find steady ground. He closes his eyes again, a breath coming out in a strangled huff.
“What?” I ask hurriedly. “Are you in pain? Do you need a doctor? Should we do the concussion protocol?”
“I’m fine. Just—” His throat bobs, and his hold on me eases. “When you do that , I can… I can feel you. And my memory is too good to forget the last time you were on top of me so soon.”
“Oh. Oh .” My cheeks flame. I can feel him too, between my legs, close to the spot he slotted in days ago. Slightly hard, his long length presses against the inside of my thigh, and I shouldn’t like it as much as I do. “Right. That, uh, did happen.”
“I’d like for you to get off.”
“In front of everyone? Seems a little presumptuous. I’d probably be kicked out of the game. Might lose my job, too. Is that your end goal here?”
“Off me,” he mumbles, and it’s laced with embarrassment. “But not yet. I know people are watching.”
I glance over my shoulder, and our teams are starting to head our way. “Yup. They’re definitely watching.”
“We’ll just tell them you’re obsessed with me. It would be the truth,” Reid says. “Could you, ah, stay there for a second longer? So I don’t look like a total creep? I do know how to control myself, believe it or not, and I’m mortified to be in this position. I just?—”
“I know you do,” I say, and the tension on his face lessens. “I’m flattered, honestly. Not many girls can say they can turn a guy on by knocking the wind out of him. Are you reciting the alphabet backward?”
“I’m listing gaming systems from oldest to newest. It’s working.”
“What are you up to?”
“Nintendo 64. 1996. God, I loved The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time . I need to play it again.”
I giggle. I can’t help it. My shoulders shake, and soon he’s laughing too.
“Permission to pause the feud?” I ask.
“Pretty sure it paused fifteen seconds ago when my dick got hard, Avery.”
“Do you need more time to… cool down?”
“Christ.” Reid laughs again. “No, but I do need some time to move away and change my name. I’m putting this under the newly created list of Things We Can Never Talk About Again. Once there, it’s not allowed to be brought up.”
“Only if we can add me publicly praising your sex skills to it too.”
“That worked in my favor, though,” he says, and when I give him a look, he drops his head against the grass. The tendons in his neck strain, and I see the faint remnants of a hickey I left behind earlier this week, the light purple still branded on his skin. “Fine. It’s added.”
“I can’t get off you until you let me go,” I say. “You’re, uh, holding me pretty tightly, so let me know when you’re ready.”
He props up on an elbow and glances at where we’re joined. His arms around my waist, locking me in. My hands on his chest, bracing myself from collapsing totally onto him. It’s a position from the bedroom we’re mimicking in real life, but this is more intimate. Sensual, almost, in the way his thumb runs along the waistband of my athletic shorts. In the way it almost feels like he lifts his hips, wanting to be closer to me.
I’m not sure he realizes he’s doing it.
“This cannot get any more humiliating.” Reid takes a deep breath. “I did that so you wouldn’t get hurt in the fall. I wasn’t trying to cop a feel or anything like that. I wouldn’t?—”
“You’re more of a drop-to-his-knees-in-the-hallway kind of guy,” I tell him, and the pink on his face turns crimson. “This is so not your usual play.”
Before he can say anything else, we’re swarmed by a group of our teammates. A dozen questions get lobbed our way, and our private interlude is interrupted.
“Are you both okay?” Erin asks, squatting down and checking us for injuries. “That was a hard fall.”
“I think we’re fine,” I say. “I was making sure Reid didn’t have a concussion. All is right in his head.”
“Debatable,” he says, and I smile.
I use his chest to push onto my feet and stand. I brush the grass and dirt off my clothes and offer him my hand. “Ready?”
“Hang on. There’s something I need to do first.” His lips pull into a grin, and he reaches for me. I don’t know why I expect him to thread his fingers through mine in some romantic gesture, but he doesn’t. Instead, he yanks the flag off my belt and holds it in the air. “You didn’t convert on fourth down. It’s our ball, Sinclair. Thanks for the great field position.”
I gape at him, and when he pops onto his feet and elbows my side, I’m not sure if I want to murder him or kiss him.
I’m afraid it might be both.