Chapter 8
EIGHT
HAVEN
On the way home from practice, my ring tone blares through the speakers of my Jeep. The word DAD flashes across the screen, and I fight back an eye roll, assuming he’s calling me to see if Dallas talked to me about tutoring him.
“Hey, Dad,” I say into my empty car. “What’s up?”
“Hey, sweetie. Not much, just headed to campus,” his deep voice drawls through the speakers. “How was practice?”
“Early,” I deadpan with a yawn. “Really, really early.”
“Oh, quit your whinin’,” he teases. “You know you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I ponder that for a second or two before answering.
“Wrong. I would have eight or nine a.m. practices and not five a.m. practices,” I say honestly. “You know I’m not a morning person.”
“Yeah, you get that from your mama.” I can practically hear the grin in his voice, just talking about my mom. He’s grossly in love with her, and she’s oddly obsessed with him. But it’s cute. And sort of annoying.
“I don’t know how anyone could ever love waking up at the ass-crack of dawn.” I yawn so aggressively, my eyes water. “Seriously. Now I have to go shower and be to class in an hour.” I yawn again. “And find time to chug at least two coffees between now and then.”
“All part of it, Have,” he says, no pity at all. “This is your third year of it, you know.”
I’m one of those people who understands I’m blessed and truly am so happy with my life right now, but sometimes a girl’s just got to bitch.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” I mutter, knowing that he’s not going to baby me on this. And deep down, I’m kind of glad for that.
Sort of.
“Have you, uh …” he starts before taking a short pause, and I already know what’s coming next. “Have you talked to Dallas at all?”
Part of me wants to play dumb and make him admit that he volunteered me to tutor someone without even checking with me first. It’s annoying, but I’m also flattered that my dad has so much faith in me to help.
“Um, yeah. Yeah, I have,” is all I give him, forcing him to show me his hand here. At least, that’s my hope.
“And how did that go?” he mutters, clearly uneasy.
“How do you think it went?” I say, keeping my tone even.
“Well, uh …” He’s stammering now. “Did he—did he, uh, ask you anything?”
My dad is not the type of man to just let things play out and leave them alone. So of course, here he is, in the middle of it even after he told Dallas to ask me for help himself. Dad just can’t help himself.
“He asked me to marry him, and I said yes because I assumed he checked with you first,” I say in my most serious voice. “Are you as excited as I am? I am just … so happy.”
“Are you fucking with me right now?” he blurts out after a short pause. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“How does a big ol’ wedding in June sound to you?” I ask, turning on the most marshmallow-like tone I’m capable of. “I think I’ll have the bridesmaids wear pink.”
“And now I know you’re fucking with me,” he grumbles. “You hate pink.” He stops. “And you hate big weddings. You hate all weddings.”
He speaks the truth. I have always hated big, showboat weddings. Smaller ones aren’t my cup of tea either. I have to be seriously invested in a couple to sit at their ceremony and truly believe in what they are vowing to each other.
“Yeah, well, you deserved that after sending someone to me for tutoring when you know damn well I’m not doing it anymore.”
“Haven,” my dad’s voice is sharp. “It’s Dallas. Not just a random person. Dallas Rivers. He’s family.”
Family you fantasize about naked …
An image of Dallas in the outside shower of his family beach house flashes through my brain from last summer. I watched him from a window of my house. He thought he was blocked from all views when he peeled off his swim trunks.
Yeah … all views but my eyes.
Shaking my head, I snap my mind back to present when my dad says my name again.
“Are you there?” he says, voice awfully grumpy for a man asking such a big favor for one of his players. “Haven?”
“Yes, Dad.” I sigh. “I’m here.”
“I told him that if he didn’t convince you, he’s off the team.” My dad stops, almost as if hearing his own voice and knowing what he’s saying isn’t right. “But … I guess I should have checked with you first.”
“You guess?” I say, lifting a brow and smirking, even though I’m driving alone.
“No, I don’t guess,” he murmurs. “I should have asked you first. I’m sorry.
” He sighs, and I can picture him playing with his baseball cap.
“He’s such a good kid, and he’s so talented.
I just want him to get the help he not only needs but deserves.
That kid has had enough battles in his life he’s had to fight solo.
I don’t think his education should be one of them. ”
I’m quiet for a moment, processing everything he just said and knowing damn well I’m done torturing my dad. At least for the day.
“We started last night,” I say finally.
“You little shit, making me feel like you weren’t going to do it,” he teases. “How did it go?”
“It would go a lot better if he would just admit that he needs help,” I tell my dad honestly. “Like, more help than maybe I can give him.”
“What do you mean?”
As Dallas’s coach, sure, he has the right to tell him that he needs to get his grades up. But I’m not going to dish out what I think because right now, that’s not going to make a difference. At least, not until I can bring it up to Dallas that he may be eligible for some accommodations.
“That’s on a tutor-student need-to-know basis, Dad,” I answer. “But rest assured we are working on getting his grades up and it’ll all be fine. Don’t worry, I didn’t want to have any free time anyway.”
“Attagirl,” he drawls. “Thank you for doing this. You’re a good one. Love you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble. “Send me your practice and game schedule now so that I can figure out a plan,” I huff out. “Love you, bye.”
Ending the call, I turn down Eagle Way, the road that both the female athletic house, The Nest, and both male athletic houses, The Tower and The Lookout, are on.
Moments later, I’m pulling into the driveway of The Nest. Parking my Jeep, I yawn and push the door open, closing it behind me. Before I head inside, I look down the street at The Tower, and right away, I notice that Dallas’s truck is in the same spot it was hours ago when I left.
“I want to go put in a coffee IV,” I utter to myself before sighing dramatically just as my phone dings, and it’s the football schedule from my dad. “Damn you, Dad. Making me feel bad.”
I’ve successfully avoided Tabor since the coffee shop, and if he lived in the same house that Dallas does, I wouldn’t be walking toward The Tower right now, to go see Dallas to talk about tutoring.
But, luckily, he lives in The Lookout. It’s still too close for comfort, but …
I’ll just keep hoping I don’t run into him.
Stopping in front of The Tower, head up the stairs and knock on the door a few times.
When the door swings open, a shirtless Hendrix Hunt is looking me in the eyes.
His hair is wet like he just got out of the shower.
The dude, much like Dallas, doesn’t have to do a damn thing to look that pretty. It’s annoying.
“What’s up, King?” he says, jerking his chin up.
“Not much, just looking for D,” I say, knowing he’ll know who I mean. Everyone knows how close my family is with the Rivers family. Though I don’t typically knock on the door at eight in the morning.
“He’s in his room, probably still sleeping,” he drawls with a smirk. “I got home last night, and he was pretty tuned up.”
I frown, not knowing what that even means, and Hendrix chuckles.
“Drunk, King. He was drunk.”
“Nice,” I grumble, rolling my eyes before, without permission, I push past him and head up the stairs. “Tell Isla I said hi!”
“Will do,” he calls back, truly not giving a shit that I’m about to bust into his buddy’s room.
Hendrix is a hockey player who is dating Isla Hardy, another hockey player. They are, hands down, the cutest couple I’ve ever seen. He’s all bad boy vibes, and she’s a princess in goalie gear.
I run up the stairs quickly, but once I’m at the top and standing in front of his door, it occurs to me that Hendrix said he was drunk, but he never said he was alone.
Over the years, I’ve been summoned to a front-row seat of his flirting, dancing, and having girls on his lap at parties, but I’ve never had to actually see him in bed with anyone else. And to be honest, I’m not sure I could handle it if I did.
You’re tutoring him, Haven. Put your pathetic, squishy feelings aside.
With my hand on the knob, I twist before pushing it slowly open. I swear I squeeze my eyes shut for the first few seconds before finally, I realize how dumb that’s going to look if he does have some chick in bed with him and they look up and see me standing here, eyes closed.
Cracking them open, I breath out in relief when it’s just him in bed and no one else. But he’s sound asleep, and now I’m just standing here, staring at him like a creep.
The comforter sits just above his briefs, leaving his bare, muscled back exposed. He sleeps on his stomach, with his cheek to the pillow and his lips parted. He’s like a work of art—this entire house is filled with living, breathing works of art. It’s annoying.
Lightly smacking my forehead, I shake my head at myself before I walk to the other side of the bed and grab a pillow. Going to the end, I reach back before launching it right at his head. Of course, it hits right where I planned. I’m a softball player, for God’s sake.
His face scrunches up, and he stirs the slightest bit, clearly irritated though he’s still asleep.
“Donnnn’t,” he whines, never once opening his eyes. Instead, he just moves his head to the other side before seemingly dozing back off.