10. Brynn
Chapter ten
Brynn
T he following morning, I let myself luxuriate in bed longer than usual. Enjoying the quiet, I sink deeper into the warmth of the bedcovers and think back to the discovery I made last Sunday when Griff was in New York:
Mug in hand, I opened the fridge to grab the coffee creamer. Instead, I froze at the sight of a tiny orange dragon perched on the shelf next to the bottle. Plastic and no taller than my pinkie. Another one, blue this time, was waiting for me on top of the spoons in the silverware drawer.
I’ve found twenty more hidden around the apartment in the last week—nestled on my candle, by my toothbrush holder, on top of the TV remote. He even hid one inside one of the tennis shoes I leave by the back door in case of dash-to-the-car emergencies.
When I brought them up, he shrugged and said, “Huh. Dragon invasion. Weird.”
My prankster roommate and I have settled into a routine over the past couple of weeks. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he’s out the door before my alarm goes off. Those are my late days on campus. I have classes until five, and then I usually swim a few laps at the natatorium before I return home. After I shower away the chlorine, we chat in the kitchen. His dinner is always grilled chicken or fish with broccoli and a protein shake from some super healthy delivery service. Since I have early classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we meet up over breakfast, where he downs a massive bowl of cereal while I inhale my coffee.
Tuesday afternoons, of course, are still reserved for our Memphis Magic meet-ups.
Since Griffin is out of town this weekend, I shower and get dressed, then stroll to the nearest coffee shop, enjoying the brisk mid-October morning. My stomach does a little flip when I notice the Blues jerseys in line ahead of me. But when I overhear their conversation, my heart clambers up my throat.
“That’s what SNN reported this morning. Lacey is questionable for today’s game. Mundy said it would be a game-time decision.”
Dread hits me so violently I have to suck in a breath. Is this because of the headache? Has it gotten that much worse? Knowing Griffin, it would take something awful to force him to sit out a game. He talks about football like it’s a cherished family member. He’s hinted to me about how low he sank when the Tors released him and he thought his career was over.
“Ma’am, do you know what you want?” The barista’s squeaky voice pulls me from my fretting. So lost in my worries for my friend, I didn’t even realize the men in front of me had placed their orders. I consider forgoing an order altogether so I can rush home and switch on a sports channel, but the purple-haired teenager’s put-out expression keeps me on course.
“A latte and a muffin, please.”
She asks me so many questions about my drink order, I’m not even sure what I’ll get at the pickup counter. But as soon as I’ve got the hot cup and crinkly bag in hand, I dash back to the apartment.
Television tuned to the Sports Now Network, I pace in front of it, clutching my latte. The anchors discuss every other team playing today in excruciating detail, breaking away to on-field reporters in every city in America except the one I’m invested in .
Finally— finally —the anchors highlight the Memphis-Washington game. They cut away to a blonde in a fitted navy blazer who’s standing on the sidelines of an empty field. I pull up short and narrow my eyes at the screen.
It’s Andrea/Andi, the woman Jack was professionally flirting with last month.
“Lacey’s status remains a game-time decision. The seven-time Pro Bowler is suffering from a flu-like illness, and team sources report that if he does take the field, he will receive IV fluids to prevent dehydration. Lacey has been an integral component of the Blues’ offense this season, scoring three touchdowns in the last four games. He’s become one of Dempsey’s favorite targets. It’ll be interesting to see how Coach Mundy and offensive coordinator Rasheed Dobbins adjust their schemes if Lacey is unable to play.”
Flu-like illness. Okay, that’s better than an injury. But it’s going to kill Griff if he can’t play today.
The Blues’ game is scheduled for the afternoon, so I distract myself with laundry and essay grading until kickoff.
At exactly three-thirty, I switch to the channel airing the game and freeze when the camera pans the Blues’ sideline and I catch a glimpse of number 89.
He’s hunched over on the bench, head in hands, and from what I can see of him, he’s pale as a ghost. But he’s toughing it out for his team. I fall a little bit in love with him for being so resilient.
One of the commentators, not Andrea/Andi, to my delight, gives an update. “As for the Blues’ veteran tight end, it’s been reported that Lacey has been suffering from flu-like symptoms since early this morning. Let’s get an update from Candace, who’s on the Blues’ sideline.”
“That’s right, Tom,” the woman who must be Candace says. Her dark hair is pulled back, and she’s dressed in a blue professional-looking wrap dress. “It’s been reported that Lacey turned in early last night, complaining of a headache, and woke sometime before dawn with a fever, chills, and nausea. As a precaution, the team isolated him at the hotel, and he was driven separately to the stadium rather than arriving on the team bus. Coach Mundy told us before kickoff that he left the decision to sit out or play up to the two-time Super Bowl champ, and when asked about Lacey’s answer, he laughed and said, quote, ‘That kid’s got no quit. He demanded he be allowed to suit up and claimed that if Jordan could do it in the ’97 NBA finals, he could darn well be there for his team today.’ Now let’s send it over to Steve, who has the latest about Washington’s game plan for today.”
Watching the game is pure agony, not because I’m not a sports girlie, but because my friend is suffering through it. Even though he remains on the sideline for most of the plays, it’s evident that football is in Griffin’s blood. Every time he steps on the turf, he gives everything he can. The few times the camera zooms in on him, his blanched face reflects true grit and determination. He makes a few key catches, and as soon as the whistle signals a play is dead, he jogs over to the bench and collapses. Most of the team steers clear and gives him space, but Beau and the other tight end, Devon, check on him once or twice and smack his pads when they walk away.
Me? I’m a ball of emotion the entire three hours. Proud one moment, frustrated the next—with Griffin, for insisting on putting his body through this, and with the coaching staff for allowing him to.
Paige sends me a two-word text at halftime that makes my eyes leak:
You okay?
I want to ask her how she does it, how she watches Beau put himself in harm’s way week after week, knowing there’s a chance one play-gone-wrong could change their lives. Before I can, misery scorches my stomach. Because Griffin isn’t mine to worry about in the way Paige worries for her fiancé.
Rather than spill my secret fears and longings to my friend via text, I send her the most succinct, honest response I can:
I’ll be okay when I know he’s okay.
After the game, I spring into preparation mode. Griffin’s fridge is already stocked with electrolyte-dense sports drinks, but I make a quick grocery run to pick up saltine crackers and applesauce. Then I do a Google search for the best chicken noodle soup in the city and place online orders at the top three results. Lord knows, if I attempt to make it myself, it would probably make him sicker. Back at the apartment, I change the sheets on his bed—and find a tiny purple dragon snuggled between the clean towels in the linen closet—even though his housekeeper changes them every Thursday. Fresh sheets never fail to help me feel like a new person when I’m sick.
I’m in the middle of attempting to write a battle scene in my dragon story when my phone lights up. My pulse takes off at the sight of Griffin’s name. It’s after ten, so the team’s plane must’ve landed.
“Hello?” I press a hand on my chest and will my heart to settle.
“Brynn? This is Beau.” The quarterback’s slow drawl does nothing to calm my frazzled nerves. “Listen,” he says, “we just landed, but he’s wiped. I’m gonna drive him home. We’ll worry about getting his truck tomorrow. Just wanted to confirm you were home so he’s not alone.”
“Yes.” My voice is frantic, so I force a calming breath into my lungs. “Yeah, I’m here. Thank you so much for giving him a ride.”
“Sure thing. He got more fluids on the way back, but the team docs want him to go heavy on liquids for the next day or so. And Coach has insisted that he not show up for practice tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s good. I’ll keep him home. ”
“Good luck with that.” He chuckles. “We’ll see you in a few. I’ll text when I get there.”
“Okay. Thanks, Beau.”
I’m in danger of wearing a path in the plush rug by the time his text comes through. I rush downstairs and slip into my old sneakers—no dragon this time—and step out into the chilly darkness to meet the guys.
When Griffin opens the passenger door, Beau leans across the center console and eyes me. “He hasn’t puked for a couple hours, so that’s a good sign.”
“Thanks, Cap,” my roommate grumbles. He makes slow movements as he exits the SUV.
Once he has his legs under him, I swoop in to offer as much support as I can. With one arm wrapped around his waist, I shoulder his leather duffel bag with my free hand and give Beau a quick wave.
“Professor, I’m gonna crush you.” His voice is raspier than usual.
“I’m tougher than I look.”
“Mmm.” He leans into me a fraction more, but he’s still keeping most of his weight off me. “Never doubted it.”
We make our way into the building and begin a slow trudge up the stairs. “You’re burning up, mister.” The heat radiating from his body scorches my arm through his damp T-shirt. “When was the last time you took something for the fever?”
His response is incoherent. Rather than try to decipher it, I decide that if he’s still this warm, it won’t hurt him to have another dose.
We make our way into his bedroom, where he plops down on the side of the bed and rests his elbows on his knees so he can brace his head with his hands. “Head hurts so damn bad.”
“Let me get you something for that. Be right back.”
I sprint into the kitchen, where I’ve left a new bottle of Motrin on the counter. When I return to his bedroom, I fumble the huge tumbler of ice water, almost spilling the entire thing.
Because Griffin Lacey is standing before me shirtless .
My mouth goes so dry, I consider taking a huge swallow of the water that’s still left in the cup.
Oh my God. He’s glorious. Even better than my wildest fantasies have imagined for the last month. And believe me, they’ve been vivid.
This reality—in living color, close enough to touch—is magnificent. I soak up every detail—every dip, curve, and muscle—until I’m sure I could sketch him from memory if I had even one ounce of drawing talent. The way his back muscles bunch and stretch as he twists to throw his shirt across the room. The smattering of dark hair on his chest, those hard pectorals that beg me to rake my nails over them. His abs, so precise in their arrangement, as if they were stacked by the most meticulous bricklayer. And the dark trail of hair beneath his navel.
Holy hell.
When Griffin reaches for the waistband of his joggers, I waver between letting this play out or having the self-control to stop it. He hooks a thumb in the elastic, and when he drags it downward, I realize he’s got a hold of both joggers and underwear.
“Griff!”
He startles when I shout his name. It’s clear that, in his fevered haze, he didn’t realize I was standing here.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Geez, what a dumb question, Brynn.
“Sorry. I’m so goddamn hot.” He thumbs his waistband again, and this time he pushes only the joggers down his thick, sturdy thighs. He toes them off both ankles and sinks back down on the side of the bed .
All the while, his colorful boxer briefs do little to hide his assets—including an impressive bulge—from my hungry eyes.
“Is that Tony the Tiger underwear?”
He glances down and nods. “They’re grrreat .” He gives me a cheeky wink.
This man. Flirting even while he’s sick as a dog.
My skin heats until it’s as warm as his. “You did not just say that.”
“I did. And if you like these,” he mutters with a sloppy wave of his hand, “there are a variety of equally enticing pairs in one of those drawers.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
He wags his brows, the move making me desperately wish I could pause this scene and reverse it like some cheesy nineties sitcom.
“I mean ,” I emphasize, “that I’ll ask you about them. Are you a closet wacky-underwear collector?”
“Sorta.” He lowers to the mattress with his eyes closed. “My brothers and I put them in each other’s Christmas stockings. Been doing it since we got our first summer jobs and had all that minimum-wage cash burning holes in our pockets.”
He swings his strong legs up onto the mattress, and as his weight sinks into it, he lets out a long sigh. With effort, I wrestle the ridiculously high thread count sheets and thick hunter-green comforter out from under him and then over his prone body. He pats the side of the bed in invitation, but his eyes remain closed, so I fiddle with the remote to dim the pendant light that hangs over the table.
“Here.” I perch on the edge of the mattress. “Take these.” He takes the two tablets from me and props himself up on an elbow so he can swallow them with a chug of water.
“You’re an excellent nurse, professor.”
The low gravel in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I can’t help but reach for him, to smooth my fingers along his brow. He sighs and sags further into the pillow as I continue the soft passes over his heated skin.
“I’ll leave this water on the table. You need to stay hydrated,” I whisper as I tuck my hand into my lap.
His dark lashes flutter, and then those piercing blue-gray eyes focus on me. Despite how dim the room is, Griffin catalogs every inch of my face, his scrutiny so intense I wonder if I’m the one with a fever. But his lids are heavy, and soon, he’s blinking to fight the sleep that wants to take him under. When one of his hands drifts up and tenderly cups my cheek, my breath catches.
“So fucking pretty.”
I force a swallow and fight the urge to nuzzle into his wide, callused hand. I do, however, allow myself to revel in the feel of his skin against mine. Only a heartbeat later, though, his hand drops away and his lids sweep closed for good. When his lips part and he lets out a soft snore, I ease off the bed, chest aching.
I gather his discarded clothes, then I flip off the lamp and carry my lovesick heart to my own bed.
Monday morning arrives, gray and dreary, with a deluge of rain. The perfect match for my mood. I rush through my daily routine and snap my laptop open on the bar in the kitchen with seconds to spare.
The moment the app loads and I click the tab to allow video, my parents’ smiling faces fill the screen.
“Moonbeam!” Dad bellows. “Why is it so dark in there?” He leans closer and squints at the screen, adjusting his wire-framed glasses.
“Hey.” I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling. “Just a gray, rainy day in Memphis. How’s Florida?”
My mother blows a kiss at the screen. “Oh, it’s seventy-two and sunny, love.” She, too, leans closer, her short, tight curls bouncing as she tilts her head back and forth. “Your aura is murky today. Are you neglecting your self-love?”
“Mom.” Stomach sinking, I glance over my shoulder in the direction of Griffin’s bedroom.
Blessedly, I’ve yet to hear a peep from him. He’s usually out of the apartment when I catch up with my parents during our weekly Zoom calls. I’d die of mortification if he overheard my mother ask me if I’m masturbating regularly. It’s bad enough that she talks so freely about sex in regard to me while in front of my dad, but I learned a long time ago that I can’t control the things that come out of Celeste Nelson’s mouth.
I think both of my parents would drop dead from shock if I confessed that I’ve become a regular practitioner of self-love since I moved into Griffin Lacey’s guestroom.
The second I open my mouth to assure her that my aura is fine, it becomes clear that the universe hates me. Because the door to the laundry room opens, and out walks the star of my self-love fantasies.
He’s dressed in a Blues T-shirt and gray basketball shorts, looking fresh as a daisy, like he didn’t require a chauffeur and multiple bags of IV fluids yesterday. The skin above his beard turns a suspicious shade of pink when he catches sight of me at the bar. When the reason hits me, I’m certain I will die of mortification on this dismal Monday morning.
Because my roommate just stepped out of the laundry room. A place he never sets foot in unless he’s dropping his bag of laundry for his housekeeper to handle. The place where I hung several delicates to dry overnight.
Oh, God. Griffin Lacey has seen my lacy undergarments.
Breaths stuttering, I manage to say, “Wh-what are you doing out of bed?”
Instantly, he’s cool and composed. “Who were you talking to?”
“You should be resting. ”
“I’m feeling better. Almost 100 percent, so I thought I’d head in for the second half of practice.”
“No, your coach wants you to stay home and rest.” I cringe. I don’t want to mother him, but it’s apparent that someone has to.
My mom’s dulcet voice startles us from our standoff. “Yoo-hoo. Is that your new roomie, Moonbeam?”
Griffin’s smile stretches wide as he steps closer and mouths the nickname over my laptop.
I roll my eyes and give in. There’s no stopping this train wreck now.
“Professor, are these your folks?” Without waiting for a response, he rounds the bar and bends low, coming face to face with my cheerful parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, it’s lovely to meet y’all.” His freshly showered scent invades my nostrils as his head appears next to mine in the corner of the screen.
“Oh. Well. Oh my.” My sixty-six-year-old mother fans herself dramatically.
My father looks on, oblivious.
With a roll of my eyes, I sigh. “Mom.”
“Moonbeam, I like this one.” She says it as if Griffin can’t hear her every word. “His aura is strong and healthy. Virile.”
“Mom.”
“Yes. This one will keep you satisfied, love. In bed and out of it.” She gives my father a saucy wink.
He only nods and beams into the camera, not the least bit uncomfortable with the conversation.
Here lies Brynn Nelson. Cause of death? Mortification.
“Mother. It’s not—we’re not.” I huff out my frustration, then take a calming breath. “We’re friends, so there’s no need to assess our compatibility in that department.”
“But your last relationship was so unfulfilling, sexually and emotionally—”
“ Mom .”
My sharp tone gets her attention. She straightens the shoulders of her striped caftan with her bejeweled fingers, and though her eyes still twinkle, she mimes zipping her lips.
“Let’s move on.” I affix a terrible facsimile of a smile to my face and cut my eyes over to the man who’s sporting the smuggest smirk.
“Did you hear that, professor? I’ve got a good aura.”
My heart lurches. “I heard.”
My mother’s bracelets jangle as she smacks my father’s arm. “Aren’t they so cute, Har?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Hell of a game you guys played yesterday.” My father pushes up his glasses and leans in close, blocking our view of Mom.
“Thanks, Mr. Nelson. Wasn’t my best game, but we pulled out the W.”
“There’s no need for that Mr. and Mrs. nonsense, love. Call us Celeste and Hardy.”
“Will do,” Griffin tells them. “All right, Celeste and Hardy. I’m going to make myself scarce so you can talk to your brilliant daughter.” He ruffles my hair like I’m a precocious kid, but when he rises to his full height, his skin blanches, going pale like it was yesterday, and his body sways, forcing him to grab the edge of the bar to stay upright.
“Whoa. Okay.” I grasp his arm, noticing just how clammy his skin still is. “See? I told you that you should be resting.”
“Yes, boss.” Ever the charmer, he winks at my parents, who are both staring at the screen with concern lining their faces.
“Mom. Dad. Can I call y’all later? I need to get this stubborn ass back to bed.”
“Of course, Moonbeam. Griffin, you let our girl take care of you, you hear? You’ll need all your strength for when you two—”
“Celeste,” my father says, blessedly cutting her off. “Let the kids be.”
“Right. Bye, loves!” She blows another kiss at the camera. As she angles forward to shut down their video, Griffin and I get an unexpected peek-a-boo of her suntanned cleavage.
When the video disconnects, I lower my head and give it a shake. “My parents, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Big fan of ’em already.” He gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s fading fast.
We adopt our positions from last night, my arm around his waist and his slung over my shoulders, and shuffle to his bedroom.
“One hundred percent, my ass. Stay put in this bed, mister. I’ll warm up a bowl of soup before I leave for class. No getting up except to use the bathroom.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The exhaustion working its way back into his face has my stomach knotting. Will he be okay here alone all day?
“Maybe I can get someone to cover for me—”
With a slow shake of his head—and a grimace—he gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Brynn. No. Go inspire young minds. I’ll be fine.”
He climbs into bed without any prompting, and I pull the covers up to his chin, then straighten the blanket, mothering again.
Rather than give me a hard time about being bossy, he takes my hand. “Thank you for taking care of me, even if I’m a stubborn ass.”
“You’re welcome.” I pat his chest twice and start for the door.
“Hey, professor.”
I pause at the threshold and glance over my shoulder. “Did you or did you not volunteer to bite me last night?”