Chapter 25 #2
“That’s what I like to hear. What are you doing in the meantime aside from working? I know for a lot of athletes, losing the ability to do their thing is tough,” she says, her tone gentle.
“Nothing, I guess? I don’t really have any hobbies,” I tell her, feeling embarrassed over the fact that I don’t know what I like to do.
“Hmm, well, start trying different things. Paint, take up knitting or doing crossword puzzles. Keep going until you find one you like,” she suggests.
“It can’t hurt,” I surmise.
“Exactly. I have to get going, but we’ll catch up soon.”
We exchange goodbyes and hang up, and immediately I search for hobbies for adults and scroll through the list as the ones Nina listed didn’t seem up my alley.
Crocheting? Absolutely not.
Gardening? I don’t care to get my hands dirty.
Pottery? I’d probably smash it out of anger if it didn’t work out.
Baking?
I pause on that one as my stomach rumbles. Yup, Blueberry wants something sweet. With that in mind, I look up a recipe for blueberry banana bread.
Quentin said I could use the kitchen, and I’m not one to ask twice for permission, so I make myself at home as I pull out a mixing bowl along with measuring cups and the ingredients I’ll need.
It takes me a few minutes to find everything as I’m not familiar with the pantry, but I’ll get there. If this hobby works out, that is.
I throw some music on and follow the steps for the bread, not entirely hating the process. After all the ingredients are mixed in, I throw it into a greased pan and toss it in the oven, then put a timer on my phone for forty-five minutes.
With my hands on my hips, I feel proud of myself until I realize the large mess on the counter that I need to clean up.
You know what, I don’t think baking is going to be my new hobby, but at least I’ll get a sweet treat for trying.
Once I’m finished washing the dishes and wiping the counter down, there are only a few minutes left on the timer.
I reward myself with a little dance session just as my favorite song comes on, “Still Into You” by Paramore.
I’m lost to the music, swaying my hips from side to side, bopping my head up and down while my hands mimic that of one on Jersey Shore as I fist-bump like nobody’s business.
There’s no one to witness, so I dance like a goof because when it’s time to perform on the floor at competitions, I don’t get to move my body as freely as I can now.
Truth be told, there’s nothing quite as freeing as screaming your heart out to a song you loved as a teenager and dancing at the same time.
Until someone walks in on you.
I’m mid-spin when I see Quentin leaning against the archway, arms crossed over his chest as his hair drips with dampness from his post-game shower. If I weren’t so mortified that he caught me dancing, I’d be thinking about how hot he looks right now.
The way the fabric of his T-shirt stretches around his biceps, the material taut against the bulge of muscle. Or how he has a lock of hair on his forehead that I’m itching to push back into place, just to feel his silky strands between my fingers again.
“Oh my God.” My words are muffled as my hand flies to my mouth and the other to my phone to pause the music.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He rubs his lips together, trying to keep himself from laughing.
“Nope, the vibe is ruined now.” I shake my head as I turn and check on the banana bread since my timer was nearly about to go off.
“Ouch.” He sucks in a breath.
I shrug in response as I open the oven. “Ask any girl. Solo dance parties are amazing because of the solo part.”
“Teagan, you need an oven mitt,” he says as he quickly shuts the oven.
“I know that, Mr. Overprotective. I was just about to look for it,” I say with a hint of sass, but it’s grown on me, and every time he gets this way, my heart beats wildly in my chest.
“Sorry, I just want you to be safe.”
“I know, you care and want to help. But I’ve got this,” I tell him as I slide the oven mitt on and retrieve the loaf from the oven to place it on a cooling rack.
“What did you make?” he asks, leaning over. “It smells amazing.”
“A blueberry banana bread. Where are the knives?”
“I can’t believe you waited this long to kill me,” he jokes, making me laugh.
“Blueberry needs you. I’d never do that to them.”
He shakes his head as he walks over to the pantry door and returns with a knife.
He carefully cuts slices and places them on a plate, my eyes fixating on how the veins in his hand flex with the movement.
I need to get a grip.
Quentin slides over a plate with the bread on it to me, but I place my hand on it and push it back toward him.
“Nope, you try the bread first. It’s my first time making it.”
He narrows his eyes at me as his lips pop open. “You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
I shove his shoulder, earning me a throaty laugh.
“I’ve never baked before and I’m nervous. You go first and tell me if it’s any good.”
“You should try it first. You’re the one who made it.”
“Yeah, but if it’s gross, I’m worried Blueberry will revolt and have me keeling over the toilet, so…”
“Fine,” he relents, making me internally shimmy with vengeance because I won the small battle.
Quentin uses a fork to grab a piece of the bread, eyes me carefully, then takes a small bite. He chews it thoroughly for a beat, then promptly spits it out into the sink.
“What a glowing review. I’m glad you went first.”
He grabs a glass and fills it with water, rinsing his mouth out a few times before responding.
“I think you may have mixed up the sugar and salt.”
“Oh no. They look similar. There’s definitely a chance I did that.” I scrunch my face in an apology. “Well, it’s safe to say baking is not my hobby.”
“Leave the baking to me.” He chuckles, then leans his forearms on the island and gently asks, “Why are you trying to find a hobby?”
“As an athlete, you’re probably aware that our careers don’t leave much room for anything else.
Especially if you’ve been training since you could walk basically.
So now that I’m no longer training, I need something for me.
The problem is, I don’t know what I like to do,” I explain, my voice growing quiet by the end.
I hate talking about personal things, and yet around Quentin it seems to fall from my lips with ease.
“Well, you could cross dancing off that list too.”
My mouth falls open in offence. “Fuck you.” I laugh as I say it, taking the malice out of the saying.
“We’re platonic, remember?” He arches a brow as his lips curve into a tiny smirk. I hate how hot he is, especially when he smiles like that. It makes it hard for me to remember that we aren’t going to be doing anything more than simply talk to each other.
Meanwhile, I know exactly how perfectly his cock fits inside of me.
Quentin clears his throat, and I snap out of my daze, realizing my cheeks are flaming hot. He probably knows exactly what I was thinking.
“I should go take a nap.” I point my thumb in the direction of the stairs, needing to get away from him so I can reset my thoughts. “You know, it’s good for the baby.”
“Is it even better for the baby if the dad is there too?”
His response shocks me, nearly making my lips fall open in surprise, but I manage to control it.
“Uhm, I don’t think I saw that in my pregnancy books anywhere.” I chuckle nervously.
“That’s too bad,” he says, sounding disappointed. But he doesn’t miss a beat as he says, “You rest and I’ll make dinner. And don’t worry, I won’t mix the ingredients up, I promise,” he calls out as I walk away, mocking my attempt at baking.
I shoot him the finger over my shoulder, earning me a throaty laugh that makes my belly twirl.
Blueberry likes the sound of their dad’s laugh, that’s all.
It definitely wasn’t butterflies.
And I’m definitely not thinking about fucking the father of my baby twice in the matter of minutes.
Because if I were, it would need to stop immediately.
Otherwise, it’s going to take the word platonic and throw it right out the goddamn window.