Chapter Six
Flynn
Sweat drips from my forehead, and I focus on counting my breaths.
In for ten, out for ten.
My legs turn slowly on the exercise bike, warming my body down.
I flex the fingers on my injured hand, and the sting sends a hiss through my teeth.
I should definitely be unwrapping my hand and cleaning the healing skin underneath.
A few weeks after the bar fight, I’m still feeling the effects.
I know I’ve likely fractured a finger or deeply bruised the bones in my hand, but if I say anything to the trainers, they’ll pull me off the field.
It will also serve as a clear reminder that I fucked up so royally.
So, no. I will just douse the hand in antibacterial wash, wrap it again tonight, and I will hold out for the bye week. It’s only a few games away, and that will give my hand some proper time to rest. After that, I will continue to strap it, and it will heal. Eventually.
I scroll through my phone while sitting on the warm-down bike.
Social media doesn’t hold much interest for me these days.
I used to enjoy reading comments from fans and watching the content the team posted.
I even used to like posting a bit of my own content, but since Italy, I search for one particular handle to like, comment, or even simply view my posts.
When she doesn’t, it just makes me feel like shit.
Now, even just scrolling through my feed can’t hold my interest for long.
I search Katie’s handle and click on her profile. There’s a new photo from tonight. A packed-out bar, arms in the air, a sea of glasses being held aloft. Everyone faces the wall of TVs that all show tonight’s Broncos game.
Her caption: That’s a touchdown.
In a moment of weakness, I pinch the screen of my phone and zoom in. It’s much too blurry for me to make out the time or the quarter on one of the screens in the picture. I frown at my phone. Selfishly, I hope it’s one of mine.
I haven’t heard from Katie since she walked out of my place after I told her I wanted to fix whatever I did and that I wanted to be friends. Hell, she’s agreed to be my fake girlfriend—I think—surely, we can figure out how to be friends.
Like I summoned her with a single thought, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Katie: I’m moving in on Tuesday. Ivy and Scott are coming as well. We’re going to use his car for the boxes. Can you be home?
I ignore the skipped beat from my traitorous heart and stare down at my phone.
Why did a part of me believe she wouldn’t really move in?
Me: I can help too.
Katie: It’s fine. We can manage.
Me: Don’t be stubborn, Rockstar. Let me help. I have a truck anyway. Way better for moving things in.
Katie: Everyone knows you’re compensating for something by driving that thing.
I smirk, and then, out of nowhere, a laugh crawls up my throat and bursts out of my mouth. This girl. She’s going to be the death of me.
***
“Christ, Reed, how many bedrooms do you need for one person?”
“They came with the house,” I murmur, my eyes traveling down her long legs.
She’s wearing those tight, black jeans again.
The ones that hug her ass and make me drool a little.
She leans further into one of the empty guest bedrooms, and the hoodie she’s wearing rides up, the smooth skin of her lower back exposed.
“You’ve styled all four of them as guest bedrooms. Couldn’t think of anything else to use them for?”
I run a hand through my hair. There is no way I’m telling her the real reason I bought a house with so many bedrooms, so I simply shrug. “Somewhere for the guys to sleep when they crash here.”
Katie looks back over her shoulder at me and hums, unconvinced. I hold her gaze, not wanting to let her win. The door she’s knocking on isn’t one I want to be opening to her, or to anyone, any time soon. It would be far too revealing, would make me far too vulnerable.
“This one.” Katie nods in approval as she stands straight, her hand on the door frame. My gaze zeros in on her nails. Her blood red, painted nails. I suppress a groan at the thought of those nails wrapped around my—
“I’ll take this bedroom. There’s a bathroom attached, and it gets nice morning light.”
I clear my throat. “Okay. My—uh, my room is down the hall.”
“Oh?” She spins on her heel and looks past my shoulder, toward the only other door on this floor. “Neighbours then.”
“Friends.”
“Roommates,” she challenges.
“Friends,” I say, holding firm. I was serious when I told her I wanted to be friends and to figure out whatever I did to make her go from screaming my name in pleasure to not giving me the time of day in less than twenty-four hours.
“Remember the rules, Reed.” I roll my eyes as she pushes past me for the stairs. “Stay in your lane. This is a business deal.”
“A business deal? I thought you were helping out a friend? Me being the friend,” I reply as I follow her down the stairs.
I’ve done that a lot since she got here this afternoon.
Follow her around. It’s as if I’m drawn to her, like there’s a rope attached to me and she’s holding the other end, tugging me along at her pleasure.
“I am offering you my fake girlfriend services for a free place to live. It’s an exchange of goods. A business deal.” She hops off the last step and looks up at me, her bright blue eyes sparkling with sarcasm and playfulness. God, how I missed those eyes over the last few months.
If nothing else, I am grateful that she’s finally looking me in the eye again.
Katie thinks she’s a closed book. She hides behind this wall of stubbornness and sarcastic comments.
When I met her over a year ago, she was loud and boisterous.
She was Ivy’s loud friend whose laugh sounded like something musical, yet her happiness never quite reached her eyes. I don’t think Ivy really saw it.
Or, maybe it’s only because I started becoming more and more of a regular at the bar after practice just so I could stare and study her. You see, Katie Murphy was a mystery I was determined to crack the moment I met her.
She had a job, friends, and what Ivy described as a boring yet loving boyfriend at the time, but as someone who masks their own feelings about things, I am a master at recognizing when someone is faking their way through their day.
I watched the way her gaze would linger a little too long on couples who sat close enough to be in each other’s laps whenever they came into the bar.
I saw the small cringe whenever that asshole would come in, kissing her on the cheek as a hello and then ignoring her for the rest of the night while he drank with his buddies and she worked, serving them all.
I saw the way she looked at Ivy and Scott, like she was seeing right before her very eyes what she had settled without.
She confirmed it to me herself that night in Italy. She spilled those secrets and made me promise not to tell anyone. She took off the mask.
Katie Murphy is loud, stubborn, and hilarious. She’s a good friend and a dutiful daughter.
But she’s also a big, fat fucking liar.
I see her.
I see the way she struggles with control over her own life and the way she thinks she’s failing.
I see the way she declares she’s independent with a hint of regret in her tone because, deep down, she would just like someone to lessen the load sometimes.
I know she knows all of this, that her internal struggle is constant because she knows the difference between settling for less and knowing she deserves better.
She’s just way too damn stubborn to see that better could be me.
I think.
“Where do you want this one?” Scott says, walking through the open front door with a box in his arms and clothes, still on their hangers, piled on top.
“Second floor, bedroom at the front of the house.” Katie points to the ceiling, dazzling Scott with a smile he returns with a scowl.
He passes me on the stairs. “Second floor guest bedroom. The one across the hall from you?”
“She chose it herself.” I shrug, giving him one of my cheeky grins. He narrows his eyes and sets off up the stairs.
“That’s the last one,” Ivy says, also coming through the door and patting the pile of boxes just inside the entryway.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask.
“Clothes. Shoes. Handbags,” Katie rattles off, and it makes me frown. Katie wears black. Black jeans, black hoodies, black shoes. I haven’t seen her in anything other than dark clothing in months. Who thought she’d have so many different options for black?
“I’ll bring up the rest. You guys can head off if you want.” I nod at Ivy.
“Good,” Scott says as he comes back down the stairs.
“No!” Katie says at the same time, her voice pitching as she grabs a hold of Ivy’s arm. “We should order takeout. First dinner in the house and all.”
“I have a bathroom to finish tearing the tiles off in. No dinner.”
“Don’t be a grump,” Ivy says, untangling her arm from Katie’s and taking a few steps up the stairs so she can kiss her fiancé. “The bathroom can wait. Let’s order dinner. I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“And you always feed me. Let’s stay.” It takes only a couple of seconds for Scott to cave.
He and I take the rest of the boxes up to Katie’s new room before joining the girls in the living room.
They’ve made themselves at home, both tucked into the couch with a glass of wine and a packet of chips between them.
“What do you feel like?” I ask them.
Katie looks up, her blue eyes gleaming as they find mine. There’s a challenge in those eyes. Like she’s planning all the ways she’s going to make these next few months the hardest of my life. “Italian.”
Oh yeah, this is going to be fun.
***