Chapter 26
brIELLE
“What’s wrong with you?”
A smooth fingernail prods my cheek, forcing my attention from the game. I blink and swallow the excess saliva on my tongue.
“Huh?”
Aubrey leans into my shoulder and narrows her eyes, letting them pierce through me. “Something’s wrong with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Bree.”
“Don’t lie to me. You were limping up to our seats, and don’t think I forgot about the hickey.” She peruses the side of my neck, where, in fact, there is a decent-sized bruise. “Did you ditch us last night to get laid?”
I shrug, ignoring the firework show in my stomach. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? That’s all you’re going to give me? A freaking maybe? Just because I have a boyfriend now doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear about your sex life.”
“Aubrey,” I groan, tucking my hair back. “Honestly, it was just some random guy. It wasn’t even that good.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Not only was it not a random guy, but it was so incredible that even thinking about it makes me wet.
I’ve got more bruises than the one I couldn’t get myself to hide on my throat, all of which came from Roman’s mouth.
He didn’t mention them in our very, very long shower this morning, so clearly, he didn’t mind seeing them.
Well, that or he simply trusted I wouldn’t be blabbing about who gave them to me.
For the last six hours, all I’ve done is run back every moment of last night in an attempt to relive it in my mind.
It’s insane how obsessed I am with him and the things we did.
Not once have I felt so owned by a man without simultaneously feeling suffocated.
He handled me with a confidence that screamed experience, but a softness that told me that he wouldn’t go too far.
Without needing me to sit down and go over every single thing I liked and didn’t, he paid close enough attention to learn only by my physical reactions.
And it was to both of our benefits.
When I try and think back to how many times I came, my brain melts. The image of him is the clearest memory I have, which hasn’t exactly helped distract me.
Aubrey takes my hand in hers and squeezes hard enough to draw a wince from me. “Babe, I don’t need you to downplay anything. Finn takes very good care of me.”
I snort in the back of my throat. “Yeah, he must. There’s no other reason why you’re so nice to him.”
“Coming from the girl who’s been giving ga-ga eyes to Roman Shore every chance she can get.”
“That’s not the same, and you know it,” I rush out, chest flaming. Tugging my hand out of hers, I will my temperature to drop before I’m engulfed in flames. “He secretly likes when I look at him like that.”
“You’re sounding more like Beck by the day. Maybe he’s a bad influence on you.”
“Don’t be jealous, Aubs. I love you more than all of the boys.”
“Lucky me,” she says with a sigh, though her smile contradicts her attitude. “Next time you want to hook up with someone, make sure you don’t disappear without a word. I was worried when I noticed you’d left without saying anything.”
“I got that from all your texts. I’m sorry. Last night was a lot.”
“A good a lot, though?”
Trapped in the lie I’ve wrapped like a noose around my neck, I roll my eyes. “An alright a lot.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to see him again. Leave the Toronto boy behind.”
The thought of flying back home on a non-chartered plane with the general public makes my skin crawl.
I’ve always been the type of person who gets sick easily on airplanes, so that’s not something I’m looking forward to in the next few days.
In a perfect world, Aubrey wouldn’t have to return to work tomorrow, so we could stay for the rest of the games and fly home with the team.
This is far from a perfect world, though.
“He’s already been forgotten,” I mutter.
“That’s my girl. Maybe you weren’t kidding about it being lacklustre after all.”
I shift my attention to the field again.
They’re up by one in the eighth with two on base and one out.
Finn’s been out since the start of the sixth.
I don’t remember which reliever replaced him, only that the pitcher currently on the mound is Beck.
The star closer hasn’t let up a single hit since being sent in earlier than usual, and if I were a betting girl, I’d be putting money down on him keeping that streak until the very last hitter has stalked off home plate.
Our seats are incredible, too. Not only are we in the closest row to the field, but we’re only a few feet from the dugout.
To my right, Roman is leaning forward against the blue barrier with his green jacket zipped to the top and sleeves shoved up the way he always has them.
The grey baseball pants I watched him tug on this morning are so tight over his ass that I know if I allowed myself one more glance at him, I’d be jumping into the dugout like a panther starved for a juicy steak just so I could take a bite out of it.
He hasn’t looked our way all game, so clearly, he doesn’t share the same problem. I doubt that’s because he’s had his fill of me already. No, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s too afraid of how distracted he’d become if he risked it. Especially since I wore Beck’s jersey again on purpose.
Being surrounded by Toronto fans while wearing a Rourke jersey is both brave and a bit reckless.
The fans here are hardcore. Maybe even more so than the ones back home.
The number of glares and jeers I’ve gotten while sitting here today would have freaked me out if I hadn’t grown up around a similar environment.
Aubrey’s wearing Finn’s jersey, which I’m pretty positive is the only one she has.
If there were others, they’re definitely long gone now that she’s dating him.
One thing that never changes about athletes is how possessive they are when it comes to their loved ones.
Well, possessive and arrogant, but that’s not the point.
There’s a clap of contact from home plate. A foul ball goes flying through the air, heading back, back, back . . . and into the dugout. It falls out of sight as our section rises to our feet. I drape my arms over the guardrail in front of me and lean forward, my eyes finding Roman on instinct.
The mesh netting to my right keeps the fans away from the players below, which is a good thing when it’s not also distorting my view of him. He drops to a crouch as if he’s about to pick it up before changing his mind last minute and kicking it away.
One of the bench players scoops the ball off the ground and tosses it into the air. When he catches it, he says something to Roman that has his head dipping in a weak, barely there nod.
Aubrey bites off a low laugh from beside me when the player whose name I shamefully don’t remember lifts his eyes and winks at us.
My brow twitches when she nudges me forward like a human sacrifice and steps to the side, shielding me from a balding guy with a beer gut and a Toronto jersey who tries to plow through us.
The Havoc player slips the ball beneath the netting and extends it to me with a smirk that should excite me.
There’s genuine interest there in his eyes as he keeps a steady hand out, waiting for me to take the ball. When I do, I hear the old guy grunt something under his breath before I say, “Thank you.”
The solid weight in my hand is familiar after all these years of my brother playing ball. It should be comforting. Something that I want to show off or maybe hand off to the first little kid I come across. What it shouldn’t be is meaningless.
Unfortunately, that’s the reality right now. And I know that has to do with Roman.
After flashing a pathetic smile at the player, I huff and turn back around, ignoring the prodding eyes all around us.
The gnawing in my chest grows in intensity the longer I have the ball in my hand.
Misplaced frustration floods my system as I run my finger across the stitching and imagine throwing it at the dugout hard enough that it burns a hole through the netting and hits Roman in the head.
If anyone were going to hand me a ball, it should have been him. I don’t believe for one second that he wasn’t considering it when he reached down. He changed his mind at the last minute.
Surprise.
“His name is Jack. You should ask him out,” Aubrey encourages.
I fight to keep from cringing. “Not a chance.”
“Because of Wes?”
“Not entirely. I don’t know anything about this guy.”
Beck finishes off the Toronto team, stealing the third strike. The outfielders start to make their way to the dugout for the swap while I find a patch of grass and refuse to look away from it.
“You can learn,” she offers.
“Since when are you Team Date? Have you grown a love for men over the last few months?”
She snorts a laugh. “Alright, I hear you, and we consider the topic dropped. The only man I love is mine.”
“That’s better.”
We don’t talk about this random Jack guy or my “random hookup” for the rest of the game, but Roman never leaves my mind.
My body is drained by the time I make it back to my hotel room. Aubrey’s out with Finn doing whatever it is they do when they’re together, while I sit cross-legged on the bed with my laptop open to After Hours.
It feels like months since the last time I spoke to Quiethours, and it hasn’t gotten any less frustrating to open my chats to no new messages from him.
I’m certifiably insane, sure, but that’s something I can work through.
What I can’t seem to get past is my inability to accept any new messages from anyone else.
The list of unopened ones has hit overwhelming status.
Despite uploading two new videos in the last week—pathetically boring ones, might I add—I also haven’t responded to comments the way I used to.
I’ve lost a handful of subscribers due to my lack of communication and activity, which isn’t bad, considering how shit I’ve been at it.
It’s not anything to be proud of, either.
I’ve worked really, really hard for this, and while that isn’t something I’d brag about to my grandmother, it still counts. I can’t let some fixation on Roman ruin this for me.
Shit. What would he think if he knew that I do this? Is that a red zone for him? If it is, would I care?
This has never really been a topic of debate for me.
The last time I dated someone, I didn’t even know what After Hours was, let alone was a member.
Having to tell them that I was taking naked videos of myself on the days we weren’t together wasn’t a reality.
Not that Roman and I are dating. Which I think it’s pretty obvious that we’re not.
Still, it makes me wonder.
Shaking my head, I grit my jaw and open the first of many new messages. It’s a request for a rating video. That’s easy enough, so I accept it.
I’m staring at the screen, waiting for a reply, when there’s a knock on the door. At first, I hesitate to get up to answer. It’s most likely Aubrey . . . but what if it’s someone else? A six-foot-three, MLB team manager with a butterfly hand tattoo and black rings on his fingers, perhaps.
I close the laptop and shove it under a pillow before going to answer. My braless tits flop around beneath my baggy shirt before I slow my quick pace. Peering through the peephole, disappointment rattles me.
Once I’ve pulled the chain free and tugged the door open, I stare at the plain black box sitting on the floor. There’s no note on it or tag of any kind, let alone a person waiting to join me for another night of hot sex.
Sighing, I gather it in my arms and turn back inside. The door shuts with a slam that I don’t care enough to quiet.
The contents of the box don’t rattle or make any sort of noise when I let it fall to the mattress. I plant my hands on my hips and stare at it like I’m waiting for a possessed doll to jump out and eat my face.
When nothing happens, I slowly exhale and lift the top off.
Inside the box lies a regular green-and-grey Havoc jersey. Confusion pulses between my brows as I take it out by the sleeves and examine it, searching for something different. Then, I turn it around.
There’s no name or number on it. No personalization at all, other than the team logo and colours.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I dive for it, snagging it with an anxious breath caught in my throat.
The words on the screen make my heart explode into a million tiny flaming pieces.
R. Shore
No more Rourke.