Chapter Twelve
Flynn
Friends. She’s agreed to be friends.
Even though I can’t stop thinking about the kiss from the other week, I’ll take the agreement to be friends with open arms. It’s something. It’s definitely more than what she’s given me over the last few months.
I can work with friends.
Katie and I have fallen into a comfortable routine.
From the inside, we’re friendly and good roommates.
We eat together and hang out at night. We catch each other in the morning at times, and if I’m making coffee, I’ll always make her a cup.
If I’m heading to a late afternoon gym session, I’ll ask if she wants to join.
If I’m finishing late at the stadium and I know she’s working, I’ll walk over to Pat’s, sit at the bar, and order a burger to keep her company.
From the outside, we look and act like a fucking couple.
Scott pointed it out one Saturday afternoon when the girls roped us in to following them around the mall while they shopped.
Every time Katie made a purchase, I immediately put my hand out for the bag.
I would’ve paid too, but the first time I tried, she looked like she was going to rip my balls off and keep them in a jar just for suggesting it.
I prefer to keep my balls exactly where they are, thank you very much.
As I carried every single bag without complaint, laughed and joked with my friend, Scott was watching. The next day, as we were warming up on the field for our home game, he bluntly said it.
“You don’t look at her like a friend.”
“What?” I replied, too busy trying to find where the girls were sitting. They’d opted for seats on the barrier rather than the box, even though it was freezing.
“You and Katie. You don’t look at her like a friend. You don’t act like her friend either.” I didn’t have an answer for him, so I shrugged, and he dropped the subject.
He is right, though.
I don’t look at her like a friend because every time I look at her, I’m thinking about kissing her. About having her in my bed again. Every time she’s close, I come up with an excuse to touch her. I tease her. I want to get under her skin like she’s under mine.
My thoughts and my actions are definitely not friendly, but I’m getting really good at pretending.
“Something smells amazing,” Katie says as she appears in my open living and kitchen area. The fire is going, and I decided to forgo the takeout this evening, opting to cook her my infamous vodka pasta that I learned from a TikTok video last year. What? I enjoy a doom scroll as much as the next guy.
“I’m making pasta for dinner if you’re keen for some.” I fold the cooked pasta through the sauce, generously covering it. I take the chicken breasts from the oven and place them in a bowl, using forks to gently pull them apart.
“Where did you learn to cook? I thought your culinary skills began and ended with ordering takeout every night for dinner.” She leans over the kitchen counter as she watches me.
I laugh, tapping the fork against the edge of the bowl before turning around to the stove so I can pour the chicken into the sauce and pasta.
I stir it all together and turn off the heat.
“I learned in college. Scott and I moved out of the dorms after freshman year and lived in an apartment on campus. If we didn’t learn how to cook, we didn’t eat. ”
“Your college team didn’t have chefs?” she asks as I dish up the food.
I nod. “But not living on campus meant that we didn’t always stay at the stadium for meals or go early enough to grab breakfast before training. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Scott’s a bit of a loner. He was the exact same in college.”
“And you aren’t the same?”
“I like to think that I’ve grown up.”
She hums, pulling the bowl toward her. “Bet you were a party boy,” she says, smiling at me like she has me pinned.
“I had my fun in college, but I was a division one athlete. I couldn’t have too much fun. I was there to play football, so that’s what I did.”
“So, you and Scott played for the same college?”
I nod, watching her face melt as she takes a bite of the pasta gathered on her fork.
“I was actually a QB in high school. But when I got to college and was in training camp, competing against Scott, it was obvious he was the better man for it. So I shifted. I wanted to be on the field, and it turns out I’m not half bad at catching a ball. ”
“Mm.” She nods, her mouth full. I smile as I watch her swallow and her eyes roll into the back of her head. “Fuck, that’s really good.”
My chest almost explodes at her praise, and I lock down my smug smile.
I tuck into my bowl of pasta, sneaking glances at her every now and then.
Katie scrolls on her phone while she eats, looking through playlist after playlist as she adds songs she finds to another playlist. I want to lean over for a better look at her screen, but I don’t.
That would be a breach of her privacy, and I’m trying to get on her good side.
Besides, I would never do that to her, even if she has me curious.
Something vibrates against the benchtop, and I glance up, my gaze zeroing in on Katie’s phone. My stomach drops, and all the joy I felt only moments ago, watching her devour something I made her, completely fades.
Grant.
Fucking Grant.
Ex-boyfriend Grant.
I hold in a groan as I watch her eye the phone. She doesn’t stop it; she doesn’t send him immediately to voicemail. She just lets it ring out.
“You don’t need to take that?” I say, my words coming out with more bite than I intend.
Katie glances up at me. “No.”
“You sure?” The phone vibrates again, and we both stare at it.
Even though she doesn’t make a move to pick up the call, or even text the guy after it goes to voicemail, red-hot jealousy surges through me.
Why the fuck is he calling her? Twice in a row, too.
How often does he call? Does she ever actually pick up?
Or is she just not picking up because I’m sitting right across from her and she doesn’t want to take it in front of me? Does she want to talk to the douchebag?
Fuck. I want to ask her to answer all of my questions. I want to demand to know what’s going on, but I resist. I’m trying to be a gentleman, to be respectful, so I can’t demand to know these things when it isn’t my place.
The brutal reminder that our relationship is fake slams into me.
I take a deep breath and push my chair out. “Do you … I mean, I can give you some space if you want to talk to him?”
“I don’t.” She stabs another piece of pasta with her fork.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep,” she replies, popping the p.
I continue to stare at her, tracing the lines of her face and her features.
I can’t tell if she’s angry or sad. That’s the thing about Katie—sometimes she’s an open book and others, it’s like she’s hidden herself behind these hundred-feet-high and ten feet thick walls.
No one gets past them unless she lets them.
When her walls are down and we’re laughing and having fun together, I see the girl I started falling for in Italy. The one that I was so sure was falling for me, too. When they’re up, it’s like the lights have gone out and I’m walking around blind.
We finish dinner in silence. Katie stops scrolling on her phone and starts absentmindedly playing with one of the curls that’s fallen over her shoulder as she stabs at the pasta. When she finishes, she looks lost in thought and a million miles away, just twirling the fork in her hand.
“I’ll take this,” I say gently, not wanting to startle her out of her thoughts. I reach over and slide her empty bowl toward me, then I take the fork from her hand.
“Thanks for dinner,” she replies quietly. “You should cook more often. You’re good at it.”
“I can make that and grill a good steak. That’s about it.”
“I’m an okay cook. I suppose I could teach you? Purely to ensure that your football millions aren’t being wasted on food delivery.” She smiles a little as she pushes back from the kitchen bench. Hesitating, she grabs her phone and heads for the hallway.
I stare at her, hair swaying down her back as she walks away from me, and my heart clenches. I don’t want her to go. Whatever mood those phone calls have put her in has pissed me off. She was smiling before, laughing and teasing. Now, she’s gone into her shell. I hate it.
And I hate fucking Grant for doing it.
“Want to watch a movie?” I blurt out. It’s not too late, but it’s definitely not early enough to be starting a movie and hoping to still get to bed on time. I will pay for being tired at training in the morning, and will likely fall asleep in the meetings by the afternoon, but it’s worth it.
“Don’t you have a strict bedtime?”
“Wicked just dropped on Netflix. Sue me, but I’m an Ariana fan from way back.”
Katie giggles, and it feels like a victory. “Of course you are. First, you have a Taylor Swift record mounted in your hallway, and now you’re admitting to being an Ariana fan.”
“I’m a pop music fan.” I step around the kitchen bench and toward her. When I stand close enough in front of her, I wrap a finger around the curl she was playing with before. “Are you judging me for my music taste?”
“No." She laughs. “No, of course not. I’m just saying, it’s predictable.”
I smile and tug on her hand. “Come on, I’m dying to see it.” I take a few steps back, toward the couch, pulling her gently with me.
“It goes for three hours or something. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, why the hell not? I’m an adult. Bedtime, shmedtime.”
“As long as you don’t blame me if you’re tired and grumpy when you wake up tomorrow, fine. I have a day off, so I can sleep in.”
Another victory.
I pull her over to the couch and sink into the cushions. Katie moves over into the corner of the couch. This is her favorite place to sit, tucked into the corner and being swallowed by the cushions. I swipe the remote and turn on the TV.
“So is it just Taylor and Ariana, or are you a fan of Olivia, too? Katy Perry? Adele?”